FOUR DAYS OF CORBETTS AND SOLITUDE IN THE BIG GLENS

FOUR days in the big glens of Affric, Mullardoch and Strathfarrar, four days of relative solitude away from the honeypot peaks although even these were strangely quiet for a weekend in early June.

Forecasts of heavy rain, high winds and thunder and lightning no doubt persuaded many to give the mountains a miss, but this mini-doomsday scenario proved to be a false alarm and waterproofs were confined to the bag for most of the time.

It had been some 20 years since I had last visited the Corbetts in this area, enough of a time lapse to provide a few surprises amongst the fragments of recognition. The first of those, Beinn a' Bhathaich Ard, had changed, dumping the second apostrophe to use its Sunday name instead of the plainer Beinn a' Bha'ach Ard I had ascended on a snowy night in November 2006. The profile was instantly recognisable though, as was the approach along the wooded road from the locked gate at Strathfarrar.

The whole atmosphere was geared to a fine day; bright sunshine overpowering the spots of rain blowing through, the river rolling lazily below the verdant birch and beech, willow warblers and chaffinch in full voice, a buzzard perched on a fencepost before half-heartedly taking to the wing.

Emerging from the trees, I decided against a frontal assault on the slopes cloaked in deep heather and instead kept following the track further west before picking the right moment to start the climb. The one thing the forecast did get right was the temperature – on reaching the summit I was greeted by a freezing wind which required extra layers, hat and gloves. The clarity of the views, however, was sublime. The undulating onward circuit didn't evoke many memories apart from the nagging feeling that the path down to Loch nam Bieste had been clearer, less boggy, first time round.

Next up was a return to Aonach Shasuinn, another hill first done on a winter night from Glen Affric on the more traditional route with its neighbour. Having done Carn a' Choire Ghairbh separately not so long ago during the march into Alltbeithe, there was an opportunity to come in from a different direction.

This was a bonus ball Corbett: I hadn't planned this into the weekend due to tentative plans with others and the supposed worst weather of the trip. I also hadn't realised it was so close to our base at Drumnadrochit. But plans changed and so did the forecast. The bad news was that it meant facing the Cougie Monster again. This six-mile stretch from the village of Tomich to the end of the line at Cougie makes the Loch Arkaig road seem like a German motorway. I had been in here once before to tackle Carn a' Chaochain so knew it was bad. It was far worse than I remembered.

Not so much a road, more a giant pothole with bits of road surface on it. It was 15mph max in second gear and there were places that even required a stop to allow the car to bump over. Sticking with the Sesame Street theme, I started off like Count von Count – “One pothole, two potholes, three …' but quickly gave up as I ran out of fingers.

In contrast, the Ceannacroc path through the woodland was glorious, birch dotted with ancient Scots pine high above the cascades and rumbles of the water in the gorge. And then I discovered why it was so churned up and waterlogged. Out of the trees came a pony. Then another, and another, until there was more than a dozen walking in single file. I stepped off the path to allow the full horse parade to pass. They were making their way down to the trekking centre, a routine they no doubt followed day by day. Ponies in the trees – a first on a mountain walk and slightly surreal.

The sunshine vanished as I came out of the wood but despite the dark ominous skies and the distinct chill, the day stayed dry and the landscape unblemished. The way ahead was pathless and often soggy underfoot and there were a few rocky tops to traverse but no unsurmountable problems. For the second day running, I never saw another soul, the occasional plaintive peeping of golden plover a perfect analogy for the solitariness.

I had company the next day, a sharing of cars for a venture into Strathfarrar, one party dropping off for the Munros circuit, the rest continuing on to Monar Dam. The rush to get there in time for the 9am gate opening turned out to be unnecessary – we were the only takers, an unusual situation for a summer weekend.

We took the efficient path along the shores of Loch Monar, the drizzle so light it was barely noticeable. The water lay calm, the colours muted, distant peaks fading into the blanket grey all the way to the horizon. The rain finally arrived in earnest on the push to the unseen heights of An Sithean, and the wind suddenly found its strength. The summit cairn was a fleeting friend in the circumstances – we didn't hang about.

Our fast turnaround was matched by that of the conditions, slopes, ridges and peaks making their presence felt as the curtains lifted, the loch turning to silver and luring us ever downwards. The walk out was in full sun and a restoration of colour and shades which required frequent stops to peel off the layers.

With the weather flipped, I wrapped the weekend up with an early morning jaunt up the Mullardoch road for the short, sharp ascent of shapely Sgorr an Diollaid. The glen was already luminously lit with sparkling blues and greens but that was no consolation to the fingers which were seriously feeling the minus nip even with gloves. Summer in Scotland, with added frostbite.

The first half-hour or so was spent walking in shadow, the tantalising sunlit warmth of the upper reaches staying constantly at arm's length. The chilly conditions did mean fast progress and the rocky twin tors that give the hill its appropriate name – the peak of the saddle – were soon within touching distance.

Despite its rather lowly presence in this land of giants, Sgorr an Diollaid's summit pillars give it a prominence way above its height and the views in every direction are superb. One of those views was of a distant rain storm off to the west so in the interests of finishing the weekend on a dry note, I made a fast getaway.

Four days, four Corbetts, and an abundance of solitude. Maybe summer in Scotland isn't such a washout after all.