THINGS TO DO IN LOCHINVER WHEN YOU'RE DEAD BORED

THEY trooped in one by one, heads and hoods down, sodden rainbow warriors whose colours had been darkened by the unrelenting rain pounding their every step.

It seemed like an aberration to have ventured out on the hills in weather this appallingly grim, but cabin fever can only be endured for so long before the cracks appear. And this lot had cracked, big time.

The fronts had been battering the North-west Highlands for days, wave after wave sweeping in with little respite: the rivers were raging, the mountains looked as though they were in floods of tears. No wonder the area is sometimes referred to as the North-wet Highlands.

Those familiar with this little corner of the world know this shouldn't come as a surprise. Never mind the monsoons of South-east Asia, the worst rain I have ever experienced was in Ullapool three years ago. I had just reached the car after a shortened walk when the first raindrop hit the car roof. For the next 15 minutes it was like an extended drum solo. The road turned into a river and drain covers were being blown into the air.

With that still fresh in the mind, it was fingers crossed for this latest excursion, a four-day stay with grand plans in place but very much in the lap of the gods. As departure date drew ever nearer however, it became apparent we were going to be bang out of luck. The good cop/bad cop weather pattern of the previous week – sunny one day, raining the next – had retreated. Now it was just bad cop/worse cop. Tuesday in particular looked horrendous, so I made the decision to give the first day a miss and use the second for travelling. That took two days off the schedule at a stroke. Still, there were two to come.

It was when I arrived amidst the heavy rain that I watched the sombre procession of those who had decided that being battered and drenched was a price worth paying for escaping the frustration and boredom of the indoors for a spell. The drying room was on overtime rates that evening.

The following day saw a ridge of high pressure moving in, and even though we knew it was just a temporary reprieve from the onslaught it sparked VE Day-style celebrations with everyone pouring out of the hostel ready to make the most of the lull. Even then, not all walks were equal. I headed about half an hour south to Black Bridge to tackle Beinn a' Chaisteil, passing out of the early drizzle and into clearer skies. As I walked along the track on the eastern shores of Loch Vaich, it was strange to watch the grey on the opposite side trying – and failing – to make it across to my patch which was bathed in sunshine. It also meant that I was treated to a riot of rainbows on the loch.

I took the weather with me all the way to the lonely summit where the views were immense, perfect clarity directly north to the Seana Bhraigh and Carn Ban spread and to all points south and east. But the high peaks to the north-west remained hidden in cloud highlighting once again the fine margins when it comes to route choices in such fickle conditions.

Those who had stayed lower generally fared better. An Teallach's castles stayed stubbornly invisible all day as did the high tops of Beinn Dearg and the Fannaichs but their smaller neighbours were clear. Beinn Ghoblach proved a good pick, as did Beinn Breac, a modest Graham above Inverlael.

But even modesty didn't favour the party who plumped for Stac Pollaidh. Nine set off with three dogs and a bewildering number of ropes but the expedition descended into confusion in the mist and precipices eerily reminiscent of The Ascent of Rum Doodle.

Despite the combined years of experience of the group, the tricky summit of this small but mighty hill remained unreached, a reminder that too many cooks – or guides – can sometimes spoil the walk. The promise of a fine morning on the Thursday proved to be a damp squib, the wet stuff falling from the sky all through the night and failing to relent in the morning. I had earlier conceded that adding to my Corbetts tally would have to be put on hold, and had instead looked at heading over to Golspie to visit Beinn a' Bhragaidh (Ben Bhraggie) and the infamous Manny, but the thought of an hour and a half detour on the way home just to stay wet caused me to slip into a pool of lassitude.

Four days with just one mountain to show for it. I'll give it another go when it stops raining, hopefully before I'm too old to remember just how wonderful this landscape can be when the sun does come out to play.