Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

THE American singer-songwriter Roger Miller summed up life pretty well when he said: Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.

I suspect, however, that the King of the Road may have been a bit more circumspect with his metaphors had he experienced the last few days in the North-west Highlands. 

The long dry spell finally came to an end in spectacular fashion, every mountain slope and face suddenly overwhelmed by foaming waterfalls, paths turned into streams, rivers into raging torrents. 

Too much of any kind of weather can become tedious and I was tiring of the seemingly endless cloudless skies and flawless views. It was lovely to see the rain again. Just not so much of it, and not so intense. With the downpours came the startling realisation that the waterproofs had only been used in anger once this year in nearly 40 hill days. Even then, a couple of miles in any direction and they wouldn't have been required.

The rising river levels had already ruled out one grand plan for the week while the high winds and dubious chances of any summit views took care of the next option. I decided I would leave the heights for another time and instead stay lower in the glens, taking a wander out to some of the more off-road bothies. This led to the sheep outpost of Suardalan in Glenelg and lonely Glenbuck in the Aberchalder Forest. But the most intriguing was Ollisdal, a Viking long house on the Duirinish peninsula in the north-west of Skye.

Not only was this one of the few remaining buildings in an area once home to a number of remote crofting communities, but the circuit involved a dramatic return along the cliff tops, then through the remains of a clearance village and a section of woodland dedicated to the late punk rock superstar Joe Strummer. 

Vikings, seascapes, history lessons and The Clash: Duirinish was calling. 

The only doubt in my mind was the number of water crossings that would have to be tackled. The earlier monsoon conditions had been replaced by intermittent but sometimes heavy showers and some of the rivers and streams could prove impassable. 

Should I stay or should I go? I decided to take my chances.

The Cuillin were looking at their most magnificently menacing, the high jagged peaks enfolded in swirls of grey, here one minute, gone the next, but the continuing journey towards Dunvegan provided plenty of optimism. By the time I had negotiated a couple of minor arteries to the road end at Orbost, there was blue sky, white puffs of cloud and bright sunshine, and the waters of Loch Bharcasaig were sparkling like a Mediterranean dream. It was too good to last.

The hard work started almost at once, an overgrown path marked for Macleod's Tables – the twin highpoints of this parish – which went steeply through mixed woodland, heather and high bracken, coloured by vibrant patches of bluebells. The angle of ascent was such that I managed to smack my forehead into a low bough, a painful reminder to watch my step.

The route then levelled out to follow a fence above the treeline. There was a path of sorts but the assault course of fallen trees and deep little rocky gullies made me wonder if I was on the correct side of the barrier. The final task was to squeeze through the wires into a quagmire, ankle-twisting ground at its finest. And just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, the rain came on, ferociously firing silver needles which seemed to penetrate every layer in seconds.

Thankfully it was brief, especially as the next section was a pathless grind steeply through heather and bracken above a precipitous gorge filled with dramatic cascades. The terrain then turned to sponge as it leveled out at the bealach but it was nicer to bounce along for a bit. After passing a cluster of lochans, I picked up a grassy path which provided safe passage through the crags of Coire Mor.

The pale roof of the bothy now shone in the distance as I descended Olli's dale (or valley) in the rain, all the time thanking the eponymous Norseman who was about to give me shelter. The walk in was only eight kilometres yet it had taken more than two-and-a-half hours, rougher and tougher than many a mountain day. The thought of retracing my steps didn't appeal, so I was praying the main river crossing would be possible.

I found a quiet twist and made it over with dry feet – now all that remained was the undulating 12km trek right round the coast. The constant ups and downs were wearying but I was rewarded with scenery second to none: beautiful bays with plunging cliffs and gaping inlets, crashing waves and waterfalls plummeting into the sea, rocky stacks jutting out of the water like broken teeth.

One short section brought to mind An Teallach, edging along eroded ledges high above a dark greasy void with the sea smashing into the rocks far below. It was only when I got round this obstacle that I noticed the path had taken an easy grassy line around the problem. The pillars known as Macleod's Maidens were particularly bold with the serried horizon of the Black Cuillin and their more distant cousins on Rum as a backdrop.

The terrain changed again as the path rounded the coast and headed north, the greenery becoming thick and lush, the birdsong building to a crescendo. I passed through the scant remains of the clearance village of Idrigill, where more than 70 people once lived, now just scattered low walls colonised and overrun with vegetation.

A little further on was Rebel's Wood, a section of woodland dedicated to Joe Strummer, the frontman of The Clash who died in 2002 from a rare heart condition aged just 50. At first glance this tribute may seem a little arbitrary, but Strummer was a driving force in setting up Future Forests, a campaign dedicated to planting trees all around the world to combat global warning. He also had strong family links to Skye, a grandmother from the island of Raasay.

The signage feels a little brash and out of kilter with its situation but the original wooden board has become faded and unreadable and there's obviously dedicated care and attention being paid to his memory.

The showers had long been reduced to occasional spots in the wind, and the sun was now fully in charge of proceedings for the remainder of the long walk out. Loch Bharcasaig still seemed to be in the same sparkling mood as seven hours earlier, time apparently standing still for this stunning oasis.

It was the perfect end to a day of constant contrasts, and a vindication of my decision in giving the mountains a miss for once.