An hour after leaving the car my altitude was unchanged, still two metres above sea level. The ground alongside the River Arnisdale was flat, wet and annoying but I hoped to be gaining height soon. The mapped path was hiding somewhere in the long grass so I had given up chasing it and was wading through soggy rushes and bushes, with my wellies fulfilling their waterproof purpose.

My slow progress was partly due to the rain and partly due to Lorraine. She had taken over running Sheena’s Tea Hut from her mother but had retained its name. Two years had passed since my previous visit, in a cold wet spring of slow business and uncertainty. In 2017 I was pleased to find the hut open and busy. Lorraine had had it extended to incorporate three tables, all of which were occupied. I had anticipated a quick stand-up coffee and departure, but I was seduced by warmth, shelter and the sound of Run Baby Run by Sheryl Crow, so I settled into a soft chair to imbibe the hut’s rustic charm and intimacy and a fine portion of chips. This indulgent relaxation was worth more to me than any number of fashionably undersized dishes in overrated restaurants. Where else in the Highlands could you get coffee and chips for £4 in such a superb setting at the end of a 35km cul-de-sac. It would be a wonderful place to linger and savour after a day’s walking, but my tardy timescale did not allow for such luxury. It was hard to leave the weather-proof warmth, but I had a hill to climb.

I was relieved to find that the mapped bridge was still there, a substantial construction over a substantial river. Across the bridge, a parked car made me reflect that my waterlogged floundering had been unnecessary. The car could not have come the same way as me. Why had I not walked along the track like a normal person? Near the car there was a child, accompanied by a dog and a woman fishing. Not a fisherwoman or a fishwife but a female angler. This was a rare sighting, so rare that I could not retrieve a previous one from my inefficient memory store.

I refrained from disturbing them and further delay so I passed by quietly and set my sights on the far side of the flood plain, where I was pleased to see another bridge take shape. This bridge was less substantial but more vivid. It was spindly and bright orange and appeared to be made entirely from rust. It was not only the rustiest bridge I had ever seen but also the bounciest I had bounced over. It was so bouncy it could have earned an income from kids getting too old for soft bouncy castles, though the long cul-de-sac location probably made projected bouncing revenue insufficient for a viable business plan.

After going back for a second bounce I finally started to gain height. When the track flattened and deceived at about 320m it was time to leave it and go straight up the west flank of Beinn Clachach, through vegetation that was sodden but better than the jungle down by the river. By tilting my head back I could see three bands of crags that looked nicely poised between alluring and daunting. The first band turned out to be easy but the second band showed no obvious line of weakness. I kept going straight at it in hope and found a hidden animal path cutting up through the cliff, at an excellent angle for an easy, scrambly ascent. No sweating or kneeling needed and only one hand required for heather clutching reassurance. The third band of crags was as easy as the first and it was soon summit plateau time.

It was only a relative plateau compared to the craggy flank, with 64m descent from the first summit and 90m climb to the higher one beyond. At times it was almost pleasant up there, when the rain relented and the wind eased for two or three seconds. I thought I detected a brief ray of warmth penetrating my multiple layers of clothing, but it may have been a ray of misplaced optimism. Some hills did emerge as the mist to the east cleared for a while, but Beinn Sgritheall and Ladhar Bheinn stayed cocooned in cloud blankets.

My ascent from 6m to 616m had taken no longer than the first six metres, so I had time to spare for a little exploration. The east flank looked almost as startlingly steep as the west, but some visual research revealed a grassy gully that was feasible to descend with care and a pole. I discovered a new summit (605m high, 23m drop) that I imaginatively christened Beinn Clachach South Top, then carried on down through recurring curtains of rain to the rarely climbed 540m East Top. The curtains were more billowy than black-out, swirling and wheeling in varying shades of grey before billowing away further east, leaving tattered shreds to hurl drops on my head before disappearing down the hill.

The traverse back to the track was slow, tussocky territory, but I took the trouble to measure the Beinn Clachach col before rejoining the track to head downhill. I waded through two burns that flowed nonchalantly across a flat section of track, where I enjoyed a touch of smugness at the dryness of my wellied feet. As I zagged down the track toward the bridge of rust, I once more reflected how odd it was to find it rewarding and almost enjoyable to walk up and down an apparently unremarkable hill on a mostly miserable day, with limited views, little wildlife and feeling entirely free from the cares of the urban world.

My August week based on Skye had been largely a wash-out and a wind-out. I had managed only one walk on the island all week, but I had sneaked one in on the way there and one over on the mainland midweek. Now I had sneaked another one in on the way back. I had paid for seven nights in a flat near Torrin but weather prospects were no better for the next two days. I had done enough for the week, felt enough rain and seen enough mist. I had had my chips. Time to head home.

Photo: Bert Barnett