You might recall that I compared it favourably with a better known trod along the southern shore of Loch Hourn.

Although not wishing to retract any of those words, a revisit to the wilderness of Knoydart recently reminded me of the reasons for the popularity of the path that gets you there.

It's a long and winding road that takes you down to Kinloch Hourn. A tiny hamlet with its toes in the water and with big hills around it for a shawl, it really is a place at the back of beyond.

Beyond a last straggling farm (cum-wilderness coffee shop), the tarmac hands over to a loch-side path that, should you choose to follow it all the way, will take you to the fringes of the wide Atlantic. We were going only as far as Barrisdale.

For more than a mile the path hugs the shoreline; at low tide you walk above bright yellow wrack in the company of noisy oyster catchers, gulls and herons.

And then, above Skiarry, it climbs onto the rugged hillside. Skiarry looks like a pleasant holiday home from here; it was once a remote Inn. Munro 'Compleater' number one, The Reverend A. E. Robertson, described it as a damp and dirty stop over and criticised its lack of ale!

There's another house at Runival. High above its modern roof we found a peaty trickle of water alive with mating Red Damselflies, jewel like little dragonflies that glinted in the sun.

There were Chasers too. Stouter dragonflies these and aggressively territorial; we witnessed many a clash of whirring wings as battle was engaged.

There were wooden bridges to cross or stepping stones where the path crossed the courses of plunging mountain burns. And then back down to the loch-side and a beautiful stretch of shading Caledonian pine and birch; then up again to skirt the feet of Carn Mairi.

A final corner rounded to reveal a mountain scene to die for! We'd had many a tantalizing glimpse of Ladhar Bheinn on our approach; now, suddenly the great cliffs of Coire Dhorrcaill sprang up before us, surely one of Scotland's finest mountain vistas, certainly the centrefold of Knoydart.

A final mile beside the golden sands of Barrisdale Bay saw us at the bothy with time enough to eat a hearty tea and photograph the dying embers of the day.

It rained heavily during the night. The morning saw the 'rough bounds' draped in a shifting gossamer of low cloud, not entirely promising even though the forecast was good. My brother had chosen to climb up to The Mam Barrisdale and from there ascend the long ridge of Sgurr Coire Cheinoichean, a Corbett still on his 'to do list'. I was dreaming of The Druim Chosaidh.

To reach it I would have to climb a different Corbett, Sgurr a' Choire bheithe. Last night I could see its grassy summit from the bothy door, just now it was hiding behind a veil. The easiest way up was first to walk into beautiful Gleann Unndalain, a steep sided valley dressed in birch and, today, ribboned with foamy torrents rushing down from Luinne Bheinn.

I had to cross an old wooden bridge, the waters surging beneath its rotting planks made a fearsome din. If I had stayed with the path for a kilometre or so further I could have easily gained the ridge by its easy western flank; instead, opting for a direct ascent of the ridge's stubby nose, I gave myself a steep and sweaty climb through thigh deep grass and awkward mini crags of slimy rock.

The higher I climbed the thinner became the cloud until, as suddenly as the appearance of that view of Ladhar Bheinn yesterday, the last shreds of mist melted to leave me in glorious sunshine.

The ridge rises in undulating fashion to a grassy top before dog-legging east for the final summit plod. Before ever I reached the subsidiary top I was dying for a drink; I knew that the water in my flask would never be enough to see me through the day. Ignoring the top I contoured into the lush green corrie beneath the summit proper. Countless little burns , bloated by the overnight downpour, drained the corrie; I drank my way across!

Avoiding slippery rock I climbed a steep green gully and climbed the boulder studded slopes to the cairn. They say that Corbetts, by dint of being slightly lower than their Munro kindred, are often better viewpoints; it's true, believe me.

Up here, where Lochaber shakes the hand of Knoydart, I was surrounded by some of Britain's finest hills. Far too many to mention all their names, suffice to say that Ben Aden, Luinne Bheinn and Ladhar Bheinn, each a veritable fortress of rock, were the dominant players in my game of 'name that hill'!

But I had my sights on the Druim Chosaidh. And there, one short kilometre away, pointing a long bony finger at the distant waters of Loch Quoich, the dragon lay stretched.

I took my time. With numerous knobbly ups and downs its worth savouring. I walked as far as Sgurr Airigh a' Beinne, sat for a long lingering stare at the vast scene of loch and mountain, then turned around for the long haul back.

Back at the summit cairn I had a belated lunch. The day was hot now and the rain washed air vividly clean. I peered into the grassy depths of Coire Dhorrcaill. I gazed along Loch Hourn, past the shores of Arnisdale and scree draped Beinn Sgritheall and out to the pink hills of Skye's Red Cuillin. Beyond the high pass of Mam Barrisdale I saw the hills of Rum.

I didn't want to leave. There's a special feeling you get in high and lonely places such as this. Knowing that there's probably not another person within miles of you, that for this brief moment in time at least, the mountain is yours and yours alone, brings an exquisite peace of heart not often enough experienced by most of us I am sad to say.

I resolved to descend by a more sensible route. To that end I traversed this morning's neglected top and enjoyed again the rambling ridge above the glen of Unndalain. Well in advance I spied a gentle route for off. But something made me look across the glen, a slight chill in the air perhaps, or maybe it was a barely perceptible darkening.

I looked up just in time to see a great white bank of cloud spilling from the summit ridge of nearby Luinne Bheinn; as it rolled slowly and silently down that mountain's flank, it seemed somehow sinister.

Soon it reached me and, with it, the first gobs of rain; a heavy shower was about to envelop me. I hurried into waterproofs and reclined on the lush grass. Happy enough to be washed over by this mini storm, snug and dry in Goretex, I drank the last of my tea and watched the grey curtain sweep across the land.

But no brief shower was this. Eventually I had to make my move. Down into the drenched Gleann I dropped to pick up its familiar path. As if to chasten me, or perhaps to chase me on, the rain followed me all the way back to the bothy. As I reached its welcome door, so came out the sun to drive away the last lingering efforts of Luinne Bheinn's unkind onslaught.

I hung my waterproofs to dry in the sun and went inside to put the kettle on. When I came back out it was to see the hills steaming like some Scandinavian sauna. High on the Mam a little moving spot appeared; it seemed that the rain had been chivvying my brother along the road as well.

MAP: O.S. SHEET 33 LOCH ALSH, GLEN SHIEL & LOCH HOURN
START: BARRISDALE BOTHY GRID REF: 872 048
DISTANCE: 13 MILES 21 KIL
ASCENT: 4040 FEET, 1225 METRES
CAPS