Mud cake and whisky

As a recreational activity, in fact, mountain biking falls only narrowly behind hiking and whisky drinking as a preferred national pastime and is apparently even more popular than golf, devised at St Andrews. In recent years, old forestry trails throughout Scotland have been turned into mountain-bike routes, the most popular of which are called the 7 Stanes (or stones). These routes offer some of the best mountain biking in Britain and are graded carefully from family-friendly green paths to black trails for professionals or crazy people.

When we arrive at the Newton Stewart 7 Stanes Mountain Biking Centre, Pete Corson, of the adventure company, Trailbrakes, is hauling two mountain bikes off his truck. "Right," Corson says, "we'll start off on the training trail.""Oh," I say, "I don't think we'll be needing that," and he gives me the sort of indulgent, knowing smile parents give to ambitious toddlers.

Ten minutes later we're on the training loop learning how to hop down rocky steps and bounce over logs. I've almost fallen off twice but I'm still a bit cocky. Corson says something about how not to fall in a ditch but by that stage I feel I've learnt enough and I'm ready to head off on to the real trail. "Come on," I shout, "less talking, more cycling!"

We climb up a muddy trail, with a luminous valley beside us, stepping up three rocks as we go. "Look at me," I shout, "I'm superwoman." At the top of the trail, Corson stops and explains the strategy for the next bit of the route but I zoom ahead, gazing at the glorious sky. I turn into the forested trail, skid around a tree, try to avoid a puddle and - oh, yes - slide into a large, deep ditch. After that - with my new bruises and first coating of mud - I listen to his instructions. "By the way," Corson says, "you're mountain biking - you can't avoid puddles."

We loop up and down the trail - over boulders and streams and logs, with rain beginning to spatter through the trees. My husband and Corson are itching to get to the more advanced blue trail and, although I'm a little shaken by the ditch experience, I agree. This time I lag behind and hold on to my brakes going downhill but I'm still shrieking; when my bike is momentarily airborne I let out a shout that is equal parts terror and pleasure. Late in the afternoon, when Corson bids us farewell, we're so adrenalin-fuelled that we hire bikes from a nearby shop and head off again, looping around the back of the forest.

Back at the hotel, we steam off the mud. Downstairs, the discreet army of staff stand poised. At first the silence is disconcerting - where is the Norah Jones soundtrack designed to cover any awkward pauses in the conversation? We sink into the armchairs and sip a warming whisky before dinner. We find ourselveswhispering, slowing down, eating the (divine) food slowly, considering what we eat and what we say. There are four courses of delicate dishes and afterwards we head upstairs to drink more sherry and marvel at the midsummer light.

Astonishingly, in the morning we find room for eggs and salmon and porridge and fruit, all served with no more noise than the delicate rustling of the newspaper. We need to fuel up, we decide, for our next day's cycling. This time it's more rolling hills and roadsides in remote villages, ending at the Selkirk Arms pub in the loch-side village of Kirkcudbright, another famed Burns haunt. We've hired bikes from Galloway Cycles, hybrids this time, with high handlebars and padded seats. It's the business-class version of cycling, with lots of stops for ice-creams and cakes along the way.

The next day we pack our cycle shorts and drive to Ardrossan, a bleak town, all grim stone and fried pies, which is the gateway to the Isle of Arran. The largest island in the Firth of Clyde, Arran has a kind of sacredness in our memories. Our one visit, more than a decade ago, was a weekend celebrating the election of Tony Blair. Back then, we cycled around the island, whooping with joy and optimism.

Now, 13 years older, we've packed our dusty hiking boots instead of bikes. We're planning to climb the peaks we saw from a distance on that last visit. I'm also, secretly, hoping to recapture some of that optimism. Crowded with families and hikers, the ferry dips across the firth. Arran appears first as a high, brown blob and gradually emerges from the drizzly horizon - one side curved, pastoral, green and the other rocky crags. The highland fault line - the shift in the Earth's plate that caused the sharp beauty of the Highlands - runs directly through the middle of Arran, so the island provides two sharp contrasts. It's one of the reasons it's known as "Scotland in miniature".

We drive off the ferry and head straight to one of the island's smaller wharfs to catch a fishing boat across to the perfectly formed Holy Isle. The Holy Isle Retreat Centre is nestled at the foot of the hills and runs courses and retreats throughout the year. Tucked around the coastline of the small island are Buddhist icons painted on smooth rock panels. It's an odd contrast, the Hebridean landscape of heather and gorse and these Buddhist symbols in Asian colours, weathered by Scottish winters.

We climb the island's peak, a straightforward three-hour hike with a wind-blown rock scramble at the end - and gaze down at the water. On either side of the ridge there's a sharp drop to rocks. We clamber down - the sunshine is so warm that I'm down to my T-shirt - and walk around the coast.

Back on Arran, we head around to the other side of the island, where the valley of Glen Rosa is all golden grasses, with the peaks of the Three Bens and the imposing Goat Fell casting shadows along its length. It's the image on the postcards of Scotland: little streams, neatly wind-blown grass, craggy peaks, pine forests.

One of the remarkable things about pint-sized Scotland is that it's nevertheless possible to feel entirely, gloriously alone. We stomp along until we find ourselves in a sudden slice of pine forest. Beneath our feet the needles cushion every sound. Halfway up the valley, in the shadow of the island's largest peak, the clouds crack open and a stinging downpour whips into us; perhaps it's the heather but it's oddly invigorating.

For dinner, we find a cosy pub near the water and eat mussels while a load of fishermen drink pint after pint of whisky and ale. They're singing the hits of Wet Wet Wet, tankards raised, roof trembling when we leave at midnight.

In the morning, heads hurting, we meet Kate Samson, a National Trust ranger, for a chat about the best hikes. "Are you up for a long walk?" she asks, gazing at the map, "because the best one is the Three Bens." Child-free, we are absolutely up for a long hike.

She leads us to the beginning of the ridge that traces its way around the trio of low mountains that gives the Three Bens its name, stopping every now and then to point out the animal markings (deer, mainly) and the buds of new growth. Here, deer take on the role of kangaroos - cute and furry, yes, but also problematic to the environment and to farming. Rangers take novice hikers out but we're keen to trudge on from here alone. It's a steep scramble to the first summit, where we tuck ourselves behind a rocky cairn and look out at the range of islands dotted below us. Cold wind batters our faces and, aware of the narrow ridge in front of me and the large drop, I cling to the rocky edge.

In the eight hours it takes us to cover the Three Bens we don't see another person. The land is grazed and craggy, with the vivid purples and blues of the Highlands. As we clamber down to the base, ready to head back through the low forest, the sun slides out and a blaze of heat lets me strip off some of my layers. Below us there's a clear stream and a grassy knoll beside it. Three minutes later our clothes are dangling from fir trees and we are splashing in the cold water, skin tingling, lungs contracting, years dropping away.

We drive around the island that night and stop at a waterfront hotel with a kilt-wearing barman and a surprisingly hip menu, which we ignore in favour of scampi, chips and lager. Fishing boats are coming home, gulls overhead, the mountains casting shadows to the beer garden. We stare up at the peaks, miles away, impossibly distant, thinking: we were there.

Muscles aching, I slip my boots off and stretch out on the grass. By the time my scampi arrives, I'm snoring outdoors; even a chorus of Flower of Scotland can't wake me.

In the morning, when we board the ferry back to the mainland, the rain starts again and the mountains are hooded in grey. Inside the ferry cafe, Crowded House tinkles over the speakers. You guessed it: Four Seasons in One Day.

Kathryn Heyman travelled courtesy of Visit Scotland and Emirates Airlines.

FAST FACTS

Getting there

Emirates flies nonstop to Dubai (14hr) then to Glasgow (8hr) for about $2350 low-season return from Melbourne and Sydney, including tax. For the same fare you can fly into Glasgow and out of Newcastle, Birmingham, Manchester, Heathrow or Gatwick.

There are daily Caledonian MacBrayne ferries from Ardrossan to Brodick, on Isle of Arran. Summer return fares from £10 ($16.50) a person (returning within five days); from £58 return for a small car.

Staying there

Kirroughtree Country House Hotel has rooms from £280 a night for a couple, including dinner and breakfast. At Newton Stewart, Wigtownshire. See kirroughtreehouse.co.uk.

Cycling there

Trailbrakes has day-long and multi-day guided rides and bike hire across Scotland including a 7 Stanes safari, from £30 a day. At Sailors Home, Rainton, Gatehouse of Fleet, see trailbrakes.co.uk.

Galloway Cycling Holidays has two-day self-guided tours from £95, including bike hire and transfers for riders and luggage. At Summerhill, Abercromby Place, Castle Douglas, see www.gallowaycycling.co.uk.

7 Stanes Mountain Biking Centres across Scotland are former forestry centres with forestry trails converted to graded mountain bike trails. Each centre has bike hire on site. See www.7stanes.co.uk.

See visitscotland.com, www.nts.org.uk and www.ayrshire-arran.com.