Indeed, there has been at least some snow lying in the woods since the middle of December. So my battered cross-country skis and boots have been getting more use than for many years.

The unique and wonderful landscape of the Caithness Flow Country does suffer from the fact that tussock, bog and deep heather makes it slow and hard going on foot. Under a blanket of snow the going is even harder, a knee - or waist-deep wallow - unless you are on skis. Then, you can make fast progress into the heart of the country and reach places that would otherwise, in such conditions, need a helicopter or a desperate slog.

The high plateau of the Knockfin Heights is one of my favourite destinations on a fine snowy day, providing the road to Forsinard is clear and unlikely to be blocked before evening - last year I very nearly got stuck when unexpectedly heavy snow came on during the day.

So on one of those beautiful crisp days, with temperatures way, way below freezing, I'd skied across the moor from the Forsinard-Kinbrace road and climbed, with some effort, up onto the plateau. It is amazing that nobody else at all ventures into such a wonderful place on such a day.

Miles and miles of pristine snow, easy cross-country skiing with gentle slopes and frozen dubh lochs. Mostly no sign of humanity at all, just occasionally a glimpse of the mast above Forsinard or of the concrete trig point on the summit of the Heights.

You could be in the middle of Siberia or northern Canada, a dazzling white landscape stretching to a horizon of distant snowy peaks. Stop and listen. Absolute silence. Nothing at all, no bird, animal, car.

Not a breath of wind, and a thin haze of mist across the plateau where very cold air has pooled. Then the distant rattle of the train, crossing the county summit miles to the north. The hot sun on the snow gave a very faint scent, like ozone. But here a peat hag was exposed, dark in the white landscape. In the warmth of the sun came a sudden strong scent of heather, an unexpected evocation of spring in the winter landscape.

It's a lot wilder than somewhere like the Cairngorm plateau, there you hear the constant machinery whine drifting across from the ski centre and there are lots of other people crossing to Ben Macdui. Here, you are the only human for miles.

Cross-country skiing is reckoned to be one of the best forms of exercise. In spite of very low temperatures, I was sweating most of the time and glad of a big flask of tea to rehydrate.

Skiing on, over frozen loch and tussock, progress was much faster than it would be on foot in summer. A pity there was nobody to pick me up at Braemore, that would make a good through route, instead I had to turn round and head back north.

There were very few animal tracks in the snow, the deer were all down near the road. A single hare had ventured up near the summit, and the tracks of a fox purposely headed in a straight line, east to west. Grouse had landed and hopped about here and there, excavating deeper hollows in the snow to reach buried heather, before wing prints showed where they had taken off.

In the midst of the plateau, is a little wooden post with some cryptic numbers and letters inscribed. Probably something to do with some RSPB wildlife survey, this whole area, is, in world terms, an extremely special and almost unique place.

I managed to ski down gentle slopes towards the valley without falling, an otter too had been enjoying several hundred yards of downhill sliding, there were tracks looking like a small child's sledge descending slopes by a stream gully, interspersed with occasional footprints where the animal had lolloped to the top of another steep slope.

A week later, and even more snow. Another good opportunity to ski into the heart of the flow country, this time from Loch More.

I hadn't visited Ben Alisky for years, this low hill is about six miles west of Loch More and a bit of a slog through the bog on foot. It always made a good destination when doing training runs for the Highland Cross, returning along the Dalnawhillan track.

Ruins of a shepherd's house almost buried in drifted snow at Ben Alisky.

In the early morning I made fast progress on skis across the frozen loch, keeping close to the shore for safety, before heading up over the moors from the far end of the loch. Knowing well how rough and wet these moors are, it was great to ski easily over all the difficulties, hard work but a steady rhythm of slide with the legs and push with the arms, Ben Alisky slowly drawing nearer.

Northwards, the only sign of life was the dark splash on the white landscape of the buildings at Dalnawhillan and, yes, those kennelled dogs which bark furiously when you pass could be faintly heard, a couple of miles away.

I took a diagonal route across steeper slopes then turned back northwards as the view appeared across to the Knockfins and the high peaks of the Morven and Scaraben range, soon gaining the summit with its big, well-constructed cairn.

A mile to the south, in the middle of a totally white landscape, was a black dot. That would be my next objective. Gentle slopes gave an enjoyable descent to Loch Dubh, frozen and deeply snow covered.

Briefly the wind picked up, helping me along, and a few pellets of hail blew past as I skied across the frozen loch. The black dot had now resolved itself into a small wooden hut, as I approached I saw a little veranda and a double door, welcoming me into a small cosy room with windows looking out over the empty landscape.

I scraped away the drifted snow and opened the door just as a heavy snow shower drove in. The hut had been warmed by the sun and I sat drinking tea and eating a sandwich as the snow whirled outside, the visibility shrunk to 10 yards or so. Some seven miles from the nearest road, the only way I'd have reached the place in deep snow was by ski.

A note on the wall welcomes visitors to this out-of-the-way spot and asks them to sign the book, there can only have been a hundred or so since the hut was erected 10 years ago. Amazingly, it was nearly eight years since my last visit.

As the snow cleared and blue sky began to appear again, I set off up Beinn Breac to the west, skiing easily up slopes now covered by another centimetre of fresh snow. On the summit is a stone memorial to the man who owned the Dunbeath Estate in the late 20th century, laird R. Stanton Avery, and did much to preserve the landscape for posterity.

The plaque reads: "I intend to initiate and support efforts to explore, study, preserve and maintain the prehistoric and historic sites and structures of Dunbeath in harmony with the ongoing contemporary life of Dunbeath village, the crofts, the grazings, the fishing, the grouse moor and the deer forest." And: "If you seek his memorial, look around you."

Northwards now, an easy glide to the old settlement of Ben Alisky, ruins of a later shepherd's house almost buried in drifted snow.

Here too is an old corrugated iron hut, it must be stronger than it looks as I always expect to find it demolished by storms. But still it stands, and only a few hour's work would be needed to make it a habitable shelter again.

Cross-country skiing is indeed hard exercise, and it was still six miles back to Loch More. I aimed directly for the distant dot of Backlass and hoped that the snow hadn't softened too much in the sun. There was, though, no hurry, and with occasional stops for more tea and sandwiches, I could still enjoy crossing this normally very rough country with relative ease. The Allt Backlass is often a problem, not wishing to wade its icy waters I had to detour upstream for about half a mile to where it splits; I balanced across one of the two tributaries on the skis, and leapt across the other.

A small herd of deer had been scratching in the deep snow for grass and rushes, I caught up with them above Backlass. Normally you envy the deer, their ease of running across rough country through which you painfully slog, now it was the deer that wallowed in snow two feet deep while I skied easily over the top of it. They would be hungry and weak, I did my best to avoid disturbing them.

Even the normally easy track to Backlass was deeply drifted over, nobody had been out here and only when I neared the road end were there any footprints of walkers. A small group of people had come out to see the sun going down over the white landscape, for somebody from the city even this accessible spot must seem like the heart of the wilds. But for those of us fortunate enough to live here, wonderful spots like that Loch Dubh hut are within such easy reach - it amazes me how very few bother to go there. Which is the main reason I started writing these articles, over 25 years ago!

Miles and miles of pristine snow, easy cross-country skiing with gentle slopes and frozen dubh lochs on Knockfin Heights.

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