A beautiful evening yesterday, after a day with 12 hours of sunshine, the first for quite some weeks. So good in fact that I tottered up along the Pentland ridge for some minutes and ported the wee camera too.

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So rather than post photos of a high and dirty river, stoneflies and grass (the summation of Saturday), here are a couple from the weekend before, from way Up North. And I thought the southern part of Scotland was pretty…

Pie.

For a few minutes the mountains burned, white and red upon a field of green and gold. In low country one may see so rich and full a glow of colour in the cavernous nave of Chartres Cathedral, when the forenoon sun floods the stained glass and the vast brown flags are flecked by shafts of ruby and blue. But Chartres is not matched elsewhere. To seek such depth of colour, and to find it in yet more noble forms, one must go to mountains.

The weather was magnificent today. Sunshine and clear views from the Campsies to Ben Nevis. There aren’t many days like this in a winter walking season. Or perhaps there are but I don’t manage to time my walks very well. The route was the Ben More horseshoe, which is a long walk even in summer. With ice axe and crampons it was quite tough going by the end, but thoroughly enjoyable.

Had a great moment at the top of Ben More when a pal phoned me to say he was on top of Authur’s Seat which is a wee hill in the middle of Edinburgh. I mentioned that I was having lunch at 3852ft and the sun was shining from the Atlantic to the North Sea. The extra mile: it’s what life’s all about.

The weather got progressively more dodgy the further west I went, but there were enough breaks in the cloud to suggest that things might hold off for a while. After a few minutes spent discovering that the layby I was in wasn’t the one on the map, I found the trail and strode off up the glen. The pack was a little heavy today. Crampons, ice axe, food, water and all the necessary clothing layers mean my typical winter bag weighs something like 9-10 kilos. Heavy, but nothing compared to the climbers who have to take all their ropes and gear. It’s enough to get the ticker pumping briskly, which you soon realise is pretty important because it can feel a little chilly when the wind is gusting to 50mph.

The day turned out to be a pretty good lesson in what’s fantastic and frightening about winter hill walking. The most striking thing was how localised the weather can be in the mountains. For most of the walk up the glen the first hill was cloud free and the snow brightly reflected light around the corrie. But the hill next door, just a couple of hundred yards away, was awash with dark brooding storm clouds and flurries of snow. It was the sort of day where navigation is really important. It’s incredibly easy to get thinking that a spell of clear weather means you can forget worrying where you are. But the next batch of weather can come through so fast that before you know it there’s a white-out and you can’t work out where that cliff face was supposed to be.

As it turned out one of the ‘next batches’ of weather ambled by as I reached the first cairn, so some careful compass work duly preceeded the jaunt along the pondering ridge. When I got to the the end of the ridge, the map told me to expect a little scramling to get down. At this point some of the clouds lifted enough to show the gaping corrie below. A little bit of inventive ice axe work and the difficulties were soon overcome and a beautiful little lochan was the reward. The thought of trout living up here was difficult to resist, but in reality it’s got to be unlikely. Trout can live in some pretty exceptional places but this was a little excessive. Much more hopeful for trout was the pretty burn running down the glen. As I had walked along it earlier in the day images of backcountry New Zealand rivers came to mind, clear and swift and extremely fishy. I always wonder about these little remote burns. I know they contain trout, and one day I’ll find one that contains trout longer than my finger.

The next hill was a long gentle ridge. On a good day the view would be terrific, but today the weather reached its peak ’shitness’ quotiet right as the summit was reached. The wind picked up to face-peeling level, and the eye-watering sleety-snow and flapping bag straps were a nice reminder that central heating, hot tea and houses might have their place after all.

Sometimes there’s a special time near the end of a walk where the hard uphill slogs have come and gone and you start to think about other things. Things like dinner and your aching knees and that burning hot spot on your left heel. But if the weather feels like it there might be a brief moment where the white-out softens and you see across the glen towards the dropping sun, and the lingering clouds get dyed orange and pink. It’s like you’re in a giant windy watercolour painting and you suddenly remember why you’re there.

Near the end of my school days something happened which changed everything. I went on a Duke of Edinburgh Expedition, as part of the Gold Award. The expedition was a 50 mile walk over 4 days through some of wildest Scotland. Up to this point I had always dissapointed the Scots half of my family by demonstrating apparent indifference to their side of my heritage. Those 4 days changed a lot. A seed was sown and that seed has grown.

Perhaps the greatest thing about hill walking in Scotland is that you feel the word ‘freedom’ has taken on new meaning. Rights of access laws now permit you to walk pretty much anywhere, and when you’re starting out up a hill on a crisp November morning the feeling is overwhelming. I just don’t think there are that many places, at least in Europe, where it’s so easy to feel in such a wild place, yet be within a couple of hours of two large cities. If you ever want to understand what I mean, look no further than the work of one of the finest photographers in the world, Colin Prior. He lets you see Scotland as it really feels to me.

Last weekend highlighted the often fine line between perfection and disaster that can describe the winter hills of Scotland. On Saturday I had an incredible day in the southern highlands with a pal of mine. The weather was calm, sunny and snowy, which let me tell you is pretty rare in November in the highlands. It perfectly demonstrated everything that is great about being in the hills in winter. Crisp snow underfoot, rich sunlight lighting up the landscape and the sure knowledge that you’d better get moving because it’ll be dark by 4pm.

It was a special day. We encountered red deer, snow hares and a very inquisitive raven that seemed to follow us from mountain to mountain. The day had everything from energy sapping snow plodding to a pretty exciting climb up a snowy slope full of old boulders. This was probably the most challanging bit of winter walking I’ve done, but it did nothing other than make me feel a strong urge for more.

On Sunday two climbers set out for a day in the hills with, I’m quite sure, a similar sense of excitement. They finished their climb but on descent the weather closed in. Only a few hours earlier, and barely a hundred miles south, we had been blessed with incredible weather. But up in the northern corries 70mph winds and driving snow showed just how brutal things can turn. The death of young folks like this is very difficult to take. On the one hand it seems going into the hills in winter is a crazy thing to do. But as anyone who winter walks or climbs will tell you, the lure is hard to resist. I suppose in the end it highlights, not for the first time, how little you can afford to take for granted. Whether it’s the weather or health or sitting around the dinner table with family, it’s sometimes hard to believe how frivilous you can be.

The next time I set out at 7am up a cold dark hillside, I will try to remember that sometimes you’ve got to go home to climb the mountain.