FINDING PERFECT HIGHS IN A WEEK OF HIGH PRESSURE

THE view down Glen Clunie was a revelation, a sudden switch from sight unseen to a multi-layered autumnal feast for the senses.

A gossamer mist was still covering the low ground but fast burning off. Spectral trees were starting to take shape and the river glistened gold through the next level, sandwiched under the sheet of solid grey which stuck stubbornly to the hillsides.

Braemar was barely visible, its ghostly rooftops evoking the spirit of Brigadoon. Then the piece de resistance at the highest level, the blinding light spreading across the slopes and tors of Ben Avon and all along the distant horizon. The signs were promising for a fine day in the Cairngorms, courtesy of the high pressure dome that had been sitting over the country for the past week. The odds were also good for another temperature inversion, that rare, magic moment when the highest peaks jut out of the cloud sheet like islands in a calm, white sea.

Of course, nothing is ever that straightforward when it comes to Scottish weather. This particular high pressure system had a large amount of cloud trapped underneath so there would be winners and losers. Some would see perfect blue skies and sunshine while others would spend the day stumbling around in unrelenting gloom. The trick was to choose the right area on the right day, and that's not as easy as you might expect. When I first saw the forecast for the week ahead my intention was to travel north. Subsequent predictions suggested a less than 50 per cent chance of summit views even on the highest tops, and that's a long way to travel for a maybe.

Rather than commit to a few days away in one place and end up disappointed, I tried to guess wisely for a series of day trips. The first was a toss-up between Blair Atholl and Balquhidder: neither was a cert but the former had the edge simply because the travel time and congestion problems would be more manageable on that particular day.

It didn't look too promising at the start. The hills were buried under a heavy cloud cap and even with a cold and lively wind there was no sign of any significant movement. By the time I reached the lonely Allt Sheicheachan refuge however, patches of blue were appearing overhead and when I finally reached the big cairn on Beinn Dearg's rocky cone it was hard to spot a speck of grey anywhere.

The temperature had taken a real jump and the walk back out was more reminiscent of a summer day. Once in the woods though, it was clear autumn had arrived. The strong wind earlier in the day had created colourful leafy pathways – they had been clear on the way in – and the leaves were still drifting down like a lazy yellow rain.

Two days later and the choice was flipped, the Trossachs now the better bet. The water was in beautifully reflective form on the long drive along the shores of Loch Voil, the rugged heights on either side sporting wisps of cloud like tinsel.

I walked west by the River Lairig, a glen of distinctive light and shade, the Munros to the right radiating in the sunshine while the slopes of Stob a' Choin to my left were still hidden in full shadow.

The push up this tough little mountain felt almost vertical in places, constantly switching lines to find the best way through crags and around deep gullies, with soaking vegetation dragging at the ankles. The reward for all this effort and wet feet was revealed when the ridge was reached, peaks peeking above floating wreaths of cotton wool, sunshine glinting off every rock. Not quite an inversion, but close.

It was interesting to note that conditions had been identical to my last ascent of Stob a' Choin more than 20 years ago, even though I had taken a completely different, yet equally steep, route.

The next couple of days were spent studying the forecasts, trying to get a handle on where the best conditions would be. Glen Coe looked a safe bet, until the evening before when suddenly it didn't. Now the Cairngorms jumped to the top of the list though I was fully prepared for another twist in the tale.

The doubts began to surface on the journey through Glenshee, zero visibility with no hint of a break, just a wall of grey ahead and behind. Dropping down from the high point of the road changed everything. Now there were bars of light and colour streaked across the landscape, the promise of a major upgrade.

The oppressive atmosphere was again present during the initial walk along Glen Derry, but it merely added to the anticipation that this could turn out to be a day of spectacular inversion. When the breakthrough came, it came fast. One minute there was nothing, the next I was looking at Beinn Bhrotain pushing its way out of the low cloud. Another few minutes and all the major peaks were totally clear. The speed of the change dashed any hopes of being able to stand above a sea of cloud like a Robinson Crusoe of the mountains. Had I been there an hour earlier it would have been a different story. On days like these, timing is everything.

I sat at the summit of The Devil's Point with every surrounding peak highlighted against the perfect blue, faces and slabs sparkling and the rivers snaking through the corries like massive silver snail trails. These are the days and conditions we all treasure and after experiencing three in quick succession it may sound a little unappreciative but I couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment at not managing to catch a full inversion.

There was plenty of consolation on the return trek, the full autumn palette on show as the dropping sun's last hurrah illuminated the heather and stands of trees like a wildfire, then pierced the closed ranks of tall pines with rays of nuclear white that elongated their presence.

Glenshee was a place transformed too, the long wall of Glas Maol and Creag Leacach burning ruby red, making up for the absence of light that morning. It was a fitting finale for a week that delivered so much yet still managed to fall tantalisingly short of utter perfection.