REAPING THE REWARDS OF A HILL DAY TRANSFORMED IN MINUTES

YOU'D think we would have learned but no, just two weeks after enduring a torrential four days in the North-west here we were again, same place and, unfortunately, same conditions.

Wet, windy and generally miserable: it seemed madness to venture out without carrying an aqualung and flippers but we constantly travel more in hope than expectation, always looking for that brief window of calm amidst the tempest that can transform the worst of days. And these often turn out to be the best of all.

The rain had paused for a few hours but the leaden skies promised a fragile truce as we splashed through saturated ground and dripping vegetation. Emerging from the woodland into the atmospheric Gleann na Squaib, it was a surprise to see the bulk of Beinn Dearg cloud-free. There was even a hint of light in the sky.

It was in stark contrast to the dark and damp lower slopes where a surfeit of pop-up silver rivulets spilled on to the already waterlogged path. Even the stags silhouetted on the skyline were silent, their normal rutting season enthusiasm seemingly dampened by the gloom.

A series of water crossings required careful footwork and there was a nagging feeling these could prove a bigger problem on the way out if the forecast for further rain was accurate.

By the time we hit the huge drystane wall at the three-way col above the magnificent Coire Ghranda, the landscape had been completely swallowed. The wall did provide some protection from the driving drizzle on the final ascent of Beinn Dearg, but it was still a slippery, unpleasant and cautious climb over and around the huge boulders where it would be easy to come to grief.

There was a strange faint glow at the beehive summit cairn, a suggestion that maybe, just maybe, something better was fighting to get through. After an equally cautious descent, however, that feeling had vanished again and we were entrenched in a world of grey.

There was dwindling enthusiasm for the continuation to Cona' Mheall as we took much-needed shelter behind the wall to grab a soggy sandwich or two. That short respite sparked a grudging acceptance that we would carry on. The crossing brought hints of some decent visibility with views opening up down the corrie and brighter skies beyond but by the time we hit the cairn at the end of the boulder field on Cona' Mheall we were sightless again. Two minutes later, the day completely flipped.

As we started back along the ridge, the wind picked up noticeably and the cloud danced and swirled frenziedly revealing increasingly definitive glimpses of the surrounding hills. The boulders we were walking through began to glisten and the fluidity of the white mass resembled massive waves crashing on to a rocky shore.

Every step brought further revelation and by the time we were back at the col, blue sky had replaced the grey and every peak in every direction had become crystal clear. It was a completely different day. So much so, that every photo I had shot on the way in had been largely rendered redundant so I did a reshoot all the way back to the start. This sudden and dramatic transformation was mostly down to the very strong north-west winds which were now blowing directly into our faces, and the initial descent needed spells of bracing to avoid being blown over. Our concerns about the water crossings were allayed, the levels having fallen since the morning.

As the autumn evening light dimmed, the attitude of the stags also seemed to have been transformed. They had finally come to life, bellowing out their territorial warnings, the echoes of that majestic sound ringing round the slopes.

The final flourish to an unexpected day of transformative beauty was a sensational sky, an orange wave washing over a blend of wispy dark cloud and brilliant backlit white and blue patches.