Downpours summit to shout about

AT RISK of making life on this newspaper sound like a social whirl rather than the hard-nosed world it really is,

I feel compelled to report that a couple of weeks ago I attended the annual garden party hosted by The Scotsman's regular hill correspondent, Mr Robin Howie, and his lovely bride-to-be. It was a splendid occasion, with cricket, croquet and fine food. Both the wine and the conversation sparkled, and the weather obliged by serving up a dry interlude between the statutory morning and evening downpours.

It's in the context of the weather that I mention this, rather than wishing to suggest that I regularly mix with the Edinburgh genteel set. Of the various other guests, a goodly number were hill veterans, as might be imagined, given that Robin has completed nine rounds of the Munros.

But there were a few non-hillgoers present, plus a smattering of occasionals, and it was someone in the latter category who asked what pleasure was to be derived from plodding up hills in miserable weather.

A variety of answers were given. Someone spoke of the "adrenaline buzz" that comes from pushing hard in poor conditions; another mentioned the satisfaction of navigating with precision through Highland clag. For me, however, the underlying assumption was flawed – bad weather isn't necessarily a bad thing – so here are four reasons for not cancelling a walk just because the hilltops can't be seen from the car park.

The first of these is the clearance. Arguably the most thrilling and uplifting of all hill-weather experiences: a foul day high on a ridge or plateau improves dramatically with a speed that scarcely seems credible. From shuffling around in ten-yard visibility, suddenly you are striding along, head up, encircled by 50-mile horizons. Numb-fingered twiddling of the compass is replaced by grinning at hills and lochs as if they were long-lost friends. From wearing pretty much every item of clothing, often in odd combinations (the stylish woolly hat perched on baseball cap combo, anyone?), the whole lot is shoved back into the sack and it's shirtsleeve time again. The clearance can arrive amazingly quickly, cloud shredded in seconds after hours of gloom, and it's worth climbing any number of poor-weather hills in the hope that it will, eventually, happen.

However, if there's one thing that beats the clearance, it's the inversion. The meteorology is straightforward: cold air sinks, so in autumn and winter, during spells of windless high pressure, steep-sided glens fill with fog, leaving the summits standing clear above.

The TV weather forecasters – who increasingly portray things from a motorist's point of view – issue dire warnings about bad weather, terrible road conditions, don't leave the house and so on. The fair-weather walker strays no further than the shops, stumbling about in sunless gloom, coughing and complaining. You, meanwhile, drive to the hills (taking extra care on the roads, surely the most dangerous part of any hillwalking day) and hurry upward through a couple of thousand feet of murk.

Eventually, somewhere near Munro level, the mist overhead goes a weird electric blue and a minute or so later you're into perfect clarity with the cloud stretching away, white and fluffy, beneath your feet. If it's snowy up top, even better. Two friends and I once popped out of a December inversion on Ben Lui just below the 3,700ft summit and in perfect cramponing conditions. We were happy boys.

The third reason to continue in bad weather is the matter of acclimatisation. Just as the best way to get fit for hillwalking is not to jog or visit the gym, but to go hillwalking, so the best way to learn how to handle iffy or downright awful weather is to voluntarily venture out in some.

Partaking in deliberate practice is commonplace in other hill disciplines, ice-axe braking and abseiling for example, and it's a mystery why more people don't go on the hill at night – a wonderful experience in itself – given that miscalculation or calamity might one day leave you high on a hillside as the light fades, when the vital thing is not to panic (and to have a torch somewhere about your person).

Driving instructors don't restrict their pupils to dry roads, as they know that the ability to cope with spray and surface water is an important part of the learning process. So the question is why don't more walkers deliberately practise poor-weather techniques on the hill? It must surely make things easier to deal with when the ambush comes.

The fourth reason is the battle. Sometimes – most times, to be honest – it doesn't clear, and it's a case of putting up with the navigation, the sodden clothes and the rain-on-specs side of things. There can still be pleasure in this, although after five hours it won't feel like mere coincidence that perseverance and perverse are similar-sounding words.

In general, poor conditions can be divided into three categories: underfoot, overhead and wind. Encountering just one at a time – say a gale on a clear summer's day – tends to feel like fun. Combine two of them, wind plus icy ground for example, and things start to turn tricky.

All three – awkward scrambling in a sleety gale – and a retreat to lower ground is probably prudent. But it's these full-on weather-warfare days, when you drag yourself along, drookit but defiant, that tend to stick in the memory and make you feel good about yourself and your abilities.

Two final thoughts. Walkers who claim never to go out in poor conditions are often to be seen sporting natty weather-protection kit: GPSs, gaiters, ski goggles and high-grade cagoules that would prove adequate in a blizzard on the Zmutt Ridge of the Matterhorn. Where's the logic in that, when the ambition doesn't even extend to tackling Arthur's Seat in the drizzle?

Some walkers, however, do seem to possess a sixth sense that ensures clear skies time after time. A few years ago I visited the National Library of Scotland and read through the archive of letters sent to the Scottish Mountaineering Club by Munroists wishing to see their name included in the published list. Some of these are minimal in the extreme – "Finished Munros on C Gorm, 17 July. Yours, A Bagger."

Some, however, contain interesting and occasionally startling details. One such letter was written by Thomas Bailey, who completed his round on Ben Hope in May 1999 having "only suffered nine misty summits". That's remarkable and impressive, even allowing for some leeway in definition: what if streamers of mist blow past, or if the cairn sits half-in, half-out of the cloudbase?

Obtaining views from 275 out of 284 Munros, or 96.8 per cent, as Mr Bailey did, could well be the best that anyone has ever managed. I did a rough calculation for my own round, and the totals came out thus: clear 184, cloudy 50, sort-of-misty 29, too far back to remember 21.

That's more clear summits than anticipated, although it includes quite a few hazy hills with no real view plus a considerable number of windy-but-dry days that wouldn't really qualify as "good weather".

It's still miles short of Mr Bailey's percentages, but on balance I don't think I'd swap. Clear skies are nice, but going up hills in dodgy weather has its own potential for enjoyment.

• Dave Hewitt is editor of hillwalking fanzine The Angry Corrie