Red-letter days in the mountains can sometimes come around quite unexpectedly. Having sweated out the tail-end of July in the stifling Brussels heat, we headed off for Switzerland in the confident expectation of continued fine weather tempered by the freshness of altitude. However, no sooner had the holiday started when the whole weather map of Europe metamorphised. The forecast was for changeable, with the possibility of thunderstorms. We had taken a chalet in Champex-lac, on the Swiss side of the Mont Blanc range, beautifully situated by the lakeside "avec les pieds dans l'eau", with, when the clouds parted, sweeping views across to the Grand Combin. We settled down to the simple pleasures of a family holiday, hoping to be able to take the mountain air and get in the odd walk as the skies briefly cleared. It was in the course of one of these sallies that I got a text message. Nigel and Jane Lyle were on their way over from their flat in Chamonix to pay us a visit.
I had known Nigel since school and it was with him that I enjoyed many of my earliest mountain adventures. I was always a more enthusiastic than talented climber, but Nigel very quickly revealed himself to be an extraordinarily powerful and gifted all-round mountaineer. In a way his gift was his undoing. At Cambridge, he was soon in with a group of crack climbers, which included the young Alan Rouse, who many considered the best climber of his generation. The end of his first year found Nigel in Chamonix, eyeing up the top climbs. Attempting an ascent of the Bonatti Pillar on the Dru, his foot was crushed by a collapsing block. A dramatic helicopter rescue saved his life, but nothing could be done for his foot, which had to be amputated. Unperturbed, Nigel has continued to climb and ski to a very high level, only recently returning, for example, from an expedition to climb Everest.
Over dinner we caught up on each others' news and indulged ourselves in an orgy of hilarious reminiscence, finally agreeing to set off "up the hill" the next morning, prepared to abandon our plans if it all got too wet and miserable.
At 8.30 we set off up the chair lift to near the top of the "Breya". Although the cloud was down, it was not enough to put us off pressing on to the first of our intermediary goals for the day, the Moiry hut. We set off through the mist at a steady, unforced pace, chatting intermittently, making good progress along the path as it cleverly took us around the flank of the Breya and on up towards the glacier. And incredibly, contrary to the forecast, the cloud seemed definitely to be lifting and by the time we caught sight of the glacier we knew that we had struck lucky with the weather. The sky turned that profound and intense blue which is the peculiarity of fine days in the mountains. What cloud there was was distant or below us. As we steadily pushed on up to the crest of the moraine ridge on the orographical left of the glacier, looking down, we were able to enjoy the strange fascination which these vast rivers of ice exert. They add a sense of seriousness and drama to the whole mountain scene, as if to say: " This is an environment where mere men proceed only at their peril". In themselves they are things of wonder and beauty, crevasses gaping open to reveal a profundity of ethereal blue. The aesthetic of the stark contrast between the clean, white expanse of the glacier and the jagged upsurge of pink-grey granite tends to an almost abstract perfection.
These are thoughts which take form only after the event. At the time, one is much taken up with putting one foot in front of the other and pushing up, mopping the sweat from one's brow, looking forward to a rest and a drink. But, all the while, there is another part of oneself which is constantly, unconsciously almost, taking in impressions of beauty. What remains is not any feeling of physical discomfort, but a sense of having been deeply nourished in the core of one's being, where light, colour, landscape, the feel of the rocks, the breeze on one's face, the smell of the air, even one's physical sensations all combine to create, not merely a snapshot of memory, but a more intense life, a freedom from one's own tired old obsessions and anxieties, a moment less in thrall to the ruthless dictates of time.

We reached the Moiry hut, tremulously poised above the glacier, and stopped for a cup of tea. So far so good. We were going well and the weather was obviously holding. We continued on to our next objective, the Cabane du Trient. Working our way up through the moraine at the glacier's edge, occasionally taking to the ice as it flattened out, we then climbed more steeply up to a shoulder on the ridge of the Pointe de Moiry, and continued round a corner to the hut. We had managed it in less than the guidebook time of one hour, so we allowed ourselves a decent rest and took in the scene laid out before us.
To the West and the South-West, across the basin of the Plateau du Trient, there were spectacular views of the Aiguilles de la Tour and the Aiguilles Dorées. Beyond them, we succeeded in identifying the indented outline of the Forbes Arête of the Chardonnet, which I had climbed with "Chas" Chaplin in 1974 at the ripe old age of 22! I don't remember beating many guidebook times back then. Maybe I'm getting stronger?
Today, at least, there was no stopping us. Finishing our drinks, we set off on the final lap of our expedition, the ascent of the Pointe de Moiry. Swarming up over boulder-scree, we were able to contour round below a subsiduary peak and scramble on up to the summit. The Pointe de Moiry is renowned as a viewpoint and we were not disappointed. Now we could see all points of the compass. To the South-East the Grand Combin was particularly prominent, while further East still we were able to recognise the Mont Blanc de Cheilon and the Dent Blanche, scenes of youthful exploits dating back to 1972! We spoke to a Roumanian gentleman who had accompanied us intermittently on the way up. He was anxious to get back down in time for the last chair-lift. Nigel rejected any sense of urgency. What was the hurry? We had acres of time. At least he thought so till he realised his watch was on UK time - an hour behind! We ate a bit of lunch and headed on down. Down past the Trient hut, down to the glacier, down the moraine, down to the Moiry hut, down past the end of the glacier, down to the divide in the path, down past the Roumanian gentleman, down the path along the flank of the Breya, juddering on down, down, down. We reached the top of the chair-lift at ten to five, with ten minutes to spare and were promptly whisked away through the air and down to the valley.

Sitting outside the picture-book chalet, looking out on the picture-book lac de Champex, we subsided into a state of blissful relaxation, in the knowledge that we had enjoyed a very special day. Our friendship was renewed in the bond of shared experience. Our sensibilities awakened by the richness of impression. Back in the seventies, we saw mountaineering as part of a dream of freedom. It seems a bit silly now, and yet...