IT WAS the day I'd been waiting for. After a summer and autumn of cloud, rain and wind this was 'the good day' and its restorative qualities had me singing.

The drive to Duror was unspectacular - a grey shroud of mist covered everything from sea level up, but as I drove across the old railway bridge across the narrows of Loch Creran I caught a glimpse of Beinn Sgulaird and its Corbett neighbour, Creach Bheinn rising from skirts of mist.

By the time I parked the car near Druimavuic and took the forest track into Gleann Buidhe much of the mist had evaporated leaving bold and vibrant colours around me. The evergreens were greener than ever, the deciduous trees a variety of shades between burnt amber and red and the grasses on the hill were honey gold against a pale blue sky.

Fieldfares were attacking the berries on the rowans and a buzzard mewed its warning call from somewhere above the trees. Curiously, the day had all the vibrancy of spring, all the restorative quality of new life and zest whereas, in essence, the landscape was in the death throes of the season. The final flamboyant gestures before winter lays down its grey, cold hand make autumn the most impressive season of the year in the highlands.

A bulldozed track makes its way up the glen to a high bealach between the Munro, Beinn Sgulaird, and the Corbett, Creach Bheinn. My original thought was to gather in both summits from that high bealach but part of me just wanted to linger, spend some time taking photographs and fester the day away amongst the rocks and ridges of the high places.

So I opted for Creach Bheinn, 2657ft/810m on the basis that it was further west and that's where the best views would be, out over the mouth of Loch Creran to Eriska and Lismore and the high ground of Morven beyond.

Having resolved the question of where I was going I shunned the bulldozed track up the glen and simply followed the burn, the Allt Buidhe, walking in time with its symphonies rather than plod up a man-made highway with all its echoes of despoliation and crudeness. Having spent too many weeks being dictated to by other people's diaries and timetables, trying to meet a barrage of deadlines and not, for a variety of human intervention reasons, being able to take my usual autumn overseas trek, I was eager to escape all evidence of homo-sapien for at least a day. That also played a part in the choice of Corbett over the usually busier Munro.

By following the course of the burn I managed to avoid the bulldozed track but as I wallowed in the sun on the high bealach, enjoying the views across Beinn Trilleachean to Ben Starav in Gleann Etive, a group of walkers appeared, obviously intent, like me, on climbing Creach Bheinn . I scampered off as they approached but as I climbed the ridge to the intervening top of Creag na Cathaig I could hear their chatter behind me. They were a happy bunch of walkers enjoying the glorious weather but curmugeonly me was irritated by their close presence.

I stopped to allow them to overtake, but they didn't, so I set off again and there they were, only a few metres behind me now, still blethering away. I stopped again on the steep climb up to Creach Bheinn's north-east top and this time they all passed, so I waited, lingered, ate my lunch, took some photographs, drank some coffee, giving the other group time to reach the summit then leave it to begin their descent but I didn't wait long enough. As I approached the summit there they were, sprawled out over the cairn enjoying the sun and the views. I muttered a gruff hello, took some more photographs and retired in a huff. I may not have had the summit to myself but at least I could enjoy the descent on my own. And I did.

I had to laugh at my grumpiness, and I sincerely hope I didn't appear rude, but sometimes it's important to be on your own. Now I could really appreciate the panoramic views - multi-topped Cruachan, Starav, the twin Buachailles at the head of Glen Etive, granity Sgulaird with the long ridge of Beinn Fhionnlaidh beyond and of course, the exquisite views to the west across the islands of Loch Linnhe to Morven and Mull and away in the south, the outline of the Paps of Jura.

I loped down the hill's north-west ridge and took a steep course back to the Allt Buidhe with the echoing sound of rutting stags around me. Avoiding the forestry I crossed the burn again and it wasn't until I was back in the woods above the road that I met more people, a couple out for a stroll with their dog. Restored, refreshed and invigorated by the day I greeted them graciously.