As we drove up to the Sligachan Hotel I looked out to the south. As always, the sight of a beautiful mountain drew my eyes. There was Sgurr nan Gillean, sentinel of the northern end of the famed Cuillin hills of Skye. This visit was my first to the island. I had been a late starter at this business of walking on elevated ground. The Lake District had been my first love, and remained so from 1979 for eighteen years, during which I was a devoted follower of Alfred Wainwright. Having walked a couple of dozen of the fells described by him, I suddenly realised that to visit all 214 of them was an ambition not beyond my capabilities. So I became a peak-bagger. Now I see nothing wrong in that, although it seems to provoke a certain amount of mirth in some quarters. When the weather is, let's say, inclement, having hatched a plan to clamber up a certain peak, one feels bound to leave the warmth and comfort of home and - er - clamber. 'Incentive' is the word I'm looking for. Of course, the macho souls among us need no incentive - hence the mirth. But I am knocking on a bit now, at 74, and less macho than of yore. You're never too old to enjoy the delights of the outdoors. There are hills for all. From the man who started his hillwalking career at 50 to the woman who climbed Kilimanjaro at 82, there is something for everybody, whatever the age.

Then a couple of years ago came this trip to Skye. Less than twenty-four hours after spotting Sgurr nan Gillean, my son and I were on the Cuillin ridge, on top of my first ever Munro (Sgurr Na Banachdich). Breathtaking ! The sight of the jagged peaks and rough ridges curving away to right and left is one I will never forget. Several days later we climbed the top half of Cairngorm (the bottom half was accomplished in the ski-lift) and walked the ridge to Beinn Macdhui, taking the hard way down. Later the same year, 1998, the two of us went up Puig Tomir and Massanella in Majorca - and I thought Majorca was all beaches and night-life. At Easter this year we ascended the west face of Schiehallion in Rannoch, following a trail which I am sure my great-great-great-grandfather took many times in the 1770s. He was born in the area.

The reason I'm telling you all this is that a hill-walking life does not end at 60 - or 70. It goes on as long as you want it to. Of course, you need the good luck to have your health, but given that, it would be a shame to let such luck go to waste by not keeping it topped up with regular and sensible exercise. Oh yes, I mentioned my son - he who accompanied me on my final 'Wainwright' to the top of Scafell (I saved the best to the last), and with whom I shared these Scottish experiences. He is the Richard Hartley who is one of the guides in the Spanish Highs enterprise. I am not biased, of course, but I think you will find him (I must not overstate) a reasonable guide. Mind you, I haven't been up Mont Blanc with him, so if you have ambitions at your age (and if you are reading this page, you must no longer be in the bloom of youth) to go tramping up such a place, you'll have to get a recommendation from someone else.