Headtorch skiing on Lowther hill - 23rd Jan

So, after an exhausting weekend of trans-Scotland skiing (well, Glenshee on Saturday and Glencoe on Sunday) I'm at work feeling mildly depressed about being in an office and not a mountain.

Katy the receptionist calls and says a "Jon Haber" is on the phone. This is untoward, as the Jon Haber I know has a perfectly functioning mobile, with my number on it. For him to call me at work via the switchboard must be important. It is.

"The large amount of precipitation currently hovering over the boarders would seem to be falling as snow" says Jon. Actually he doesn't say that, but that's his gist. What he really says is a series of inappropriate jokes about masturbation, followed by a 15-minute reminice about his time in the Scouts.

Eventually the crux of his arguement comes clear; he is suggesting a trip to Glenshee to ski the Tiger in the dark. With headtorches.

The man is clearly mad. I am aching all over from the weekend's exertions, it is Monday night, and Glenshee is at least two hours drive. I politely decline the offer, worrying about the safgety aspect of being on a munro during the small hourse in gale force winds and blizzards. Nevertheless, when I stand outside my Glasgow flat at 9pm that evening, there is a full moon and it is cold and still. This is the first time since I moved to Glasgow last September that it has stopped raining, so my enthusiasm for a midnight slide grows.

An examination of online OS maps reveals the closest hill to Glasgow that looks to have been hit by heavy snow is Lowther Hill, near the village of Wanlockhead. The villages in the Lowther Hills are odd places which hold random records - oldest post office in the world, highest pub in Scotland, fattest West Highland Terrier, greenest piece of shortbread - you know the sort of thing. Lowther Hill it is! Bursting with enthusiasm, I arrange to meet Jon for an afterwork headtorch ski on Tuesday evening.

Predictably, Tuesday is mild and absolutely pissing down. This is not suprising given that on average it rains for 465 days a year in Glasgow, but I cling onto the hope that it will be cold enough for the rain to be falling as snow on the hills. After work I jump in the company Astra and point it towards the M74 - I am due to rendezvous with Haber at Abington services.

To say the Haber’s timekeeping cannot be relied upon is an understatement on a par with "David Cameron's an opportunist dickhead", so I settle down at Abington services for a long wait. Motorway service stations being the place they are, I get propositioned by several lorry drivers and 25 illegal immigrants try and climb into my glovebox, but I stoically ride this out and Jon turns up about quarter to eight.

Fired up on Fruit Gums, we hit the M74 in convoy for the projected short distance to the Leadhills junction – which turns out to not actually have an exiting–the-motorway option and necessitates a 50 mile u-turn via the Lake District, or thereabouts. Of course, Jon’s Shogun is (as ever) running on vapours, and he looks relieved when we finally pull off the motorway.

Climbing towards Leadhills through the Southern uplands, the extent of yesterday’s snow cover is apparent, as is the extent of today’s snow loss. There are big drifts, and big expanses of heather. The car thermometer hovers at a balmy 6 degrees.

We find the car park in Wanlockhead, and park up in the rapidly melting snow. It’s raining heavily, and we tog up in waterproofs. Jon has come straight from work and is still wearing his shirt and tie, but you can’t see that under the layers of ancient Berghaus. I only have downhill skis so strap them to my rucksack with boots inside it, but Jon has telemark skis so gets away with a lighter bag. A surprising amount of snow is still visible as we set off up the hill, pausing only for heavily-scripted pieces to camera. A jibbet is passed beside a cemetery, which does not bode auspiciously.

We trudge through wet snow uphill for a mile or so, when to our surprise stumble upon a well-made road complete with tarmac, road markings, crash barriers and snowpoles. No traffic has passed over it recently given the snowdrifts and lack of tracks. It does not seem to be on the map, and we wonder if it’s either a closed road or an Armageddon-like situation has occurred in the last hour, and we are the only ones left on earth. The thought of having to somehow reproduce with Jon and thus save the human race makes me physically sick, and it is some time before we are able to set off for the summit.

Given the post-apocalyptic theory about the road, we are unnerved to find the summit contains a radar station, with eriely-buzzing transformers. We get out skis on quickly, and are pleasantly surprised at being able to move in the wet snow. John even manages a telemark turn! We quickly reach the disused road, and do a mixture of skiing and walking until the time comes to take the path back towards the car. Needless to say, locating the path proves impossible (neither of us brought a compass either) and we end up having to walk back up a boulder-strewn gulley to find the path. Which luckily we do.

The best skiing is actually the last section back down to the car, which is very wet but pretty substantial drifts. We hit the road at 2315 and I’m in bed in Glasgow an hour later.