The mist swirled in; the grey rock reared in silent slime as the all-pervading dampness crept coldly in; we easily imagined ourselves back at home amid the joys of the Scottish climbing scene. But we were not! We were at 10,000 feet on the ridge of the Petit Dent de Veisivi.

At 5am we had peered from our bleary tents in Arolla, and having identified at least one errant cloud had decided against the walk in to Dent Blanche, and in favour of two extra hours sleep. Then it occurred to us that we could profitably tackle the "long spare day" described so eloquently by the American at Aiguilles Rouges: the complete traverse of the Petit Dent ridge.

As we staggered through the lower Alpine growth and panted up all three and a half thousand feet of the lower slopes we wished we were back in Scotland: it's not quite so far to the climb there! But strewn at rest on the col slabs, eyes darting from the chamois balancing on ledges far below to the wild cat skulking amongst the boulders, we began to feel it would be worthwhile.

The ridge soon narrowed, dropping dizzily to the Val d'Herens dotted in the shafted sunlight so far below. A steep wall; delicate traverse; and back up over a series of flakes; why do they always sound hollow?; then we were back on easy ground.

"The fourth pinnacle is turned on the right." But the difficulty is, just where? The rain dripped steadily as we surveyed the forbidding rock. I edged up a lichen-slippy , hold-less slab and swayed into the safety of a dry chimney; round an exposed nose and up onto a little ledge, thoughtfully positioned near the top of the pinnacle. "I can't possibly climb down there! The route must have gone through that ridiculous hole. How the ?? do I get back to it though?"

Half an exciting hour, elaborate pulley systems, a souvenir mangled peg left by some previous misguided climber, and all those filthy, wet holds later, I was ready to continue. Fast soloing led through the still thickening mist to the summit pinnacle: a forlorn cross gazing crookedly at Les Hauders - a Lilliput beneath. A contemplative sandwich delayed the problems of descent.

As we slithered down the holdless slabs, friction was sadly lacking; to reverse the chimney gash was awkward in the water with the rucksack - but seemed infinitely more amusing surveyed from a vantage point below; a well arrowed tunnel through the boulders deposited us at the snow col. North, the sun dipped gently to the Bernese Oberland. We raced back down the path to a dusky forest above the sleeping meadows; to our welcoming tents and the promising roar of a Primus. Perhaps we were glad to be in the Alps.

And even then we could imagine the faces of our local friends registering surprise as, at the end of our eager descriptions we quietly tacked on "et sous la pluie."