Alpine highs amidst Atlantic lows

As one Atlantic low follows another, motivation has hit rock bottom. Rarely have I done so little for so long. Typically, with time to spare when the weather sets in, I turn to the maps, researching trips to come. It only works for so long. And then cabin fever sets in as I turn from map to window, inspiration failing as rain falls on sodden ground beneath scudding clouds. Looking back on some images from the Alps as I tried to recall a steep descent beneath the granite walls of Sciora Dafora - would it go on the bike? - a brief burst of sun between leaden curtains of rain flooded in, washing aside the morning's lethargy.
Running steeply on sodden peat, weaving amongst scattered boulders, I worked my way up onto the moors, finding a rhythm soon enough. The angle eased and my mind slipped back to the warm evenings of Switzerland, sunlit granite faces giving way to soft greens and warm browns in the forest below.
Passing a high point on the edge, I turned down towards the pines, dropping steeply on slick slabs to pick up a winding beck leading back onto the open moor. Moving without haste I was absorbed in the terrain, light steps unconsciously linking boulders, my mind drifting to rushing streams falling from glaciers above which granite slabs dropped precipitously - a line of retreat from the Ago di Sciora.
High on the moor, mists rushing across the heather, cheek turned from the wind and eyes watering, I pushed harder. A narrow rise - a dark line amongst the clag creating the illusion of a mountain ridge - drew me up and on.
And then down. Over the lip of the upland moor and steeply down to the flat valley floor. Out from the clag, all around, moorland edges stark and defined. Wet bracken glinting beneath a low weak sun, the peat soft and the winds easing.