There is, of course, an indefinable magic to snow. Few indeed will not experience some special quickening of the pulse, as the first winter crystals shroud the high peaks. Many immediately head towards the mountains snowboard or ice-axe in hand.
Others will be seen, en-famille, in brightly coloured woolly hats and jackets, busily building ephemeral Irish snowmen in the high country. They are certainly right to make the most of any short-lived winter wonderland. Indeed, I have been enthral to the white stuff myself, travelling as far as the Alpine peaks to puff, pant, kick and hack my way to an icy summit.
Yet, despite these past glacial highs, the muddy mountains of Ireland have maintained their special appeal. I adore the earthy tang of a winter day and it doesn't have to be snowy or clear, or dry, or indeed anything special.
Winter is a time when nature relaxes to draw breath. This time of year the hills are mostly somnolent and are best approached in reflective mood. Nature having worked hard in spring, summer and autumn is now, in a quieter less pro-active phase.
While we humans race around madly on a treadmill of our own creation, nature shows us a valuable lesson and takes time out. Now, the days are short, the sunlight is weak and maybe filtered by haze and the shadows are long. Yet in spite - or perhaps because of this - winter brings its special atmosphere. My ideal is a mild winter day, but with a hint of ice on the breeze to sharpen the senses. Of course, the views won't generally be as distinct as at other times, but markedly more subtle.
In bright sunlight, mountains are gloriously naked, revealing all. Part clothed in mist, they tease us with tantalizing and unexpected revelations, which are far more seductive. Then the darkened peaks seem higher, more mysterious and introspective. A ghostly lake may appear and disappear even as we gasp.
As twilight approaches, a fleeting vision of twinkling lowland lights presents an illusion of peace and timelessness - in stark contrast to the actual reality of the frenetic lead up to Christmas and the subsequent mayhem of the January sales.
Of course it rains sometimes, although not as often as home-birds might imagine. Then we have a choice. We can pull on wet gear, tighten the jacket hood and curse our luck, or we can accept that it is the rain bearing westerly wind that give life to our mountains.
I have shared the experience of hiking a few days under a glaring sun, across the dried brown earth of the Spanish mountains, never once seeing a lake, stream or as much as a drop of water. What would I not have given then, for a soft Irish shower?
In reality, the frequent rainfall on the Irish hills is a cause for celebration. It brings colour, it brings variety and above all it brings life to our hills. Water trickling on our faces means not only are the mountains alive, but we are also alive and a tiny part of the life force which shapes the landscape. My ideal descent is made amid gathering dusk with the light fading to the west, when we feel assured that we have taken the last that daylight has to offer.
And the best way to end the day? An unpretentious country pub, a roaring fire, a hot brew and a "just avoided" storm knocking at the window panes.
John Gerard O'Dwyer organises hill-walks to raise funds for the visually impaired people. He may be contacted by email at gatewayireland@eircom.net