A heavy shower over the Causewaymire had cleared by Golspie for my usual jog up to the duke's monument, 1200 feet above the town. I like some exercise and a good stretch of the legs early into a long journey. By Golspie I'm usually feeling half dead and an invigorating climb to the top of the hill and run down, as fast as I can manage (an hour or so), works wonders. The top of the hill edges into the Highlands proper, the views are grand, the wind is bracing and there's even a new telescope provided by the Golspie West End parliament – a group of worthy gentlemen who would probably make a better job of running our country than any of the current parties.

A cup of tea and a banana and I was all set to drive another 200 miles before stopping again.

Drumochter gave glorious blue skies with drifting white cumulus and seemed to be escaping the heavy showers; the weather was far too good just to keep on driving. A difficult right-hand turn took me into the little settlement of Dalnaspidal and immediately I was worlds away from that narrow strip of city which is the A9. I never cease to be amazed at how close most of that road is to wild, beautiful country and how virtually everyone who travels that way never stops to explore, or even has any interest at all in one of the most magnificent stretches of country on this Earth. Perhaps they travel through life in the same way.

Well, I'd never been up an easy Corbett, Meall na Leitrich, just to the south of Dalnaspidal, and in a couple of hours was going to make amends. It was delightful to leave all the traffic, walk into a big open strath and then climb a steep hillside of heather and grass with Loch Garry stretching out below.

Soon I was up on a plateau of short heather and moss, still some patches of snow, clear views over hundreds of square miles of sun-dappled mountains and moorland around the narrow line of the road and railway through Drumochter Pass.

I sat with my back to the cairn on the summit in the sunshine, eating a sandwich, surveying the glorious hill country around – country free and open to any of us – wondering why so many others remain in their self-imposed prisons as they hurry from one schedule to the next along that narrow strip of overcrowded road, as they travel through life.

I could, if I'd wished, have made it to my destination in the north of England that day, but had deliberately given myself a bit more time so that I could enjoy the journey.

A couple of hours later, after a drive through the Ochils, I pulled into the Dollar Glen car park, just east of Tillicoultry and Alloa. Somehow, to my shame, I'd never set foot in these hills in spite of passing the range hundreds of times. Now I planned a night on the tops.

A heavy downpour of rain had just cleared, patchy cloud was lifting off the summits and a late afternoon sun was appearing. The forecast was good. With overnight camping gear on the back, I set off up the Dollar Glen, a well-made path with wooden walkways and bridges through a deep forested gorge, emerging by the ancient Castle Campbell. It was very much a Sunday afternoon, loads of cars were parked, but people were mostly now making their way back to the car park and town, and as I climbed slowly up the grassy path towards King's Seat I soon had the hills to myself.

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THE Ochils are rolling, grassy hills, a wide open landscape rising to just over 2000 feet and, until recently, largely unspoiled. Now, sadly, some of the high ridges are polluted by largely useless wind farms.

By 8pm, I'd crossed King's Seat and reached the oddly named Andrew Gannel Hill, an abrupt summit with a few rocks above the deep Gannel Burn with Tillicoultry 2000 feet below. On the very top I put up the tent. It was a lovely evening of sun and long shadows with a few remaining distant showers dying away. A faint but steady roar like the sea drifted up from the valley below, the breathing of the towns and cities of central Scotland.

Just a few miles away, on the banks of the Forth, Alloa was spread out with the Kincardine bridges (new and old) a few miles to the east. Beyond, the pale blue waters of the Forth estuary led the eye to the road and railway bridges with the whole city of Edinburgh, backed by Arthur's Seat and the Pentland Hills, in the distance. Westwards were the Campsies and some distant suburbs of Glasgow with a few tall blocks of flats where somebody, maybe, was looking out to the far sunlit Ochils.

Immediately to the south, beyond Clackmannan, lay the spectacular array of towers and tanks and chimneys that was the Grangemouth refinery.

A cycle up from Wanlockhead and you're at the Civil Aviation Authority aircraft guidance station at Lowther Hill.

Everyone below was going about their Sunday evening business, preparing for work and school the next day, maybe church, probably watching television. Of a million or so people, I was the only one looking out across them all from the top of the Ochils in the late evening sun.

I wandered the grassy mile across to Ben Cleuch, the highest of the Ochils, and back as the sun set. In the distance, beyond Dollar, a hot-air balloon rose into the clear air and drifted northwards.

There was the buzz of a microlite above Glen Devon. Later, a small flock of golden plovers flew silently round and round my summit. The towns below gradually drifted to sleep, that steady hum with the occasional louder motorbike or revving car engine slowly subsiding to quiet. Snipe drummed just to the north as dark came on.

In the middle of the night, I looked out to a spectacular light show, swathes of orange lights partly hidden by drifting low mist, Grangemouth brilliantly lit up like some star cluster seen through the Hubble telescope. A low moon reflected in the waters of the Forth, beyond.

The morning dawned gloriously sunny, the sun for once warming the tent after a slight frost, patches of drifting white fog in the valley hiding Edinburgh and lapping across the Campsies to the west.

Larks were singing as I sat eating breakfast and a lamb came to see what I was doing before being called off by its mother on the slope below. Northwards, the Highlands were sharp and clear, the mountains around Loch Lomond and Crianlarich and Loch Tay streaked with snow, beyond Perth the Grampians.

Somewhere below was the Monday-morning rush hour, I could hear that steady breathing of the city again – here I had the empty morning hills to myself.

It was a strange feeling to be up on the tops, alone, enjoying such glorious conditions with all those people a couple of thousand feet below rushing about their daily morning routines as if on another planet.

By eleven, having made a circuit of Tarmangie and Whitewisp Hill, I was back in Dollar and soon heading south again. From the new Kincardine Bridge I could still glimpse, northwards, the prominent sharp top of Andrew Gannel Hill which had been my home for the night.

But on such a fine day I couldn't resist one more hill. Just 10 or so minutes' drive from the M74 took me to Scotland's highest village, Wanlockhead in the Lowthers.

Thirty years ago, a good track led to the Civil Aviation Authority aircraft guidance station on top of the hills above. Now, this had been replaced by a tarred road – you're not allowed to drive it but I could cycle the 1000ft climb to the radar dome.

So in little over half an hour I was back on the hilltops, enjoying brilliantly clear views across the Borders, as far as the hills of Arran and the Lake District and, yes, I could still faintly see the Ochils.

A fast downhill ride took me back to the village in less than 10 minutes; soon I was on the motorway again, having made a detour taking little more than one hour, yet visiting a 2400-foot hilltop.

Ben Bhraggie, Meall na Leitrich, Ben Cleuch and the Ochils, Lowther Hill... not too bad a haul on what could otherwise have been just a long, long, tiring drive!

Camping on Andrew Gannel Hill was like being alone on another planet.

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