descent of men

Bill and I descending Croagh Patrick in a downpour having failed to reach the summit by, oh, mere inches, I'd estimate.
A wiry country man with a hewn scowl, materialises out of the mist and passes us on the trail, going down at a rate of knots.
"Did you make it to the top?" I call in his wake.
"Yes," sez he looking back.
"What's it like up there?"
My question seems to open a sort of floodgate of emotion for him.
"Waste of time," quoth he bitterly before positively snarling: "The so called famous view was invisible. With all this bloody mist, I couldn't see six inches in front of my face. A complete waste of time."