IF you want to try bagging the Munros, it endangers the whole exercise when you are forced to take on the north face of the Eiger as preparation.

Scotland's journey to the high altitude of German football in the vertiginous Dortmund stadium might have culminated in a crushing experience that would have brutally endangered their legitimate and wholly practical aim of taking on the lower levels well and finishing second in the group behind the world champions.

In fact, after an initial period in the game, when they looked as if they were awestruck by the incline facing them they ended up looking as agile and self-assured as a mountain rescue team.

The final whistle on German soil is usually an act of mercy for visiting sides for whom sanctuary in the dressing-room tends to be eagerly sought. Not for Gordon Strachan's lot. They wanted more. They believed they could go on and win and felt cheated that the referee seemed to want the after-match drink more. Now, clearly, there are good referees and bad referees. I also think there are irrelevant referees.

For me, the Norwegian falls into the third category in the sense that what he did or didn't do is not the main issue of the night and would distract us from examining the crucial core of the game which was Scotland's resilience and their culminating audacity to try to win the game. To focus on his influence side-tracks us from consideration of that central point.

The players' ire at the game being brought to an end the way it was, might, in the recent past, have been seen as a portrayal of naive bravado. Yet there was enough evidence on display to indicate that, under Strachan, they have been moved on significantly from self-delusion to genuine self-belief.

The speed at which this has been attained is one of the astonishing aspects of his tenure.

Normally, over a period, the public would have been spoon-fed the need for continuing patience, fortitude, understanding and a little bit of compassion. These sentiments are enshrined in the Scottish Football Association's lexicon of clichés.

At the moment they seem to be under lock and key in Strachan's drawer and might gather dust there as his players display a resolution that goes beyond being able to simply survive against the odds, but to go on and get things done.

In the past, we have experienced Scottish sides which have been organised competently enough to avoid disasters and also, exceptionally, attain the unexpected, such as in Paris in 2008.

But, too often, games simply did not seem winnable. Now, as this weekend has proved in confirmation of the solidity of the past year, opposition of any calibre can be made vulnerable to us. This is not a modest achievement when you consider what has preceded it.

But it is here that I know someone will be saying, 'Whoa, hold on. Where are you going here?' After all, Germany did win; they could have been out of sight by half-time; and, in the second half, there was clear evidence of their side betraying the readjustments to a new era for their football, particularly in their defending. While all that certainly has to be taken into an evaluation, and nobody would be suggesting that we would ever again fall into the trap of the 1978 World Cup hysteria which pronounced us as masters of the universe, think of the special context inside of which our national side is performing.

Scottish clubs are wilting consistently in face of even modest foreign opposition. Their survival time in Europe, sadly and consistently, is the equivalent of an ice-cube dropped in the Sahara.

We have not only to avert our eyes from such embarrassment since it is not good for our self-esteem but direct them to the alternative, the national squad. Here, at last, we are getting, at the very least, an inkling of a future not necessarily suffused with pessimism. The interest that has been generated is therapeutic.

We need our national psyche to be massaged by encouraging events and it is beginning to be so, as if the best prospect for that lies in our national side. The disappearance of Rangers from Europe, and the indifferent form of Celtic, have been the principal reasons why there is a resurgence of interest in Strachan's stewardship of the national team. That is why there should be appreciation of what he has achieved.

He is making the modest level of their abilities into a powerful virtue. You get the feeling the players know that. The sense conveyed over this last year among them is a community of equals, easily resisting the fact that nobody in their ranks is gold-plated. If egos are clashing anywhere in their ranks it is not as headline seekers but as pursuers of team selection.

No doubt they have been told often enough of their world-class predecessors and the names that used to trip off my tongue: Dalglish, Souness, Jordan, Bremner, Law et al. But perhaps Strachan, at some judicious moment, should remind them of what the great, late Ernie Walker used to say about that supposed golden era of Scottish football: "Yes, but we never won anything!" World Cups and European Championships ended inevitably in disillusionment for us, glorious though much of our football was.

The manager knows what he is burdened with. Equally, it is becoming manifestly clear that the diminutive Strachan has a head for heights.