AT first it didn't seem that daft an idea. The good people of Methlick would surely enjoy a midwinter break on the Equator. The Breadwinner and the Farmer had gone to Happy Valley in Kenya many times and enjoyed it so much that they were going back once more. Why not take the village cricketers?

As well as playing cricket, they could visit the Masai Mara. There, a million wildebeest and zebra, accompanied by the lions that live so well off them, move back and fore between Kenya and Tanzania.

The Methlick Cricket Club (MCC) would also visit Lake Nakuru, one of the seven wonders of the natural world, where anything up to two million flamingoes turn the soda lake pink.

Okay, the MCC would go. Five matches were arranged against daunting opposition but so what. If we get beat it will be good and even if we get thrashed we'll have a good laugh. One thing is absolutely guaranteed in East Africa in January, the sun will shine all day, every day.

"If it is so good, Charlie Allan, could the bowling club nae send a team an aa?"

Enquiries were made and, five matches were arranged for teams of eight against all the old white settler clubs, some of which the cricketers would be visiting anyway.

People paid up. The cash was sent off and, to everyone's surprise, the great day approached almost overshadowing Christmas and the New Year.

It was the Breadwinner who started worrying first. How stupid to try to get half the village to the airport for a flight at 6.15am. At that time of year there was nearly bound to be snow. We would miss the flight and the next one would be too late to catch the Amsterdam connection.

The Farmer is dead against global warming but he is aware that, at first at least, there will be winners. The Methlick tour to Kenya may even be one of them. At three in that fateful morning, the temperature was eight degrees. Weather was not going to be a problem ... well, not in that way.

But you see, the Farmer had been getting the BBC's five-day forecast and worldwide weather reports. Right in the middle of the dry season Kenya was experiencing the worst rains since the El Nio some 10 years ago. The cricket pitch upon which the first game was to be played had had five inches of rain in one day alone, and the five-day forecast the day before we left was four more days of flood.

There would still be those wonderful game reserves to see. Well, maybe. A large number of bridges had been washed away, and even if we got to the Masai Mara we would not be able to go out on game drives because of the certainty of sticking and the damage that we would do to the delicate ecosystem.

The spectre of 25 citizens of Methlick sitting at the Nairobi Club nursing pink gins watching tropical storms, and cursing the rain and the Farmer loomed large. He did not sleep much in the last couple of weeks before departure.

The taxi was only three minutes late. There was no hitch. We were the last of the party to arrive.

You will know there are strict limits on what passengers can take on planes. First, you must only take 20 kilos. Despite the jokes the Farmer had been making about it not being necessary to bring the kitchen sink, we had several bags that were far too heavy, so an unseemly scramble ensued in which those who had too much (like the cricketer who had brought his steam iron and was 50% overweight) were juggled with those who had only taken one spare pair of drawers.

Then, there were all those items which are banned from hand luggage in case they can be made into bombs once aboard. More than one lost 40 pounds worth of toiletries and another a big bottle of perfume which had been a special Christmas present.

I reckon we could have brought an extra player for all the value that was confiscated. Still, we got on the plane despite the fact that four of the names had been mis-spelt on our electronic tickets.

It began to look as though it was going to happen although, with the weather problems in Kenya, the Farmer wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Then, due to high winds at Amsterdam, the flight was held up for a hour. We only had 75 minutes to make the connection in Amsterdam. We would have to wait and take a night flight, effectively losing a day out of our 15-day holiday and making us knackered for the remaining 14.

At length, chinks of light started to appear. Amazingly, they announced that they had managed to make up 45 minutes because of a tail wind. Those who could run could make the connection.

That didn't include show cattleman and bowls crackshot, Bertie Paton. However, we managed to book a motorised buggy for Bertie. The only casualties looked like being the Farmer and the Breadwinner who, for some reason, had not been given a boarding pass in Aberdeen and would have to get one from the transfer desk. With the wind problems the transfer desks would be besieged by angry travellers.

But Bertie's transport had been booked in the Farmer's name so the driver needed me if he was to get his job done. So he marched up to the front of the queue and signed us in. We were off.

Whether that was a good thing or not will be clearer by next week.