There’s nothing worst than returning to Blighty after a couple of weeks in the exotic paradise of east Africa. For a start, the rain appeared almost on cue today to remind me that S.A.D. (the mopey disease of choice for the sun-robbed anglo) is alive and well and living the sweet life in our busy metropolis.

When my better half suggested a safari for our honeymoon, I have to say that I wasn’t entirely sure it was the best idea. Think about it – travel to Nairobi, a city famously described as a ‘haven for both petty and occasionally more ambitious crime” (Time Out), fly on a connecting flight where the plane resembles the one at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark (complete with snake called Reggie) and spend two weeks in the middle of nowhere, stalked by all that is feral and murderous. End your stay with a trip to Zanzibar, which, in terms of true danger, is like Plymouth. On speed. With less coppers. If you’re after a shooing from a burly maritime bruiser, here’s your place. Bring it on, Cupid, this is sounding like the essence of romance.

Of course, I was proved wrong in every way. The honeymoon was a true adventure across some of the most astounding and genuinely magnificent scenery that exists today. Wide, resilient skies, some spellbinding wildlife and notably proud, welcoming people. It was truly the trip of a lifetime. With some giraffe thrown in for good measure. And a smidgeon of sunstroke.

Aside from the positive spiritual and marital benefits of such a holiday, you’ll be pleased to know that there’s a major sartorial bonus thrown in. You see, I managed to discover the perfect threads for such a epic journey. A few weeks before the trip, I ventured into a couple of ‘outdoorsy’ outfitters to see what was on offer. Aside from some Attenborough-style parchment ‘action’ slacks and a dodgy looking mesh bodysuit, things looked bleak. I knew I needed something that cut a dash. And that dash would only be delivered by a seventies-style flared powder-blue nylon safari suit, oft worn by the likes of Roger Moore. However, the quest fell at the first. Only the lowliest car boot sale in Sheffield would yield such an item of appallingly bad/good taste. No retailer in London would stock such a prize. So, I reverted back to the staple travel wear of my (middle) youth – The mighty Maharishi pant.

The brainchild of Hardy Blechman, Maharishi started life in the mid-nineties as a clothing brand that exploited the trend for recycled military garb. Now it stands as a top-notch fashion house, dealing in art, those trendy little toys and, above all, all sorts of covetable urban clothing that people like Mr Rascal and Mr Fiasco can’t get enough of. And fair enough. Hardy’s clothing is practical, comfortable and still manages to delight fashion’s fickle crowd, with its love/hate relationship with camouflage. I needlessly took a barge-sized suitcase of clothing with me on honeymoon. But I ended up wearing a couple of pairs of Maha’s for the entire fortnight, plus a couple of their natty shirts. They are the finest traveling companions anyone could wish for. So, when it comes to the great sartorial challenge of what to wear on safari, remember – Moore is less. Stick with Hardy and you’ll be alright.