The elephants' breath is rank. Do not kiss one. But they beguile from a certain distance.

I watched them closely in the Anantara enclosure at this year's King's Cup Elephant Polo Championships in Thailand, taking refuge from the sun, (30 degrees in the scanty shade, humidity 66%), as far north in Thailand as you get.

Here at Chiang Saen, in the beautiful borderlands of the country, the blokes-in-boots, along with a handful of dominatrix-clad female counterparts, were poised to take on the world. Bouncing, potentate-style, on elephant hides, were the heroes of Nepal, Australia, New Zealand, Sweden, America, Scotland and Italy. Scotland's elephant population wouldn't fill a telephone box, but they are the world champions. Here, they were led by the Duke of Argyll, soft spoken and deadly with the mallet, just as his clansmen once were with the claymore. Mallets were then hoisted like exclamation marks and someone shouted 'Jolly polo sticks!' The elephants charged. The chukka was on.

All around the pitch, beneath the draped awnings of the enclosures, supporters fanned themselves and sweated; they swigged iced beer, then hung their limp bodies over armchairs, while uttering chirrups of mild encouragement. Beyond us, an Angus mallet thwacked the ball. A scampering elephant was motioned into the blocking position. The Duke, detecting a field-piercing vital repost, was swiftly on hand to chase the missile into the opposition goal mouth. A dip, a dab, an aristocratic flick of the wrist.

Another goal. Elephant polo isn't heartattack stuff, but it grabs you.

The after-match action was just as much fun. At the evening cocktail do, in the high Anantara gardens, the players and their lovely, high-heeled ladies enjoyed a tincture or two with the media hacks. The American team had brought groupies, Viv and Dolores from Alabama. "Try the 'Elephant's Charm', " gasped Viv. "It's the signature cocktail . . .

and it's scrummy!" Dolores winked. "Exceedingly scrummy." Her lopsided smile exhaled a burp.

Next morning I swallowed the misty vista outside my room. Across its canopy of teak trees beyond my balcony lay the mighty Mekong River, a tea-brown, gleaming zig-zag of water cutting its way between three countries. The hills of Burma to the west lay licked by tatters of ashen cloud; to the east sat Laos, a land of devastating poverty, greatly contrasting with the burgeoning Thai economy.

On an island amid the river, sat a newly constructed casino, red-roofed and pristine, the colour of luck, the colour of blood. One of my cocktail-swigging media cronies had told me the night before that it might be a money-laundering dive. How could he know? This morning it glowed in a shaft of light.

The Anantara resort epitomises luxury.

Wonderful breakfasts on the terrace. The waking forest glowing golden in the sunrise.

Around me in huddles, the elephant polo teams sat talking tactics, while munching fruit compot, bacon and eggs, or swallowing pride at a first-day defeat to be avenged. The wives looked rich, composed, serene. Their gold accoutrements swung hypnotically, caressing the glow of their perfect skin. It was then I decided to have a massage.

Thai massage reaches the parts the Spanish Inquisition failed to torture. But it's addictive. I chose the simple Indian head massage. Straightforward. "Would sir require the heavy, medium or light?" I was asked. I duly relaxed. I ought to have realised this question was a trick. The pretty, sparrow-like masseuse took hold of my feet and squeezed till my tear ducts went into spasm.

One hour later every part of me was zinging.

Yes, my head, behind my back, had stretched to the nether ends of my body. I luckily hadn't requested a facial. Then I realised I was floating. The spa staff smiled as I hovered above them, drifting away like a ghostly spectre through the jasmine-scented halls. Was I actually dead? Was I actually high? I didn't much care. My body, taking leave of its senses, had found a pure state of physical happiness. I decided not to weep. Instead, I smiled.

That afternoon I walked to the nearby Hall of Opium . . . a monument to great wisdom.

Here they present the glorious story of a miracle, telling how the local economy, dependent on the poppy since time immemorial, was transformed in a mere 20 years.

Built into a hillside, the Hall of Opium beckons you gently down a long tunnel, as if through a birth canal, into vast rooms like a Pharoah's tomb, each replete with its treasure of opiate artefacts, telling of dramas, battles, of wars between Britain and China, while tracing the story of addiction to the present. It was, I reflected, not only a timely education in its subject, but an education too in the way a museum should present its experience to the world.

It was intelligent, convincing and deeply moving. And it made you think.

In Chiang Saen, I took a short stroll. Three days earlier the town had hosted the razzamatazz of the polo parade. "The biggest in our history, " one of the traders said with pride. But that history long preceded the elephants. The ruins of Chiang Saen's 14thcentury kingdom . . . its scattered ramparts, Buddha images, pillars and half-forgotten monuments . . . lay unsung in the dust of recent modernisation. The old road, decimated years ago, had been widened to carry imports arriving by barge . . . fruit or engine parts from China . . . part of centuries-long trade. The town, a treasure trove of secrets, exuded friendliness and charm.

That night, I dreamed I was riding an elephant over the rooftops of Chiang Saen, across the river into Burma . . . and I was floating again. When I woke, I went to the Anantara elephant camp, a refuge for injured elephants and strays where the animals are protected by their mahouts. Viv and Dolores were there already. Viv was squooshing a gushing hose-pipe at one of the elephants and laughing. Dolores was feeding a baby jumbo fat bunches of sugar cane. There were crafts for sale . . . carved elephants . . . and rides if you were lucky. It was early. I knew that later I would be watching the Duke of Argyll reduce the Swedes or the Americans to a rabble. But just for now, Fan tung, an old diva, swung her trunk in my direction.

She sniffed my feet. "I think she wants kiss, " laughed one of the guides.

I puckered up.

THE FACTS ELEPHANT POLO The rules for the sport were established by the World Elephant Polo Association in 1982, while the King's Cup championships have been organised by Anantara Resorts since 2001.

The rules are similar to those for horse polo, but elephants carry both a player and a mahout. Two teams of three play halves of seven minutes each on a pitch which is 100 metres long by 60 metres wide, changing elephants at half-time to ensure neither side gains an advantage due to different elephants' size or speed. No elephant may lie down in front of the goalmouth, nor pick up the ball in its trunk. The health and welfare of the elephants is of prime importance and abuse of the animal is considered the most serious offence.

GETTING THERE, STAYING THERE Travelmood offer a seven-night package at Anantara Golden Triangle for 1,341. Included are return flights from London Heathrow to Bangkok with Thai Airways, plus all internal flights to and from Chiang Rai. Private hotel transfers are included. Prices are per person and based on a twin share. For further information or booking details go to www. travelmood. co. uk. For information on the resort go to www. anantara. com. For tourist information on Thailand visit www. thaismile. co. uk.