The Beach. Sri Lanka. Part 2.

The Beach.

I’ll never be good at beach holidays.

I love the sea. I care less for the beach, especially when it’s crazy hot. 

Porthleven in May – that’s my kind of place. That said, as the days slip by at our sandy paradise, I admit that I’m beginning to enjoy it.

All around us Westerners bask in the sun, many of them turning chestnut brown, packed cheek by jowl onto the sunbeds that take every inch of potential shade.

Kelvin hides in the shadows. 

In the past Amanda has been known to worship the golden globe, but even she opts for incidental tanning these days. If it occurrs whilst on the move that’s fine. No deliberate lying in the rays.

At dusk the Sri Lankan beach is at its best. Fewer people, a moderate temperature, falling light emphasises the detail of the waves, a couple of surfers remain. So close to the equator the sun falls quickly. It’s dark before you know it, and time for dinner.

Food. 

Outside of the fancy hotels and restaurants Sri Lankan food is pretty basic. Rice and curry in the mornings served with hoppers if you’re lucky, fried rice in the evening, rotis at any time of the day. Although their jam is insanely sweet, there doesn’t seem to be a sugar culture as you find across the water in India.

Rice and curry can take many forms, our best was from Sunset Bar just along from our Amour Surf digs near Tangalle.

This Sunset Bar (there are as many as you can imagine) is down steep steps and takes up the whole of a tiny beach. It’s run by mum, her two mums, and her daughters, while the men fish, and the old men hang around, remembering the days when they used to be useful.

We ordered a potion rice and curry with veg to share, but mum wasn’t happy with that. She wasn’t upselling, she clearly thought it wouldn’t be enough.

The food might have taken three quarters of an hour, but we were sitting on the edge of the world (no land until the Antarctic). Our feet so nearly in the South Indian Ocean, only a few lights, and the sounds of cicadas, cooking in the background, and a few noisy frogs. It doesn’t get much better than this.

Dinner was huge and even sharing was too much. The centrepiece was a large portion of simple short grain rice, fried with some vegetables, surrounded by six small bowls of flavour. A dahl. A super tasty bowl of fried onions and tomatoes. Okra. Coconut sambal. Poppadum wedges. And finally, a potato curry. Even washed down with several Lion Beers the total bill was less than £15.

After dinner it was rather strange to have the teenage daughter come and stroke Santa’s beard before asking me to write a review – that aside, the night was a delight.

Jasper House.

Most of our accommodation has been bed and breakfast in home stays, but at Hiriketiya Minty booked us four nights at Jasper House, a hotel only 100m from the beach. 

Its selling proposition is a curious one – no windows. Openings, but no glass. 

Like all modern buildings here there’s a concrete and steel frame, infilled with brick walls. There are rattan blinds at the large openings, and the shower room is outside with no roof.

It’s a great place to wake at sunrise to the sound of the cicadas, and a hundred birds. At our level, a few floors up, we’re at the bottom of the palm fronds.

It does lead to some unwelcome visitors though.

Minty went to change my dressing one evening and we couldn’t find the pack of bandages. We upended bags and searched every crannie. Nothing. We were certain we’d hadn’t left it anywhere – she’d done the same here the night before.

Suspecting something has been stolen is the domain of the newly mad, but there could be no other explanation.

Eventually we searched outside – our suspected thief would soon lose interest in gauze and Betadine. Scattered across a corner of the garden there it all was, bandages, cotton wool, Betadine (iodine). 

The monkeys want sugar, they want burgers, they’re not that bothered about wrapping wounds.

They came again last night while we were sleeping. I was curious to hear the bathroom bin close at a quiet hour – in the morning we found the bin’s contents spilled on the floor and telltale little footprints over the loo.

Driving in Sri Lanka.

Some young travellers hire Tuk Tuks. They’re on the spectrum between brave and lunatic. 

The road system works well – but it’s not for the faint hearted. Overtaking is essential and happens all the time. Signalling is optional, but frequent use of the horn is obligatory. Parp. I’m coming. Parp parp. Thank you. If there’s room for another lane then you must create one. 

Remember the hierarchy. 

The hierarchy can be summarised by the mantra Power Begets Power.

Pedestrians are an irrelevance.

Cyclists mere dirt.

The fragile tuk tuk stays alive through its agility. 

Then the cars. Apparently, the previous prime minister promised a car for every family if he was re-elected. It must have been a reason not to vote for him – the city roads are utterly rammed with cars, pollution is choking, more would lead to permanent grid lock.

At the top of the hierarchy sits the tyrant. The undisputed king of the road is the bus.

The Lanka Ashok Leyland bus is an untamed beast. Airbrushed with wild coloured fantasy heroes, crazy flashing LEDs inside and out, often a thumping bass line, and one speed only. Top speed. Spilling a plume of diesel dirt they thunder down the road, their distinctive duo-tone horn warning everyone and everything to get the hell out of the way – and everything obeys.

Many are intimidated by St Just Square at 5pm. All are intimidated by the Lanka bus.

Talalla Bay Beach.

After four nights with the monkeys at Jasper House we moved just a few miles west along the coast. Minty warned me that Talalla Bay Beach was likely to be basic.

As we stepped from our tuk tuk we both felt a thrill. It’s a simple rooming house of three floors, with three rooms per floor. On the ground floor an open lounge, a little restaurant, a tiny pool, and then the beach. Painted white, with blue trim it could so easily be Greek.

Right now I can see the whole of the mile and a half long beach, and there are so few people I could count them. There’s a smattering of simple bars. Maybe 50 sun beds. And. That. Is. It!

There’s enough breeze to make the silly temperature tolerable.

For all my bravado swimming in the cold waters off Cornwall I admit that walking into the sea here and feeling no chill is quite something. 

Later, as the sun dips and the temperature falls the locals come and stroll the beach, to swim, to lie on the now abandoned sunbeds and banter with family. They can’t understand why the white skinned fools choose to sit in the sun they assiduously avoid.

Bats take to the skies. At altitude there are perhaps 50 massive fruit bats. Closer to the ground their smaller relatives dart like fighter pilots through the clouds of flies. And on that subject – there are mercifully few mosquitos here. Min has been stung a few times, but nothing lasting.

At the hotel it’s neither Mylie Cyrus, nor Beyoncé playing (nothing wrong with either, Amanda has taught me to appreciate both), but instead the gentle jazz riffs of Pat Metheny.

What were we saying about paradise? This could mine.

Beds, bedding, washing.

Every bed we have slept in has been fabulously comfortable. Some have been huge, and fortunately in Nuwara Elia where I was rather poorly, we had a huge bed each. Every one has had beautiful white bedding. Places offer generous white towels. Almost everyone wears brightly coloured clothes. Somewhere there is a lot of washing going on.

How much is enough? Luggage.

We never check in baggage for a flight. If it won’t fit into a cabin bag it stays at home. This time though we’re still left wondering why we brought so much. Washing clothes as we go should have meant that one of these rucksacks would have been ample. Slow learners.

Cow.

Cow comes to the beach for her morning swim as the fishermen haul in the nets they cast at dusk.

The heavens open and Cow no longer needs to swim to cool down. Instead, she stands in the rain, transfixed by her thoughts.

After two hours Cow realises that she has found a good spot for the day and finally stretches out on the sand. It’s now six hours since she wandered along. She’s still there.

The Botty Shower.

Back in the late 80s the bidet very nearly caught on in Britain. I’m sure we all know someone who took the plunge into French style intimate hygiene, only for their bemused friends to try washing their feet in it.

Alas the trend didn’t take hold. Our poky little bathrooms didn’t have room for another chunk of porcelain, after all most homes had only recently fitted a shower.

Here they have a better solution. The botty shower (possibly not the official name). A hose by the loo with a small shower head for a little squirt, leaving you fresh as a fresh thing. 

Most offer the appropriate pressure and are something of a gift when your body is fighting infection and leading you to the pan rather more frequently than you’d like. This particular one, at our accommodation on Talalla Bay Beach is somewhat vigorous and likely to provide a colonic irrigation to the unsuspecting user. 

Leaving Talalla Bay.

We know Talalla Bay is a touch of something that won’t be here much longer. 

Like much of the coast, there are the skeletons of large buildings whose development stopped with the collapse that followed covid. Work is gradually starting again. Next door to our hotel a few guys have returned with their power tools to a massive hotel which will dwarf everything else on the beach. There are two other skeletons waiting for funds to restart.

Our driver takes us along the coast road to Galle and soon we’re in the near constant conurbation that runs through towns we’d heard of other travellers heading to. Matara, Walgama, Mirissa, Weligama, Kabalana. Just miles of slow traffic and the depressing dirty backs of hotels. No doubt the beaches are pretty, but the solitude we enjoyed is somewhere else.

A brief spark of interest came when we passed a few stilt fishermen. The weather wasn’t great for holidaymakers, but the guys out on their stilts were probably grateful for the rain.

Galle.

Dutch colonial Galle comes as shock. The defensive bastions. The grand stone buildings. An English town clock. Even more traffic. 

At first it’s just noise, heat, aimless tourists, police whistles, a sea of faces and places.

There’s a call of “Kelvin,” and there’s Dave and Laura Muir – Sennen Surf Supremo and all-round good guy. They’re doing a similar tour, two days ahead of us. Dave has seen the inside of hospitals too – a couple of broken ribs from someone else’s longboard.

At our Secret Garden rooms our spirits sank as we were led through an uninspiring bar, and up a steep dark spiral stair to a clean but dingy room. Minty (and her mum Judith before her) have history with rooms they don’t like, and Rick and I know not to unpack before approval has been granted. Ten minutes later we’re back on the streets heading to a last-minute bargain booking with a lot more light.

The city unveils itself slowly. 

In a country that has been through the wringer for decades there are little funds for civic projects. The walls are dilapidated in places and in others downright dangerous. However, the unique charm of an old stone built city in a new(ish) concrete built country hasn’t escaped the attention of those with deep pockets.

Rich Sri Lankans, Burghers and outsiders too are now buying up the grand Dutch villas and recreating the splendour that the town must once have enjoyed. Walking the streets in the evening when the lights go on, but the shutters haven’t yet been closed, gives a chance to glimpse the beautiful shady courtyards within, rich with greenery and fine fabrics, against simple white walls. Tropical hardwood floors have been polished to a patina that would be impossible to recreate. Decades of soldiers’ boots, followed by a century of gentle rubbing under the bare feet of staff and their slippered families.

Many are available for rent – at prices that would make a Londoner weep. Our two nights at the perfectly adequate Sunset Fort Hotel will cost around £80. A single night 200m up the road at the Amangalla is a snip at around £1,000. It is rather nice, but in a country where the average wage is under £300 a month it feels perverse. 

We’re frugal travellers by nature, but a moment of excitement at the Galle Fort Hotel’s cocktail terrace saw the price of a night’s accommodation disappear in a couple of delicious glasses of strong liquor. I guess that’s perverse to some – but it was damn good! 

This is a town of gem shops, solicitor’s offices (there are several courts here), restaurants, cafés and fashion stores. At one beautiful outfitters you’re welcome to climb the (polished hardwood) stairs to where the old ladies are making the shirts on sale below. There’s no hard sell, no one seems to mind that you’re only looking.

Beethoven and the Choon Paan man.

Any visitor to Sri Lanka will remember hearing the metallic strains of Fur Elise piped from a vehicle making the rounds wherever they stayed. Like the ice cream man trawling the estates of Britain, the Choon Paan (roughly the music bread) man slowly tours the streets of Sri Lankan towns selling bread and pastries from his specially built tuk tuk. Apparently the practice was on the wane until the contact restrictions of the pandemic offered the opportunity for its resurgence.

Leaving Galle.

Before leaving Galle I wandered the empty streets at dawn. 

The temperature is pleasant, and for me the city’s transformation is complete. Two days ago we arrived hot and tired to a dirty, noisy, stifling place. Today we’ll leave the faded charm of a pretty city that’s finding itself again. 

There’s a fellow cutting frangipani blossom. In a clear carrier he has neat layers of fragrant white frangipani and pink bougainvillea.

Two men are cleaning their tuk tuks. 

Everyone says hello. 

But the man selling the coffee I desired is nowhere to be seen.

I walked back along the bastions, and this is where life is. At only 25 degrees it’s cool for locals. There’s cricket, cricket everywhere. Swimming. Jogging. Old men fast walking. Juice sellers setting up their stalls. The muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. The crows caw their dissent. A monitor lizard is digging a hole in the grass, to bury eggs perhaps?

Neither of us were looking forward to Galle, yet we’ll leave with heavy hearts.

It’s on the way.

Sujeewa drove us to Kandy as I was fading out a couple of weeks ago. He’s an enterprising fellow with good chat and I took his number. I asked him to take us to our final destination too.

He sent his driver, but asked us to stop off at his tea plantation on the way.

It’s easy to forget that while someone uses words we use, the meaning might not quite match what we expect. “On the way” should have been interpreted as “You’re in a car, you might as well come.” If I was driving from Penzance to Plymouth it was like a detour via Bude. That said, we were delighted we stopped off. We drove through rural Sri Lanka for perhaps an hour and a half, experiencing a much calmer way of life.

Along two lane roads a whole lane was often taken by men drying their rice harvest, raking and brushing it, taking heat (and no doubt a tarmac hue) from the blacktop.

Little shops popped up in the most unlikely places. Miles from anywhere an open stall selling beautiful dresses, the boss making in the back.

Sujeewa has a taxi business, a small tea plantation, he’s experimenting with bananas, he wants to offer accommodation, and he uses work-away labour to help move things along.

After the huge detour the fare didn’t change, and it was cheaper than the distance would have cost us in fuel at home.

A Final Night, south of Negombo.

At dawn, a stroll along the ten mile beach that stretches from Negombo in the north all the way to the capital. Colombo is hazy in the distance, a curious sight, tower blocks seeming to rise from the sand.

This morning the dogs and crows are investigating the flotsam from the high tide. Nothing interesting, just light bulbs and plastic bottles. Further along someone had dumped their evening’s rice and curry, the crows were tucking in, but the dogs just looked on.

Sri Lanka in 100 words.

Lush, green, hot, hectic, polluted, clean, fresh, wet, wet, wet, crazy roads, tuk tuks, noise, we mustn’t forget the noise – horns, loudspeakers, the anger of violent rap followed by the chill beats of Bob Marley, Bob Marley everywhere. Beautiful people eager to help, to know a little about your world. No hassle. Really, you’ll get more hassle in Penzance. Harry and Derek (ayurvedic) massage, here, there, everywhere. Colour. Buddha. But sometimes Jesus, Ganesha and the Star and Crescent of Islam. Cricket. Rice and curry. Awful coffee. Lion beer. Lion strong! Aarak. The mountains. Tea. Palms. Rain. Steam. Affordable. The birds. Monkeys. Massive lizards. Dogs (most friendly). Smiles. And, despite how hectic anywhere busy is, there’s a sense of calm.