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At exactly 340 am we were woken by a quiet rapping on the door. Bob opened it to find a beaming Mr. Tennakoon offering a tray of tea and the news that some of his Newmarket racing tips had come home winners. Satisfied that we were awake he retreated into the darkness, giggling to himself, as he headed off to prepare breakfast. Half an hour later we loaded the bags into the back of our sleepy driver's Tuktuk and after a sincerely grateful goodbye we were given our packed breakfasts, exchanged handshakes and left the hospitality of the nicest man in Kandy.
We careered through the quiet streets towards the station, and on arrival headed straight to the ticket desk where for 350 rupees (£1.75) we purchased our second class tickets for the 8 hour, 400km journey to the South coast.
We passed the wooden departures board and headed out onto the platform where a scene from Victorian England greeted us. The narrow platform was littered with parcel laden trolleys, sack trucks of produce and on either side were 2 waiting lines of antique red carriages. It was still almost pitch black as we searched the peeling cursive writing on each carriage to find second class and eventually climbed aboard after finding it on the penultimate carriage. Although it was still 45 minutes until the train departed we were lucky to find a free pair of seats so we stowed our luggage and made ourselves comfortable in the old wooden car which was definitely older than we were.
As is compulsory for any red blooded male travelling by train I excused myself and scuttled up the platform, through the increasing number of people, to see our engine. She was a tired old green diesel but as expected there was a satisfyingly dirty smell of burnt oil and an aura of raw power which accompanied the monstrous feat of mechanical engineering which idled coarsley at the head of its train on the dark platform.
I returned to my seat and before long whistles blew, the engine roared and the couplings thunked against each other as we headed out of Kandy. With the wide sash window fully up I watched, like a school child, as we trundled through the city's outskirts, passing through the sights and sounds of the beginning of a new day. As we turned the gentle corners and our bodies became tuned to the metronomically comforting clackety-clack of the wheels I could see the yellow light of the engine illuminating the line ahead as it tunnelled between the curving walls of dense foliage. We passed tiny signal men's huts, empty stations, full level crossings, tunnels and bridges, all in deepest hill country, and then, as the sun rose, one of the most breathtaking views of our travels so far unfolded away from us. From our vantage point contouring the steep slopes, at an altitude of over 400m, the valleys of the central foothills rolled and dropped away from us, shrouded in mist, with only their peaks and the tallest trees breaking the surface of the grey cloud like sea. The vegetation which flashed through the foreground was dense and vibrant, occasionally supplemented by solid rock faces and sheer drops down to the canopy 50m below. The ever changing versions of this view, which Bob's SLR could not do justice, will remain imprinted in my memory for ever. I was mesmerised, blissfully content, and so drifted off to sleep, lulled by the trains steady cadence, with the gentle pressure of Bob's head on my shoulder.
It was the rain that woke me about an hour later, our first experience of a monsoon shower, and the swift shutting of the window required significant co-operation with the gentleman in front whose dozing head was lolling out of it, seemingly unaware! He was soon shaken awake by his companion and Bob and I watched as the rain hammered the steamy carriage windows. It was over as swiftly as it arrived, allowing us to re-open the source of our much needed air movement, though our snoozy friend was now using as a pillow. Our new vista was a sea of paddy fields patrolled by storks of all different shapes and sizes and the mountains were left far behind. As the lowlands flashed past we tucked into our excellent packed breakfast of fried egg sandwiches and yoghurt, leaving the pineapple as a treat for later in the journey. Yet again we sung Mr. Tenakoon's praises, eyeing the alternative chilli laiden breakfast offers which were paraded up and down the carriage.
After nearly 4 hours we sidled into Columbo, passing sidings full of freight and numerous old engines. It was chaos when we finally stopped at Colombo fort as 2 waves of people colliding at the doors. We were not immune in the depths of the cabin as bags were thrust through windows to reserve seats and food sellers filled the oily air with their cries. The platform was alive with passengers, porters and luggage and kept my attention for our 20 minute stop. People heaved mattresses aboard the passenger carriages whilst trolleys laden with heavy hessian sacks and even crates of day old chicks were trundled speedily past to the guards van where an army of people were feverishly loading the eclectic selection of goods bound for the south coast. A sudden jolt announced the arrival of a new engine and with the carriage full to burst, and a shrill whistle, she took the strain and we pulled away from the station hubbub of the station.
The crashing surf of the Indian Ocean soon filled the windows on the right of the carriage whilst we on the left were treated to downtown Cololmbo and no further entertainment was required as we sat back and watched as the miles drifted by. The lowland terrain was equally vibrant after we'd left the city occasionally revealing pretty little estuaries, lots of birdlife and even the occasional erroneous rugby pitch. Surely this is not a rugby friendly climate but obviously the colonial Brits had thought so!
One thing our new southerly direction did do was to bring the sunlight directly through my open window which heated my left hand side and both thighs to cooking temperature very efficiently. Although the wind did its best to cool us, a kindly gent informing us that it would be nearly another 2 hours to our stop was not a hugely inviting prospect.
The engine changed ends at Galle so that we were now travelling backwards, and as a result were downwind of the toilets... Fortunately it was not long before we alighted at Weligama, so finishing our 8 hour train marathon to the south coast. We disembarked a lite dishevelled but all things considered it had been rather a nice way to travel.
Our TukTuk driver knew where to find our guesthouse in Mirissa, so we soon arrived at 'the Spice House' and were welcomed into its shady embrace. The magnificent house had beautiful terraced gardens, occasionally sprouting eccentricities, and the ex-pat owner Phil proudly showed us around the gardens which were full of fragrant spice bushes and mischievous monkeys. We (I...) chose to stay in the 'mud hut' at the bottom of the garden which had been beautifully constructed from a fascinating collection of woodwork reclaimed from old colonial houses. There was no glass in the curving windows, only iron bars partitioning the holes, all fitted with
weathered old shutters, which moved, fitted and locked perfectly, even the bed was made from wood reclaimed from some part the grand old house. The small pond didn't bode well for the mosquito count later but we quickly changed and headed through the vibrant gardens, past the carom board and out of the gates that lead to the beach.
There were 3 stunning bays and high tide made it rather difficult to traverse them but we managed though there were several squeaky moments from Bob as the waves raced up the steeply shelving beach towards us. The setting was picture postcard stuff, with palm trees fringing the shoreline and huge green-blue waves crashing on the reefs a few hundred metres off shore. As we settled onto a pair of sun loungers with cold ginger beers it was very near paradise, though, as with Bali, the ad hoc developments and volume of litter did just take the edge of it.
We spent a very happy hour or so soaking up the sun with intermittent trips to cool down in the sea whilst dodging the rolling waves before retracing our steps along the beach as the sun began to dip. We walked out along a tiny causeway of sand to a small island which offered us beautiful views of the bays as the low sun caught the spray off the waves. We watched colourful simple kites fluttering high overhead as a roar came from a group of locals playing cricket on the sand with an old deckchair for stumps. We continued along the beach and as we rounded the headland we saw the lagoon of our bay, protected by its offshore reef, dotted with small outrigger fishing boats. On the shore bags of sardines were being sold, dried and generally haggled over as we slipped by looking forward to getting into the shade of the Palm trees.
Our shower was completely open air and I managed to squish 6 mosquitos during the process of washing away the dirt of the earlier train journey. Bob was less of a naked ninja and picked up a few bites whilst I was attempting to seal our room from bugs by closing the beautiful antique shutters and lighting as many mosquito coils as possible. Content that we had done our best to reduce the insect burden we headed out for supper at 'the Lantern'. It was a quaint, boutique, out of town hotel on the beach and the food was superb. We ate outside with the sound of the surf crashing in the darkness and got very excited about Tanzania!
The return to our mud hut was perfectly choreographed and with the mossie net closed I reopened the shutters and tried to encourage some air movement in the stifling darkness. Amazingly it cooled down swiftly and after such little sleep the night before, and the earlier train journey, the billowing of the mosquito nets caused me no concerns getting to sleep what so ever.
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