The Lion, The Curry and Wait a Minute… Is Breadfruit My New Favourite?
If Negombo was where I landed, Dambulla was where the trip began to test me.
This was the point where the days stretched longer, the mornings started earlier, and the scale of Sri Lanka’s history made itself impossible to ignore. It was also where I completely accepted that I would be spending the next couple of weeks moving at a pace I wasn’t entirely used to.
Sigiriya was first up! Climbing Lion’s Paw is one of those experiences that demands both legs and patience. The views were spectacular, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t quietly frustrated by the stop-start rhythm of a group climb. And yet, at the very top, standing among the ruins of the royal palace, something shifted. The light poured across the landscape in thick, golden warmth, drenching everything below. It was vast and still and completely worth the climb. The kind of moment that silences internal commentary and replaces it with awe. Magical feels like a bit of an understatement.
Lunch followed, in the form of a very typical Sri Lankan curry. These curries had begun to teach me what flavour actually means. But dinner that night was something else entirely. We ate at a local family’s restaurant, and it was by far one of the best meals on the trip so far. Breadfruit, coconut sambol, and beautifully cooked Sri Lankan barbecue meats filled the table. It was generous, grounding, and unforgettable. If food is a language of care, this one spoke fluently.
Somewhere between meals and movement, I learned that around 80% of Sri Lanka’s population practices Buddhism. Which, frankly, explains a lot. The warmth, the ease, the smiles that seem to arrive before conversation does… it all began to make sense.
The next day took us north to Anuradhapura, the upper point of Sri Lanka’s cultural triangle and a place heavy with reverence. Stupas rose from the earth like bell-shaped anchors, spaces of worship that ask you to slow down, cover up, and remove your shoes (even as the stone beneath your feet burns with heat).
We visited the Sri Maha Bodhi Tree, said to be the oldest human-planted tree in the world, grown from a cutting of the tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment. Our Intrepid leader, Prabarth, who practices Buddhism as a way of life rather than a set of rules, guided us through the temples with quiet enthusiasm. His reverence was contagious.
By the end of the day, I was almost tempted out by temples (almost). Sri Lanka was quickly earning a new internal title: The Temple Country. Not a bad thing to be known for.
That afternoon, we returned to Jetwing Lake Hotel, a place that deserves its own pause. Lush, serene, and beautifully integrated into the landscape, it became our soft landing between long, culture-heavy days. My evening involved martinis with my accidental retirement village (they opted for negronis and margaritas), Chinese food to fill the void, and an early night after yet another 14–16 hour day.
By now, I’d also noticed something else: I was yawning constantly. The kind of yawning that doesn’t come from boredom, but from a body finally realising it’s allowed to stop. After two years of non-stop work, I think rest was catching up with me.
Our final day in Dambulla brought more ruins, more history, and one very important discovery: breadfruit might be my favourite curry “meat” of all time. Creamy, comforting, and perfect for soaking up curry gravy (yes, that’s what they call it), it turns out I’ve been missing out my entire life.
Later, we climbed into jeeps for an elephant safari. Despite the number of vehicles in the park (something I found very hard to ignore) we were rewarded with the sight of a small elephant family: a mother, two babies, and a teenager who kept trying to wander off before being loudly corrected (teenage Kate would’ve found that completely relatable)! The ride itself was chaotic fun, made even better by the complete absence of a safety briefing. We played an unspoken game of whack-a-mole with low-hanging branches while standing up in the moving jeep, laughing our way through dust, wind, and wild landscapes. Monkeys appeared. A baby eagle made an entrance. It felt like one of those days where nature refuses to be subtle.
We closed our time in Dambulla with a visit to an Ayurvedic spa. I chose a full-body massage with a Shirodhara — thirty minutes of warm oil streamed steadily onto the forehead, designed to induce deep relaxation. And it worked. I nearly fell asleep. The only unexpected element was the setting: I was placed beside one of the retired women from our group, the experience shared rather than private in a way that felt distinctly non-Western. Side by side, we quietly surrendered to the treatment (dignity and clothes set aside) and it was oddly perfect.
Dambulla was intense, ancient and grounding all at once. It stretched my patience, fed me deeply, and began the slow process of teaching my body (and my expectations) to soften.
And with that, it was time to move on.