My first truly terrible night’s sleep since we arrived, the bed having all the comfy snugness of a slab of granite with a sheet on, but I did feel a bit bad after our host directly asked me how I’d slept and I told him. Poor chap looked so crestfallen. I do have a regrettable tendency to honesty. Or, as Virle would put it, a total lack of diplomacy. So, not a great night, but the morning got off to a great start, with a delicious breakfast, including mango from the tree in front of the veranda. So sweet!
All the guides say you have to visit Sigirya, and as usual they’re right.
The tuk tuk our host had arranged tuk tuk us to the entrance, where we paid the stiff $35 a head, and headed for the bottom of the climb (rumoured to be around 1100 steps), through well-tended gardens, being actively well-tended by a small army of attendants. Then the climb began.
As usual, we’d arrived at the worst possible time, and the climb turned into a slow, steady, slog, up flight after flight of stone steps, shared with large coach parties of doddery fat geriatrics. It’s the heat makes me mean. But I have to say, as I said to Virle, you have to do it – bloody daft to come all this way and not – but this isn’t far off my idea of hell.
The ordeal was enlivened at one point when we were queuing for the next flight and a small group ducked under the rope – just behind us, luckily for them. I just bristled, but Virle turned around and said “Are you ok with pushing in like that?” (That’s my girl!) One of the women muttered something about it being their guide’s doing, not theirs, which drove me to “You can’t just disclaim responsibility like that. You’re the boss.” At which the woman visibly shrivelled, and I almost felt sorry for her, her expression that of a woman who’d never been boss of anything, and had spent her life doing what she was told, even if it was by a guide in her employ.
Half way up we encountered the giant feet – all that remains of what was apparently originally a sphinx-like lion (hence the alternative name – Lion’s Rock) which gave you a feel for how stupendous the whole thing must once have been.
Sooner than expected, we found ourselves at the top, with stunning views on every side, an ocean of trees as far as the eye could see, misty mountain ranges away in the distance, along with a striking ‘Elephant’s bath’, which the guidebook quite persuasively suggests was nothing of the kind, more likely a simple reservoir for the occupants of what was once a mighty fortress.
Half way down there was a detour to visit the fresco, which strangely enough forbade photography, though it’s hard to see what damage it could do, featuring charming and brightly coloured paintings of what the guidebook charmingly described as buxom (a word you don’t hear nearly enough these days) ladies. As Virle said, “Improbably large tits and impossibly tiny waists – what else has changed in two thousand years.”
Then it was back to the tuk tuk (which had been waiting patiently for a couple of hours and change) for a return to our homestay, pausing only for our driver to drop us at a herb & spice garden, where an absolutely charming man talked us throught the ayurvedic benefits of a variety of the remedies growing there. As the list of ailments grew and grew, I told him he was making me feel worse and worse: wrinkles, check; grey hair, check; manky stained teeth, check…
He did an excellent job though, and we ended up taking away about £30 worth, figuring what, really, was there to lose. If they don’t work, we’re 30 quid down. But if any of them does, we’re way ahead of the game.
Currently chilling away from the afternoon heat, or at least I was until Virle just summoned me for my daily dose of yoga exercises. *sigh*. Here goes nothing…
