Touring Sri Lanka on a Royal Enfield
- Adam Rogers
- Jan 10
- 18 min read
Updated: Jan 14
Day 1: Durian Dreams and a Narrow Escape
I arrived in Colombo in early October 2025 on a flight from the Maldives, finally fulfilling a dream I’d been carrying for more than half a century. Some destinations creep into your imagination slowly, sedimented over years of reading, listening, and wondering. Sri Lanka was one of those—long imagined, long deferred, suddenly real.
While waiting in line at immigration, my attention was drawn not to the officials stamping passports, but to a stark sign mounted on the wall behind them: “Possession of illegal drugs carries the death penalty.” It was not subtle, nor was it meant to be. I felt an involuntary sympathy for anyone in that line for whom this warning arrived too late—travel’s darker reminder that borders are not just lines on maps, but thresholds into very different legal and moral worlds.
Formalities complete, my first practical task was securing a local driver’s license. In Sri Lanka, an international license is not sufficient; a temporary local one is mandatory. The process, mercifully, was quick and inexpensive when done at the airport. There was a booth near arrivals, with two welcoming Sri Lankan women eager to help with the process. After 20 minutes of filling out forms and presenting my American Driver's License and passport, I was on my way.
From the airport, I summoned an Uber. I headed north along Canada Friendship Road toward Negombo, where I had an appointment that would define the entire journey: picking up my motorcycle.
At Ceylon Adventure Tours, I was handed the keys to a Royal Enfield 350 Classic—solid, understated, and ideally suited to the island’s roads. Over the next eight days, that bike would carry me more than 850 kilometers along coastal highways, through tea country, and over winding mountain passes. Aside from a snapped clutch cable near Ella—which their local team fixed with impressive speed while I drank tea nearby—the machine never faltered. Neither did the support. Chamod, their representative in Negombo, proved unfailingly responsive and genuinely invested in making sure everything went smoothly. If freedom has a sound, it may well be the low, steady thrum of a well-tuned engine on an open road.
By mid-afternoon, I was on my way, Sigiriya set firmly in my sights. The plan was ambitious but reasonable: reach a hotel near the ancient rock fortress before nightfall, then explore the ruins the following day. The road unfurled easily at first, carrying me inland through a changing landscape and occasional towns and villages. Then, as I passed through the Badagamuwa Conservation Forest, my nose caught an unmistakable odor—the delicious scent of durian.
Moments later, I spotted a small roadside stand piled high with the spiked fruit. I rode on for a few kilometers before logic gave way to instinct. Executing an emergency U-turn, I went back. The season was nearly over, and this would be my only chance. I bought a whole kilo and sat astride my motorcycle, savoring every custard-soft bite.
Night fell faster than expected. By the time I neared my hotel outside Sigiriya, darkness had fully claimed the road, and rain began to fall in sheets. My aging eyes—never fond of night driving—struggled with the glare of oncoming headlights, their intensity magnified by rain streaking across my helmet visor.
A bus ahead suddenly veered into my lane to overtake a truck. I swerved onto the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision—and in that exact split second, illuminated by my headlights for a moment, an enormous elephant suddenly materialized out of the darkness.
My left hand brushed past her leg, close enough to feel rather than see. I passed through the space she occupied by sheer momentum and luck. I arrived at the hotel ten minutes later, my hands visibly shaking.
Only afterward did I learn that I had been riding through an elephant sanctuary, as marked by a sign that read "Wild Elephant Crossing Area. Drive Carefully!" The next morning, in daylight, I rode back to the same stretch of road and saw the sign. The elephant was still there, calm and unmoved. I stopped at a distance and thanked her silently—for her presence, for her restraint, for allowing me passage.
Day 2: Sigiriya — Rock, Ruin, and Reckoning
I woke early the next morning and, after a filling buffet breakfast at the hotel and a visit to pay my respects to the elephant, set off on the motorcycle toward the ancient fortress of Sigiriya. Rising abruptly from the surrounding plains, the palace ruins sit atop a massive rock nearly 200 meters high, encircled by the remains of an astonishingly sophisticated network of gardens, reservoirs, fountains, and ceremonial spaces.
At ground level—at the base of what is technically not a mountain but a batholith, a hardened lava plug from a long-extinct volcano—lie the sprawling ruins of a once-thriving community. The climb to the top involves some 1,200 steps, a mix of ancient stone stairways and modern scaffolding with handrails.
Roughly halfway up, the path passes a series of sheltered caves containing paintings estimated to be more than 1,500 years old. Created during the reign of King Kashyapa I (477–495 AD), these frescoes remain vivid despite the centuries. Time has thinned their numbers but not their power.
It is widely believed that Kashyapa’s vast harem inspired these famous Sigiriya Frescoes, said to number more than 500 concubines renowned for their beauty. The paintings depict golden-hued, bare-breasted women adorned with elaborate, jewel-encrusted ornaments. Other interpretations see the figures as apsaras or divine beings descending from the heavens to bless the citadel. Some scholars go further, suggesting they represent celestial nymphs who guard the Rock Fortress itself.
As awesome as the rock walls, gardens, temples, and paintings are, it was the story behind the place that impressed me most.
King Kashyapa was not an easy figure to admire. His rise to power was violent and morally compromised—the kind of origin story that casts a long shadow. He was the king's son, but by a non-royal consort. One of his ministers convinced him that his father, King Dhatusena, had hidden a vast treasure. Driven by greed, jealousy and suspicion, Kashyapa imprisoned his own Dad to get the money. Accounts differ on what followed—some claim the king was sealed alive within a wall, others that he was executed outright—but the result was the same: Patricide. And the money was never found.
After seizing the throne, Kashyapa abandoned the old capital and converted the mountaintop monastery at Sigiriya into a fortified royal citadel. But vengeance was already in motion. His younger brother, Moggallana, who was indeed heir to the throne because his mother was the Queen, escaped to South India, where he spent years assembling an army to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. When the two forces finally met, Kashyapa chose to confront his brother in open battle rather than retreat behind Sigiriya’s formidable walls. It was a fatal decision. His troops misread Kashyapa's maneuver as a retreat; panic spread, loyalty faltered, and his army collapsed.
Unwilling to be captured—and likely tortured—Kashyapa took his own life by falling on his sword, ending his turbulent reign. With his death, Sigiriya’s brief chapter as a royal fortress came to a close. The palace was abandoned, and the rock gradually returned to its original purpose as a Buddhist monastery—a place of contemplation reclaiming ground that had briefly been shaped by fear, guilt, and ambition.
Exhausted from the climb up and back down, I saddled the Enfield once more and headed north toward the Tamil port city of Trincomalee. I reached the Trinco Beach Hotel just before sunset, the sky glowing softly over the Indian Ocean. The manager let me park my bike in the front foyer, and I set off in search of seafood, which I found across the street at a restaurant called Prawn Crazy.
Day 3: Beneath the Surface
I woke at sunrise on my third day to a spectacular view from my bed: the Bay of Bengal stretched out before me. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Malaysia. I lingered for a while, watching the colors shift, before finally getting up for a simple breakfast of granola, fruit, and yogurt—fuel for the day's underwater exploration.
A few hundred meters down the beach was the Pigeon Island Diving Centre, where I met Shyam, my dive master for the morning. Before long, it was just the two of us slipping beneath the surface, descending into a sunken world of sculptures and military armaments.
The site is officially known as the Navy Underwater Museum, and “museum” hardly does it justice. Opened after Sri Lanka’s long civil war ended in 2009, it was created by the Sri Lanka Navy as both a gesture of peace and a way to encourage marine regeneration. At an average depth of around 18 meters, the seabed has been transformed into a submerged sculpture garden.
We descended along a cable tied to a buoy, the outlines slowly sharpening as the light filtered down. What emerged was surreal: cannons and howitzers softened by coral growth, discarded military equipment repurposed as reef, fragments of ships and architectural forms arranged like streets and plazas. Eels had taken up residence inside old gun barrels; schools of fish drifted through doorways that once belonged to something far more violent. It felt less like a dive site and more like Atlantis reimagined by an engineer with a conscience.
Shyam was meticulous and calm, clearly at ease in this strange environment, and I trusted him completely. It was one of those rare dives where time seems to stretch, where you surface reluctantly, already replaying it in your head. After two tanks of diving we said our goodbyes on the beach, and I thanked him for a morning I knew would stay with me forever.
By early afternoon, I again loaded up my motorcycle and headed south. My eventual destination was Arugam Bay, but I knew better than to attempt the full distance in one go. Instead, I aimed for a halfway stop at a small beachside place called Sea View Resort in Kallady, which I found on Booking.com.
It rained for most of the afternoon as I drove south along the coast. Mostly it was a light, persistent drizzle, just enough to darken the road and keep the air cool. Every so often, though, the sky would open up, and on cue every motorcyclist on the road—including me—would make a beeline for the nearest shelter. Teahouses, gas stations, roadside shops—any overhang would do. Suddenly, these places would be packed with dripping riders, laughing, shaking water from their jackets and helmets, sharing a few words as they waited it out. Each had a different story, a different destination, but for a few minutes, we were all the same: travelers caught between clouds.
Kallady itself was quiet and unpolished. The beach was undeniably beautiful, but also littered with trash, and patrolled by skinny, wary wild dogs. The most compelling scene, though, belonged to the fishermen. Their boats were pulled high onto the sand, and they worked methodically with their nets, talking among themselves in low voices. Every so often, a dog would wander too close, and a stone would arc casually through the air to send it on its way. It wasn’t cruel—just practical, a reminder that this beach was a workplace before it was a postcard.
As the evening settled in, I watched the fishermen finish their work as the rain finally eased. Day three had taken me from a sunlit ocean horizon to a city beneath the sea, and then back onto rain-soaked roads and working beaches. Sri Lanka continued to reveal itself in layers—some beautiful, some uncomfortable, all impossible to ignore.
Day 4: Arugam Bay
I continued south with the ocean on my left, beaches and palm trees slipping past in an easy rhythm. Every so often, I’d pull over at one of the roadside maize grills—impossible to miss, marked by piles of corn husks and makeshift barbecues. The ritual never varied: a corn on the cob grilled until smoky and sweet, then rubbed with chili and salt—a perfect excuse to stop, stretch, and rest for awhile.
Before reaching Arugam Bay, I had my first hint that I was entering a different kind of place. A roadblock staffed by tourist police marked the approach—an unmistakable sign that this was a destination accustomed to visitors. Soon after, English-language signs multiplied: massages, surf lessons, yoga retreats, laundry service. My initial impression was of somewhere unapologetically touristy, the kind of beach enclave that could just as easily be in Mombasa or Phuket, designed more for travelers than for those who live there.
That impression, however, didn’t last.
As I rolled into Arugam Bay, the tone shifted. Yes, it was clearly a place shaped by tourism, but it was also unexpectedly low-key. The streets were quiet, the energy relaxed, and the pace refreshingly unhurried. The timing almost certainly helped this—traveling in the off-season tends to strip destinations back to their essentials—but it felt like more than that. Arugam Bay seemed comfortable in its own skin.
I’d only heard of A-Bay, as locals affectionately call it, through a good friend and former UN colleague, Mithre Sandrasagra, who had put me in touch with friends there. Set along a vast, crescent-shaped stretch of sand on Sri Lanka’s eastern coast, Arugam Bay is renowned as one of the world’s premier surf spots. The atmosphere draws surfers, yogis, and long-term wanderers from all over the planet, yet it remains disarmingly mellow.
One of the pleasures of the place is how visible the surfing is. The breaks run parallel to the beach, so you can sit in the sand and watch top-tier surfers carving waves just meters away. Different sections are loosely organized by skill level, and everyone mostly respects the flow. Mostly. Locals, by posted regulation and universal acceptance, take priority whenever they please. It makes sense. Not being a surfer myself, I spent hours simply watching, captivated by the grace, discipline, and quiet harmony of the sport.
I’d heard that Arugam Bay can become loud and chaotic during high season, known for its party scene—beach raves, booming music, fireworks well into the night. It’s part of the town’s appeal for some, and a deterrent for others. Thankfully, this was not that Arugam Bay. Traveling off-season suited me perfectly, and the town felt relaxed, open, and breathable.
Thanks to Mithre’s introduction, I stayed at Hideaway Resort, owned and managed by his friend Sharon. Tucked away just off the main road, the Hideaway is precisely that—close enough to dip into the energy of town, yet removed enough to feel like a refuge. Mornings began with yoga and meditation, setting a tone of calm that lingerslong after. Breakfast was a daily highlight: fresh, wholesome, and deeply satisfying.
As the sun dropped, the mood shifted gently. Conversations lengthened, cocktails appeared, and the soft hum of A-Bay drifted in from beyond the walls. The beach was just across the road—close enough for an early-morning swim or a spontaneous sunset stroll. Sharon herself seemed to embody the place. Her calm presence, attention to detail, and genuine care gave the Hideaway its soul. I loved everything about it, and even on my first night, I knew it would be hard to leave.
Another spot that quickly earned a permanent place in my routine was a small restaurant directly across the street: Gecko Restaurant. Tables sat right at the edge of the beach, where enormous waves crashed at my toes. Fish and chips, a cold bottle of beer, and the relentless roar of the Indian Ocean—no soundtrack needed.
Day 5: Stillness and Elephants
Day five unfolded quietly, and that felt exactly right. I spent the morning catching up on writing and remote work, then wandered along the beach for long stretches with no particular destination in mind. I wasn’t thinking about anything especially profound—just listening to the steady rhythm of the waves, letting my mind empty itself. Travel doesn’t always need to be about movement; sometimes the most important thing is to stop and reflect.
Later in the afternoon, Sharon called. Her voice had that calm urgency that immediately gets your attention. A family of elephants, she said, was moving slowly through the wetlands on the outskirts of town. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my helmet, fired up the Enfield, and followed her directions.
I parked at a respectful distance and watched as the light softened toward evening. The elephants moved deliberately and unhurriedly, a small family grazing, drinking, and ambling through the wetlands as if time itself had slowed to accommodate them. There was nothing dramatic about the scene—no trumpeting, no charge—just a quiet procession of immense, gentle creatures going about their lives. I stayed until the sun dipped low, completely absorbed, aware that this was not something to rush or interrupt.
As I watched the elephants, a line from David Attenborough came to mind: “The question is, are we happy to suppose that our grandchildren may never be able to see an elephant except in a picture book?”
Standing there that afternoon, watching that family move through the wetlands, the thought felt both urgent and unsettling. I can only hope the answer remains "no"—for Sri Lanka, and for everywhere else where wildness still quietly survives, just beyond the edge of town.
Day 6: Into the Hills
On the morning of day six, I said goodbye to Sharon and her team at the Hideaway and turned the Enfield inland, away from the coast and toward the mountains. Almost immediately, the landscape began to change. The road climbed gently at first, threading its way through forests and small towns, past Buddhist temples, Hindu shrines, churches, and mosques—sometimes all within a few kilometers of each other. I was struck again by how naturally this coexistence seemed to function. Of all the countries I’ve traveled through, Sri Lanka felt among the most religiously diverse and quietly tolerant, faith woven into daily life rather than brandished.
My destination was Ella, a name that appears on nearly every Sri Lankan itinerary and tends to inspire mixed reactions. Some find it overrun, others enchanted. Set in the central highlands, Ella is a small hill town wrapped in tea plantations, misty cliffs, and railway lines that vanish into walls of green. Despite its popularity, it’s easy to see why people go there. The air is cooler, the pace gentler, and the scenery almost aggressively beautiful.
Just before reaching Ella, I passed the thundering cascade of Ravana Ella Waterfall—also known as Bambaragala Falls. Or rather, I didn’t pass it so much as race by it with regret. While navigating a series of steep, unforgiving switchbacks, my clutch cable snapped mid-turn. I knew instantly that if I stopped, I wouldn’t be starting again. With no real choice, I limped onward, carefully timing gear changes, until I rolled to an abrupt halt in Ella itself—directly in front of the local office of Ceylon Adventure Tours, the very company from which I’d rented the bike in Colombo.
Sometimes travel luck arrives exactly when you need it. Within an hour, the cable was replaced, and the bike was running smoothly again. My first stop? Back down the road to the waterfall I’d been forced to ignore. This time, I stopped properly, letting the spray cool the air around me and appreciating the simple relief of having a working clutch.
From there, I visited the Nine Arch Bridge, perhaps the most photographed spot in the region—and yes, it earns the attention. Built during British colonial rule, the stone viaduct curves gracefully across a forested valley between Ella and Demodara. When a bright blue train passes through, framed by jungle and tea-covered hills, the scene feels almost staged. I arrived early enough to watch people gather, eagerly anticipating the train's arrival. It came with an advanced whistle, and I felt like a kid waiting for Thomas. When it arrived, it stopped for a few minutes so everyone could appreciate the moment, then it was gone.
Later in the day, I hiked up Little Adam’s Peak. Its (and my) larger namesake, further to the west—Adam’s Peak itself—was obscured by rain clouds and inaccessible during my visit.
The trail to Little Adam’s Peak winds through tea plantations, with a few steep sections and loose rock that require some scrambling. The views from the top were sweeping and expansive—but as I made my way down, letting my gaze drop closer to the ground, I was dismayed by the amount of rubbish scattered along the path.
I began collecting what I could, stuffing plastic bottles and wrappers into my arms as I descended. At the bottom, I struggled to find anywhere to dispose of it properly, eventually persuading a shop owner to take it off my hands. It felt like a small gesture, almost symbolic, but it mattered to me.
Ella was the kind of place where staying a week would have felt entirely reasonable. Unfortunately, the road was still calling. I spent the night at a local guesthouse and set off early the next morning, riding along a high mountain ridge and beginning the long, winding journey back toward Colombo. It would take two more days to get there on these circuitous roads—but that, by now, felt exactly right.
Day 7: Through the Tea and the Cold
On day seven, I aimed for Hatton, roughly halfway between Ella and Colombo. The GPS optimistically promised a four-hour ride. Reality had other plans. What followed was closer to eight hours in the saddle, much of it in steady rain, with temperatures hovering around 10°C—cold enough to seep through layers and settle into the bones.
The ride, though demanding, was never dull. Mist rolled in and out like a curtain being repeatedly drawn, and when it lifted, the views were spectacular: tea fields spilling from ridge to ridge, the hills quilted in endless shades of green.
Around midday, I stopped at the Sita Agni Pariksha Temple, a quiet, deeply atmospheric place tucked into the landscape. According to the Ramayana, this is the site where Maa Sita underwent her Agni Pariksha—the trial by fire. Regardless of where one stands on myth and history, the temple has a calm, contemplative presence, the kind of place where you instinctively lower your voice and remain longer than planned.
Not long after, I passed the Moon Plains, known for their sweeping vistas and the ability, on a clear day, to see seven of Sri Lanka’s highest peaks. I was told this rather than shown it. The shifting clouds and rain obscured most of the view, but the scene—dramatic, moody, half-revealed—was beautiful in its own way, the mountains appearing and disappearing like fleeting thoughts.
The cold intensified as I climbed through Kalukele. At nearly 1,900 meters (about 6,250 feet), the temperature dropped below 10°C, and I realized how ill-prepared I was. My only defense was a flimsy plastic rain jacket bought at a market in Negombo before the trip. I pulled into a small roadside coffee shop, wrapped my hands around a hot cup, and waited for feeling to return to my fingers before heading downhill as briskly as the road would allow.
Hatton, sitting at around 4,000 feet, felt almost warm by comparison—though it’s traditionally known as a fabulous retreat for those escaping the heat of Colombo. The town marks the heart of Sri Lanka’s tea country, and by the time I arrived, fatigue had settled in alongside a deep sense of relief.
That relief turned into something closer to gratitude when I reached Tea Hills Bungalow. The road leading there was little more than a narrow tuk-tuk track, and following Google Maps, I was convinced more than once that I’d taken a wrong turn. But perseverance paid off. At the end of the track stood a beautiful old bungalow perched high above the tea plantations, with sweeping views in every direction.
The rooms were spacious and comfortable, with large windows opening directly onto the hills. Dinner was exceptional—clearly the work of a chef who cared deeply about his craft. After a long, cold, rain-soaked day on the road, it was precisely the place I needed. One of those rare finds where you thank your luck for having led you there, tired and chilled, and perfectly content to be precisely where you are.
Day 8: Clouds and Closure
The eighth and final day of my journey began dramatically, the road narrowing as it wound through dense forest and over high-crested hills. For what seemed like hours, I rode alongside the Sri Pada Peak Wilderness Sanctuary, better known to many as Adam’s Peak. Forested, sacred, and deeply symbolic, the mountain remained just out of reach—its summit hidden in shifting cloud, its presence felt more than seen.
It was impossible not to feel taunted by Adam's peak, especially for someone named Adam. For a few precious hours, the sacred peak stayed to my left, close enough to imagine but not close enough to climb. For more than a thousand years, pilgrims from around the world have climbed its 5,200 steps, setting out in the middle of the night to reach the summit in time for sunrise, more than a mile above sea level. It’s a climb I’ve dreamed of most of my life. This time, it would have to wait. On my next visit to Sri Lanka, I promised myself I would make that climb.
Eventually, the road flattened, and the spell was broken. Traffic thickened, the air grew heavier, and the familiar chaos of urban life returned—tuk-tuks, horns, exhaust, and the slow creep of concrete sprawl. I made my way back toward Negombo and returned the motorcycle to Ceylon Adventure Tours, grateful once again for a machine—and a company—that had carried me faithfully across the island.
From there, I walked a short distance with my gear to Earl’s Regent Negombo, where the transition from road dust to comfort was immediate. I was upgraded to a corner room on the seventh floor, overlooking the ocean—a view so commanding I briefly felt like a raja surveying his domain. For a four-star hotel, it delivered five-star generosity: attentive staff, a bountiful breakfast, and a sense of calm that felt well earned after a week on the road.
The neighborhood was full of good dining options, but one stood out in particular: Fish and Crab, just around the corner. Fresh seafood, perfectly prepared, and exactly the kind of final meal you want before leaving an island behind.
The following morning, I boarded a flight back to Doha, returning to my desk at the Climate Action Center of Excellence. But part of me remained in Sri Lanka—on misty mountain roads, beside empty beaches, beneath the surface of the sea, and in the quiet presence of elephants moving through wetlands at dusk. Eight days had passed quickly, but Sri Lanka had found its way under my skin. I left already knowing I would return.
Want to see more photos from this trip? Check out my Sri Lanka Travel Album on Flickr.
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