Saturday 1st February - Like 007's Martini.

Today we get robbed. There is a little bit of a back story to this. Yesterday D was checking the tickets for today's train journey to Kandy and discovered that they are valid from Badulla. We could, of course, just get on a few stops later at Ella but boarding at Badulla has some attractions. It gives R the chance to enjoy the scenery and it will be easier to get our vast baggage train loaded on the racks.

This plan requires an early breakfast, which is agreed cheerfully by our hosts, and also requires a taxi for the 20km ride to Badulla station. There is a taxi operators' kiosk on the main street so we drop in on the way to the pub. We outline our requirements and are offered a 6 am start. As our train is not until 08.30 this is a non starter. Eventually we agree 07.30 start for a fee of 3000 rupees. This seems a little rich but D needs a beer so we shake hands and exchange mobile numbers.

This morning all goes well with breakfast although it is interrupted by a call from the taxi driver to say he was waiting below twenty minutes early. Breakfast here is too good to rush so we tell him that we will be down shortly. We load up, say our thanks and goodbyes and with the help of the patron head down the steps with our bags. We load these in the back of the Hiace van and climb aboard. Then the driver tells us that his boss says that the fare will be 4,000, an extra £4.50 or so. We are not happy but have little option but to agree. Rows with taxi drivers are routine and part of the fun in India but this is the first piece of such naked chicanery that we have come across in Sri Lanka. Next time we will book online.

The route is via tea gardens, alongside paddy fields and takes thirty five minutes. We pay up, tell the driver to tell his boss that he is a dacoit, and fail to provide a tip. The driver complains that he is now late for his next job. "Not our problem mate". At the entrance to the platform our ticket is checked and we are told to go over the footbridge.  R needs to use the facilities which are on this near platform. The Foreigners Washroom is locked but the Ladies for mere mortals is available. D lurks outside tending the luggage.

A door marked Security opens and a fairly senior looking policeman emerges to ask D where he is going. "Kandy". "What class".  "First". "Come with me" . D protests that he needs to wait for R but the copper just picks up the two smaller bags and starts walking back along the platform towards the entrance. "Bridge is no good with big bags" he explains and walks on past the entrance to the far end of the platform. Here there is a ramp and a foot crossing, much easier than the bridge. Our First Class AC coach is at this end of the train, a Chinese built S-12 set with a power car at each end and eight coaches in between. What a helpful rozzer.

Luckily R does not panic, remembers the instruction to cross the bridge and arrives in time to help load the big bag. We manage to squeeze this into the overhead rack with a bit of a struggle. Our seats are facing forward but a bit disappointing as we don't have a full window. As the coach has only about ten people in it we move forward a row for a better view. The train departs on time with a real lurch as the auto couplers snatch. Despite being on an alleged express speeds are much the same as yesterday and the more modern coaches prone to just as much shake, rattle and roll. At the Nine Arch Bridge the crowd is even bigger today. What will it be like when the Hogwarts Express turns up? Soon we are back where we started, four grand wiser. At Ella the train pretty much fills up and we resume our allocated seats. At least D's theory about luggage holds good as some of the newcomers struggle to stow their bags. As we set off with another bang and lurch from the couplings D decides to opt for some door riding. Just in time as there is soon a queue. The rolling and lurching means that hanging on is really a two handed job and quite tiring.

After a couple of stops D returns to his seat, handing over the door to the next in line. Although classified Express the train does seem to stop everywhere. The line climbs along ridges cut into the sides of mountains, most of them quite heavily forested. Every now and then darkness descends as we pass through a short tunnel. We are just bemoaning the lack of vendors when two chaps arrive, one selling samosas and the other a hot drink. We order two samosas and also get two log shaped rolled up rotis, stuffed with spicy veg and rolled in breadcrumbs. The hot beverage tastes mainly of sugar and condensed milk with just a hint of coffee. 

This is a single line railway and at every second or third station we cross a train heading the other way. Some of the small stations have flower beds and well tended hedges. The signals are all the old fashioned semaphore type and a few times we are brought to stand outside a station as a safety precaution. We pass a summit marker and soon arrive at Pattipola station, the highest on the network at 1,898 metres. The line then starts to descend quite steeply and the coaches roll and lurch quite alarmingly. The second class coach in front of us looks particularly lively. One of the small stations is called Great Western, rather appropriate on a line with such a circuitous route.

At a place called Tallawakelle the train pulls into the platform, sits for a few minutes then reverses out of the station, back along the line that we came in on, stops and pulls forward onto a loop line adjacent to the platform road. We sit there for 20 minutes until a train heading the other way arrives. By the time we get going again we are twenty minutes late. The driver makes every effort to make up time and we are thrown from side to side in our seats in the process. By the time we get to Peradeniya, the junction with the line from Colombo, a few miles outside Kandy, we have caught up time. Then we have another double shuffle to let an approaching train go past. By the time we get to Kandy, shaken but not stirred, we are fifteen late.

As we exit the station an elderly type approaches and asks where we are going. He wears a taxi operators' badge and does not realise just how much danger he is in. D shows an email with the address of our accommodation on it and the old boy summons an auto driver. The quote is not worth arguing about and we load up. D has a vague idea of where we should be going and tracks progress on his phone. It soon becomes apparent we are going in the wrong direction. We want the Sky Deck but the old boy has told our man Sky Loft. We are soon heading west on a ridge to the north of the railway and the city centre. We have to go a long way west to gain height before returning east more or less along the summit of the ridge. Our target is as far east as you can go on a dead end road.

Our room overlooks the entire city, as does the balcony and the shower which has no curtains. It is very windy and the windows are being rattled. Could be earplugs tonight. Our host gives us the lowdown. There is a pedestrian short cut down to civilisation which consists of a supermarket, a few shops and a highly recommended restaurant specialising in Sri Lankan veggie food. A check on Gmaps shows that a little further along is a pub so our evening is sorted.

The pub is fine, with the cheapest beers we have found yet and excellent fried cashews. The supermarket is a good one with the bonus of an in house off licence. We also spot a laundry which we need. The restaurant is a no frills place, catering for local families, a few tourists and take away customers. When we arrive a twelve year old appears to be running front of house and doing a great job. He seats us, finds us menus, takes our order and generally schmoozes us in perfect English. The food is fabulous. We eat like locals, without cutlery and make a mess. Mother appears and takes over the till but sends the lad with our bill so he gets the tip. We manage to make it back up to the top without heart attacks.