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I’d crossed ‘Visit to a Spice Garden’ off the itinerary suggested by the tour company. We’d all been to one before, either in Sri Lanka or in Kerala, and we all knew that it would be yet another glorified shop stop.

So it was a bit of a surprise to find ourselves pulling into the ‘Sirilak 50 Herbal and Spice Garden - Tourist Board Approved’ in Matale, as we drove from Sigiriya to Kandy.

A unanimous lack of enthusiasm pervaded our party until we spotted the signs for the toilets, at which point the unforeseen stop acquired instant appeal.

Heinz and Margot were allocated a German-speaking guide and disappeared with him . Pam and I were commandeered by a youngster who declared himself to be an English-speaking guide, though much of his English was incomprehensible.   From the start he treated us with total lack of interest. He’d learned his lines and he might as well have been reciting them to a couple of geckos. He whisked us around the garden, stopping at various labelled shrubs and trees. There he regaled us  with his rehearsed script, rapidly delivered, eyes fixed on some distant spot.  And if we asked any questions, he brushed them aside as if they were irritating insects, which I think was probably a cover-up for not actually understanding what we were saying.

Occasionally a few clear words rang out amidst the gibberish. As we approached an aloe vera plant he suddenly swung round to Pam and demanded, ‘Show me your legs!’ to which she had the presence of mind to snap back ‘No!’  before we both exploded into expressions of outraged disbelief.

But it would take more than a couple of affronted foreign geckos to put this fellow off his stride. After declaring the virtues of aloe vera for beautifying legs he said (extremely loudly and with surprising clarity), ‘Excuse me, but you are both old.’ Before the shock had a chance to register, he continued, ‘You can use our  aloe vera cream and you will look twenty years younger.’

At the end of this illuminating and stimulating tour he took us into the garden’s ‘pharmacy’ where he had one more verbal treat in store for us. Once again his tongue took off at a rate of knots and I drifted into a netherworld of aloe-vera induced youthful pleasures while striving to stay awake as he produced numerous fiendish potions and rattled off their miraculous qualities. I was brought back down to earth when I suddenly heard him declare that we should absolutely definitely purchase this bottle of some ‘metabolic’ concoction that he was waving around. ‘Take for three months, then slim body, not crazy body,’ he  ordered, glaring at us. 

I made a mental note to put a notice on my fridge door ‘Keep closed for three months, then slim body, not crazy body’. Unfortunately my (lack of) will-power has ensured that crazy body is unshiftable. Should have bought the metabolic concoction…

We met up with Heinz and Margot when we fled into the garden’s spice shop.  By the sound of it, their guide’s German was marginally better than our guide’s English.  And he hadn’t suggested they needed beautification, reduction or rejuvenation.  Even he had managed to  work out that it was better not to go down that road when half your party is bearded, gruff and clearly takes no prisoners. Sometimes it’s useful to have a man in your team.

Of course it was obvious why we had not been allowed to miss the spice garden, a trap for gullible tourists.  You were expected to stock up on beautifying unctions, cooking spices and leave a hefty tip for your wonderfully knowledgeable expert guide. Oh yes, and no doubt the driver and the tour company would also get their share.   I did, in fact, buy some cinnamon bark – a request from a Sri Lankan friend back home.  However appalling their interaction with the public might be, we wouldn’t be calling in at any other similar establishments, and the spices they sold here were, hopefully,  superior to anything lying around on supermarket shelves in Colombo.  However, the guide most certainly did not get a tip! To do that, he would, at the very least, have had to acknowledge that we were human.

We waved goodbye to this Garden of Eden where we could have stayed forever young and beautiful, and drove on through the town of Matale. Here Upali, knowing my interest in Hindu temple art, turned into a buzzing temple forecourt, which was filled with people. It was a typical South Indian temple, covered with vast pantheons of vibrant, colourful deities, an eccentric kaleidoscope  of  life and a real contrast to the tranquil contemplative Theravda Buddhist art that dominates the island.

We weren’t allowed inside as there was a special puja taking place and the temple was closed to non-Hindus. But we were free to wander around the courtyard. In one corner we found the processional carts, which were used to haul the deities around the streets during festivals.

It’s only about ninety kilometres from Sigiriya to Kandy but the journey was slow – the roads narrow with only one lane in each direction – and we had already made two major stops.  It was a good thing we had set out from Sigiriya relatively early - at 9 am. I wondered how on earth we would have managed to climb up to the Dambulla temples on the way – as the tour guide had originally suggested.  Thank goodness we’d done that yesterday.  Another instance of the advantage of having control of your own tour. Had we not been in charge, we would probably have had barely an hour’s stop at Dambulla, which would have been enough to race to the top, poke a nose into one of the temples just to say we’d been there, done that (no tee-shirts for sale here) and rush back down again, not quite remembering what we had actually seen, and not having the faintest idea what it was about.  

And would we have had time to call in at the Hindu temple?  Would it matter if we hadn’t? Yes, it would matter. Unless you see a wide spectrum of daily life in a country you cannot build any impression outside the contrived tourist circuit.  It’s these unexpected bonuses that give you at least a glimpse of the real country, of everyday life outside the national sites of importance. 

One more stop was on the itinerary before we reached Kandy:  the Peradeniya Botanical Garden.  Once again I wondered how we could have done it justice, had we stopped off at Dambulla. As it was, we were only given a couple of hours to explore the 147-acre park.

This was my third visit to Peradeniya, my first having been in 1969 when we had been invited to the veterinary department of Peradeniya University, the oldest and most venerable university in Sri Lanka. It was here that we met the elephant-owning vet who became the inspiration for my short story ‘Flight’. We had stayed a couple of nights at the Peradeniya rest-house, and, of course, visited the world famous botanical gardens. Although the locals argue that there is evidence of some kind of botanical connection there way back in the 14^th century, this is just a bit of Sri Lankan pride popping in. In fact the gardens really were founded in the 19^th century under British rule. A lot of the original plants were imported from Kew. Not everything the Brits did was bad.

I came again in 1996, with the Sri Lankan family. It rained on that occasion, but not for long, and we took refuge in the café while the shower lasted and looked across the vast green to the strange trees on the other side. The view has not changed.

Now here I was for the third time with barely two hours to do the gardens justice and strict instructions to be back at the gate by four o’clock and not to be late because the driver could not park. So we headed straight through the park to the famous suspension bridge spanning the River Mahaveli (the longest river in Sri Lanka) at the far end. On the way we looked at the grove of trees planted by the famous and powerful, including Chou En-lai, the Czar of Russia, and of course, our own Queen Liz.

Then we strolled down one of the park’s iconic walkways the ‘Avenue of Palms’.

We also admired the cannonball tree planted by King George V and Queen Mary in 1901.

Only a few people at a time are allowed on the suspension bridge, and you can only go to the centre and back. But it’s one of those ‘must do’ things and good fun as well as good views of the river. In 1996 I spotted a kabaragoya (water monitor) on the bank. This time I only spotted some noisy trucks whizzing past on the main road opposite. 

Our last port of call was the famous orchid house.  It is certainly beautiful but… perhaps the Wisley Glass House has spoilt me. Or perhaps orchids are just becoming more accessible. Stunning as the blooms were,  there was nothing, I felt, that I couldn’t see right here at home.

The reason for our strictly time-limited visit to the gardens was, it transpired, because we had to fit in a visit to a ‘gem factory’ before the scheduled ‘Cultural Show’ in Kandy. Of course we all know that any sort of factory is actually a glorified shop. But this time we could be sure of one thing – none of us would be splashing out. We paid lip service to the visit and left very quickly, although the gems, particularly the sapphires for which Sri Lanka is famous,  were undeniably pretty. In any case, I didn’t need one – my nephew bought me a lovely dark blue sapphire in 1996. I know, you’re thinking that the more desirable ones are a lighter blue. That’s what they all told me, but I loved the dark one best.

The Culture Show was supposed to be part of our ‘paid for’ package but the news hadn’t filtered through to Upali, who insisted we pay again. Not a good start, but we’d sort it with the tour agency later – well, that’s what we thought, anyway.

Kandy is probably justifiably regarded as the cultural showplace of Sri Lanka. The famous  Kandy Perahera, when the Buddha tooth relic goes on parade, takes place every July or August. The Kandyan Dancers are also cultural icons of the island. We didn’t expect any elephants to pop up on the stage, but there were plenty of dancers, some of them displaying breath-taking acrobatic skills. And afterwards we were taken out of the Cultural Centre into the courtyard where we were ‘treated’ to a display of pyrotechnics that included fire-eating and walking on hot coals. Great stuff.

The day ended on a sour note. We arrived at our hotel, the Topaz, beautifully placed on top of one of the hills overlooking Kandy, to find they’d never heard of us. The agency had booked us into a different and inferior hotel without telling us, or the driver.  After a  long day we had to return to the vehicle, head back down the hill and up another one. Our introduction to the Hilltop Hotel left much to be desired. The guide of an Indian bus tour was having a shouting match with the man on  reception. His choice of language was so disagreeable that eventually I intervened, reminding him that there were ladies present. I don’t usually consider myself ladylike but at times it has its uses. The guy apologised and shut up.  

The rooms were substandard, the meal outrageously expensive, the Indian group was having a loud karaoke session at the far end and the mood among my party was poisonous. I’ve travelled enough in the east to know that things go wrong, and to be philosophical about them. Unfortunately some of my fellow travellers are less forgiving.

Pam and I decided to cheer ourselves up after the meal by chatting to the Indians though we drew the line at joining in the karaoke.

Ah well, tomorrow would be different.

Dambulla is probably not the first place that rolls off most tongues  when it comes to naming UNESCO World Heritage sites in Sri Lanka.  I guess Sigiriya and Polonnaruwa are at the top of the list – simply because they have been more accessible over the last couple of decades than Anuradhapura, the largest and earliest of the major sites. 

The only reason, as far as I can see, why Dambulla isn’t right up there at the forefront, is because it is a smaller site, with arguably less diversity than the other places.  At Dambulla there are no ancient citadels, great dagobas or ruined palaces. There are simply five cave temples cut into a granite escarpment on the side of a mountain.

Simply? Let me rephrase that. There’s nothing simple about Dambulla.  I’m biased because I love it, although not all my experiences there have been wonderful.

My first visit was in 1969. It wasn’t a World Heritage site then (it was inscribed in 1991) –  not at all set up for tourists. My memories of the cave temples from that time bear no resemblance to those of my subsequent visits. All I remember from 1969 is one dark cave, with Buddha images lurking in the half-light.  The whole place infused with an air of mystery. That was, until we tried to leave the cave. Our way was barred by a monk shaped like a sumo wrestler, hand outstretched, demanding exit payment.  Enough to turn anyone off religion!

Back to the present. The drive to Dambulla from Sigiriya only took around half an hour – enough time to rest tired limbs that had just climbed the Rock: or putting it another way – enough time for tired limbs to stiffen and seize up!

Since my last visit in 1996, there has been an addition at the foot of the  Dambulla site. The Japanese, in their wisdom, have contributed a Golden Buddha, so massive that it can be seen from the steps on  Sigiriya. A pleasing addition to the landscape? Not to my eyes.  I have to remind myself to try and look through the ‘period eye’ – in other words, to see it through the eyes of a contemporary Sri Lankan Buddhist. It doesn’t help. This product of Far Eastern Mahayana Buddhism is a world removed from the refined art of Sri Lankan Theravada. The nearest I’ve seen to it in Sri Lanka, is the giant Shiva at the Hindu Temple in Trincomalee. But the latter is not out of place amidst its riot of Hindu eccentricity, whereas the Golden Buddha is a total incongruity in its setting at the base of gorgeous Dambulla.

The Golden Buddha is sat atop a new museum of Buddhism (you enter through a monstrous mythological creature’s mouth) , which apparently houses some information,  copied paintings and Buddhist images.  Any time spent there would have taken time from the caves, so I decided to give the museum a miss and began my ascent up the steps to  which Upali directed us after we’d purchased our tickets.

Something was different, unfamiliar but it wasn’t until we reached the temple complex,  , 350 feet up the 600 foot rocky outcrop, that I realised what had happened since my 1996 visit, and why Upali had made such a fuss about the difficulty of the climb.  Try as I might, I couldn’t actually remember having climbed many stairs on my previous two visits. Was my memory really that bad? Now I made my way slowly up the 800 or so stone steps . Hard work, yes, though once again the plateaux between flights gave respite. The flights were much wider than the narrow stairways of Sigiriya, so you were less in danger of clashing with other visitors!

The views were stunning – this time the reverse of the morning’s panoramas from Sigiriya. Now we looked over the jungle to the rock.

The difficulty of the climb was further alleviated by groups of macaque monkeys engaged on their daily chores. Mothers were particularly meticulous, grooming their babes on the steps, ignoring hordes of passing pilgrims and tourists. It all made the ascent less arduous and very charming.

Though I was disappointed when I reached the caves, to find no evidence of the dog-grooming activities I’d witnessed  in 1996. In fact, no evidence of the beautiful pariah dogs that had found refuge there. Perhaps they’d all gone off for lunch.  Or perhaps officialdom had seen fit to remove them. That would be a pity.

At the top we left our sandals before we passed through an entrance building into the paved courtyard in front of the caves.

Now the penny dropped. As I looked out from there I saw a wide, paved slope running up the side of the mountain parallel to the steps.  Of course. This was why I didn’t remember the steps. We’d come up the slope on previous visits.  

Groups of laughing barefoot schoolgirls in white ambled up the sloping track. In Sri Lanka the girls, not the boys, wear ties as part of their uniform. There’s so much white in Sri Lanka – school uniforms, temple visits – and yet it’s always crisp and clean. How do they do it, especially in the hot, damp climate?

I’m not going to go into huge detail on the caves – for that watch this space, for the eBook expanded version of this blog.  If ‘cave temples’ bring to mind Ajanta or any one of the many other overwhelming sites in India, you will have to switch to another mode when you go to Dambulla.  The Indian cave temples are true ‘rock cut’ temples, hewn out of solid rock, so massive that their construction is beyond comprehension.  Dambulla is not like that – in fact there is much debate about how much is natural cave and how much is man-made. The truth is that no-one really knows, but it’s thought that original natural caves may have been extended. Unlike the Indian ones they do  not imitate architecture.  In a sense that makes them equally enigmatic. There are five shrines in all, created and expanded over 2000 years. In the beginning they were probably sanctuaries for wandering monks. Over the millennia they were carved out and filled  with painted stone and wooden carvings of Buddha images, stupas  and kings. The walls and ceilings are also covered with paintings, ranging from simple repetitive flowers and patterns to the Jataka stories and representations of the Buddhist pantheon.  These paintings cannot be compared in their delicacy and skill with the priceless Gupta paintings at Ajanta, or the Sigiriya frescoes. They are, on the whole later restorations, many stemming from the eighteenth century.  The whole effect though, is delightful, particularly on the sloping, natural-looking ceilings of the shrines. The predominant colours throughout the temples are yellow, ochre, red and gold. Of course they are now restored, which is why they look so fresh and bright, unlike those of my fractured memories from 1969.

Some of the Buddha images are standing, some seated, and among the most impressive are those lying in Parinirvana. The images are all brightly painted, but somehow not garish. There’s a pleasing harmony to them.  Because they were carved and assembled over the centuries, some of them are clearly associated with rulers such as Vattagamini Abhaya (1^st century)  and  Nissankamalla (12^th century), as verified by  accompanying inscriptions and sculpture portraits of the ruler.

It’s a mesmerising place and it was hard to tear myself  away and head back down the steps to the waiting van.

Little did we know it when we left Dambulla, but we had one more climb in store before dinner. When we arrived back in Sigiriya the van turned off the main road and bumped down the little one-lane street to our hotel, passing the Sigiriya rest house and continuing passed a reed-and-lotus-covered lake in which the rock is famously reflected. Memories started to stir once more. It dawned for the first time that we had walked along this road – then an unmade track – in 1996, when my niece and I had expressed a desire to swim. The only hotel sporting a swimming pool in 1996 was the Sigiriya Hotel, some half a mile along the track, and beyond where our Sigiriya Village Hotel now stood. On the way we had passed a young elephant with his mahout. We stopped to pat the elephant, who caressed us gently with his trunk. Yes, that's me in white on the true left, and another of our party (not my niece) on the right.

Later, when we returned to the rest house darkness had fallen, and we had forgotten to bring a torch. The moon was new, and shed no light. We couldn’t see anything. The situation was frightening. We had no idea if there were wild elephants around, and we were even uncertain about Tamil Tiger insurgents, since nowhere in Sri Lanka was really safe, and we weren’t that far from the conflict proper. As we stumbled forward, a light appeared. The young elephant’s mahout had come to our rescue with his torch and led us back to the rest house.

So this was in the back of my mind, when returning from Dambulla, we noticed an elephant tummy-deep in the lake, bearing a couple of tourists. It looked such fun – for the elephant as well as the tourists, that temptation (and madness) reared its ugly head. Margot, Pam and I all decided that  we couldn’t miss out on this experience. In addition I couldn’t help wondering if this was my elephant from seventeen years ago. He was five years old then, so he’d be in his prime now. It made sense.

Upali established that a ride would last forty minutes, including the bath in the lake and would cost a small fortune. Heinz, being sensible, said that wild horses wouldn’t drag him onto the elephant, but if we insisted on such lunacy he’d wait for us and take photos.

I have issues with the domestication of elephants, which often involves cruel treatment and dreadful conditions. However, this one had the luxury of spending most of its day in the place elephants love best – the water. So I’m afraid I let my principles slip for the first, but not the last, time on the tour.

We were formally introduced to the elephant, whose name was Saman (after a Sri Lankan deity).  He looked well-cared for and healthy, and the chains were not hobbling his feet together, as is so often the case. Pam, Margot and I climbed the mounting ladder and settled ourselves on the howdah – if that’s what it could be called. Basically it was a flimsy wooden platform with a rickety bar to hold onto. If Saman decided to lean too far to one side we’d be hard-pushed not to slide straight out and onto the ground – or into the water, especially as we were placed with two of us on one side and one on the other.  Hardly makes for an equal load. At this stage we started to worry. This was not going to be a very safe excursion. We headed off up the road, gritting our teeth and hanging on for dear life. Pam and I suddenly had the distinct feeling that the howdah was slipping downwards.  We gripped harder and I drew one foot up onto the howdah to give me some grip.  Eventually we turned round and the elephant waded into the lake. This was meant to be fun? Pam and I were convinced that the howdah was slipping further – or possibly Saman was trying to roll? It was surely a matter of minutes before we would land in the lake with a large elephant rolling on top of us…

Suddenly the elephant’s owner called from the lake-edge. An exchange of shouts and much to our relief, we headed back to home base, where we rapidly, and angrily, disembarked. We had had twenty minutes of the forty minute trip. Why were we sent back? Not because the owner feared for our lives, but because some more tourists had turned up and the scoundrel thought he’d fit in one more ride before darkness fell. 

They demanded a tip on top of the disgraceful price we’d had to pay up front, and were very sullen when we refused to give them one, since we’d only had half the promised time. We kept quiet about the fact that we were actually very relieved to get off. We left with bad feelings so I never did find out if Saman was ‘my’ elephant.  But looking at the photographs that were taken of our ride, I can see quite clearly that the howdah was indeed slipping. (that's me at the back with my leg drawn up - trying to stop myself from sliding and trying to look nonchalant!)

This was our last night at the Sigiriya Village Hotel.  A meal out, an early night, a feeling of satisfaction that we’d proved that we could indeed tackle Sigiriya and Dambulla in one day. Suddenly the Elephant Incident didn’t seem to matter so much.  It would be something to talk about when we got home.

Tomorrow we would be moving on to Kandy.