Home, where my music’s playing

Home, where my love lies waiting

Silently for me

Two hundred odd days, seven or so months, four England Test defeats, and many more cricket grounds later, I have ventured back to the Western hemisphere for a wee while. Maybe longer. Maybe less. Suppose it depends on how long a ‘wee while’ is. We shall have to see how the back home version of the midlife crisis rolls on. Tattoos, motorcycle lessons, and a non-ironic skateboard incoming. Those of you with fears/hopes that my eternal divorced-father-of-three energy may have dissipated by my travels will be sorely relieved/disappointed. If anything, I may be more of a loser than before but with even less of a clue of what to do next- bar the skateboard and maybe a guitar.

It’s been a wonderful adventure and I’m very excited to be back amongst my friends. I’ve spent much of the last 3 months travelling solo with Colombo proving far quieter than I had anticipated. I’ve been surprised at how positively I’ve managed to handle that time alone but I am ready to eat, drink, and be merry with my friends and family.

In any case, it’s been a terrific adventure across parts of the World I never thought I’d see, with friends new and old. I’ve seen the types of sunsets that I genuinely thought only existed in the movies; gotten spontaneously obliterated with new friends; passed out in 50 degree C; drunk homemade liquor and smoked home grown; err visited countless cricket grounds; eaten lip smacking good food (and cooked a fair bit of it myself); read reams of books; and had an absolute blast.

Didn’t it rain? Back to Galle

My final few weeks in Sri Lanka were spent revisiting some spots that I had loved in my first stop. After heading north to Jaffna, I headed back south the coastal town of Galle. It did nowt but piss it down. Non-stop. Monsoon season had definitely arrived and the gaps in the rain to take some strolls and trots around the historic fort.

In revisiting Galle cricket club, I was told that there was a schools match on the Friday that would be worthy of a watch. Grabbing a ticket, I was excited to see some cricket on this historic ground. Alas- a wash out. Not a ball faced. So I spent my few days in Galle going for a couple of ironically and weather matching piss poor runs; visiting some more beautiful religious sites; and eating superbly well.  

Dedduwa diddy dum diddu do, or, Carry on Kayaking

On my way back from Galle, I stopped for a few beautiful days and nights in Dedduwa- staying in a ‘cottage’ on the lake and river. I say ‘cottage’- it was decidedly (and beautifully rustic.) Admittedly, I had had a shit journey from Galle up to Dedduwa so was significantly less in the mood for the outside shower and bathroom; lack of aircon; and ‘decorative’ mosquito net than I was willing to be for the next couple of days. I got over it and myself.

Stunning- it was truly stunning. Miles and miles of lakes and rivers entirely, from what I could tell, to myself. As I noted after I went hiking in the Himalayas (an absurd sentence when written by me) the tranquillity and beauty was both awe-inspiring and calming; and not half bad by the way of working up a sweat. Because of this last point I do not think that kayaking, like hiking, should form the basis of a person’s holiday or travels. It’s not interesting. Dull in fact. Go to the gym whilst away by all means but don’t build your holiday around it. Anyway- it was wonderful.

Dedduwa, like Galle and Colombo, was very quiet not only because the tourist season now being at an end, but the war on Iran proving to be catastrophic for the economy of Sri Lanka. Oil and gas prices have resulted in many public sector and office based workers being told to work from home on set days across the nation, and with many tourists both domestic and from the West being unable or unwilling to travel. Fortunately, the people of Sri Lanka were incredibly generous and welcoming and in Dedduwa I had many more terrific meals- two stand-outs being a knock out and spicy as Hell curry from a small roadside place; and then a railway line adjacent and decidedly posher (but still cheap as chips) seafood restaurant.

A brief interlude

In light of the creation of the World’s first trillionaire (built on AI, planet burning, sand), a quick reminder that he:

• ended a speech only last year by giving a Nazi salute,
• paid for others to log time and achievements on computer games under his name,
• has shed loads of kids but gives off even bigger virgin vibes than I do, and,
• is a colossal fucking loser. A white supremacist loser.

Love in a time of Colombo: Sick as a dog

After my travels down south, I ventured back to a quiet capital city. I saw another cricket ground, and the museum of Sri Lankan cricket; and got some more running and dozing on the beach in. Unfortunately, I was also sick as a dog for a big chunk of my final week. Whilst there are some ongoing diagnostic disputes between myself and the sort of people who alleged that I am melodramatic, I am confident that I was suffering malaria.

I got better.

There was something in the air that night; The stars were bright, Negombo

Before flying home, I went back up to Negombo a city which is stone’s throw from the international airport and is a place many tourists use as a jumping off point before venturing across Sri Lanka. It was stunning- the weather seemed to ease up and showers become shorter, and less frequent (if still apocalyptic), and the time of year meant I got a room on the beach front, with a rooftop pool, for the sort of price I am willing to pay. Aka not a lot.

The food was terrific, the beach golden and beautiful, the beer cold, and the pool almost used exclusively by me for my few days there. I played some more Resident Evil II at times that I had to introduce a self-governing rule about not playing it on my own before bed. I checked out the building gym which kicked my ass. And I took plenty of long walks to some of the gaudier churches in the area (see below for Project Runway: Messiah edition.)

A key motivation for returning to Negombo were the prawns sold at Judes seafood restaurant and they did not disappoint. The sound of the sea, with prawns the size and colour of the King’s fingers (shudders), washed down with ice cold Lion beer were the perfect way to end what has been, I hope, a life changing adventure.

One last wash up

A revelation of my travels has been the time and space I’ve had to read a wonderful array of stuff I’m not sure I’d have picked up before. In the last few weeks of my travels I read:

• William Dalrymple’s ‘The Golden Road’: He’s bloody good that William Dalrymple. This history examines how many ideas that have informed the history of our World originated from India (without going full BJP mental). I’d heartily recommend any of his works before travelling to India.
• Ashok Ferrey’s ‘The Professional’: Rubbish. Proper, proper rubbish. Not offensively naff- just naff.
• Carl Muller’s ‘The Jam Fruit Tree’: A truly bonkers, quasi-autobiographical fiction covering the lives of the Bugher people of Sri Lanka. It’s a strange, personalised telling of some complicated, flawed, deeply strange people. I loved it. Will be looking to read the next two in the trilogy.
• Paul Theroux’s ‘Kowloon Tong’: An enjoyable (if questionable and dated in its representations at times) novel about some Brits in Hong Kong at the time of the handover. Good romp.
• Salman Rushdie’s ‘The Satanic Verses’: I said it once, I’ll say it again. Rushdie is the GOAT. I’d not read much of his works before my travels and now I intend to read everything he has every written. Whilst I enjoyed ‘Quichotte’ more, this book is also a total, mystical, romp. And really, really funny in places- I had no expectation that it would be as funny as it was. To paraphrase Sean Connery in ‘Indiana Jones’, I can’t help but feel the Ayatollah would have been better off spending more time reading books rather than burning them.
• Nicholas Buccola’s ‘The Fire Is upon Us’: A biographical history of the works of James Baldwin and William F Buckley Jr. in the run up to, and immediate aftermath, of the famous Cambridge debate between the two. A good overview, it really made me want to read more Baldwin and to get my hands on Sam Tenenhaus’s recent, and thorough, biography of Buckley.
• Marie Belloc Lowndes’ ‘The Chianti Flask’: A 1930s murder mystery (kind of?) novel set in England. I love a murder mystery me, not least of all because of how much those books tell us about the history of the English class system. This one was one of the more unusual of the genre- less an Agatha C whodunnit romp, more an examination of that class system and the consequences of accusation and grief. A really good read.

As you were…

I would say my travels ended as they started: with my dad watching England play cricket. The big differences being a.) the weather; and b.) the fact that England managed to win.

Oh, and there was far less beer throughout the morning for Dad and I (if not for Ben Stokes).