Sri Lanka

Magnet for dogs

I fly into Negombo, a medium-sized city practically attached to the capital Colombo. Normally, a capital would be an obvious stop when visiting a new country, but if time is limited, Colombo is easily skipped. The motorcycle rental company working with travel operator Motor Trails is also based in Negombo, making it a convenient starting point.

The owner's briefing is short. There isn't much to explain about a Royal Enfield Classic 350. Before long, I'm sitting on this timeless machine and heading north towards Kalpitiya, a vast lagoon popular with watersports enthusiasts. It is so large that from the strip of sand between the sea and lagoon, you can watch both the sunrise and sunset.

The road there isn't particularly spectacular and sometimes feels downright uncomfortable. At every stop, locals approach me asking for money or a photograph. Still, after two weeks in Sri Lanka, I know the real adventure is only just beginning.

The warm morning sun glitters across the perfectly still lagoon as I walk towards my Enfield. Apparently, the motorcycle has a magical attraction for stray dogs. Four of them are lying peacefully around it as if guarding their new possession. I thank them with a pat on the head. Their tails wag happily until I start the engine. The exhaust silencer is missing, and the resulting popping and banging scares the animals senseless. Clearly unused to this noise, they let me know exactly what they think of it with some very aggressive barking. Time to leave. Next stop: Sigiriya.

Watch out for elephants

The sea soon disappears behind me and I find myself riding along narrow dykes through vast rice fields. The tranquillity and natural beauty are remarkable. On one side are lakes covered in flowering lilies; on the other, rice paddies stretching as far as the eye can see.

I ride through this landscape for hours until the first elephant warning signs appear. The huge electrified fences surrounding the villages make it clear that these warnings are not merely decorative. Elephants are among my favourite animals, but I suspect that encountering one unexpectedly is rather less charming when you're sitting on a motorcycle that sounds like a machine gun. Fortunately, elephants are mainly active at night, so the chances of meeting one on the road remain relatively small.

Sigiriya, meanwhile, is impossible to miss. The famous Lion Rock rises dramatically from the jungle, with the remains of an ancient palace at its summit. The first sight of it feels almost unreal. You can climb the rock itself or admire it from the nearby Pidurangala Rock, which offers an impressive view across to Sigiriya. There is one downside: everyone else knows this too. The place is a major tourist attraction, so solitude isn't really part of the package. After the climb, I collapse into a cosy restaurant with a front-row view of the iconic rock. Dinner has rarely been more deserved.

Tetris in the mountains

The following morning, the rising sun turns the still water of the rice fields into a shimmering mirror as the countryside slowly wakes up. Mobile bakeries mounted on tuk-tuks already make their rounds, waking people with the sound of Beethoven's Für Elise.

I'd love to stop for a photograph behind every corner, but the mountains are calling. More specifically, the Knuckles Mountains. The roads quickly become twistier and, surprisingly, almost Austrian in quality. Who would have thought? With its modest horsepower, the Enfield needs every last bit of throttle to make it uphill. I'm having an absolute blast, yet another reminder that you don't need an expensive motorcycle to have fun. In fact, a BMW GS or something similar would probably be overkill on these roads.

The higher I climb, the more spectacular the scenery becomes. Huge reservoirs appear between the bends, with mountain ranges rising behind them. The road gets rougher, the traffic heavier and the views better. Every time I think I've reached the top, another corner takes me even higher into the clouds. Until suddenly everything stops. There is no parking at the mountain pass, so everyone has simply abandoned their vehicles along the narrow road. With traffic trying to move in both directions, the whole place becomes a giant game of Tetris and even on a motorcycle, I'm completely stuck.

After more than fifteen minutes of shouting, waving and general chaos, someone finally manages to get things moving. The moment I spot a gap, I take it and squeeze through. For once, I don't care about being polite. I just need to get out. By now it's well past lunchtime and hunger is turning me increasingly grumpy. Unfortunately, lunch in Sri Lanka isn't quite like stopping at a restaurant in Italy or France. The alternative is a roadside food stall, where every bite comes with a certain element of risk. I stop at a stall run by an elderly couple. Calling it a stall is perhaps generous, it looks more like someone's house with a makeshift kitchen attached. I try not to inspect the corrugated-metal cooking area too closely. You have to eat, after all. And surprisingly, it tastes great. Small flash-forward: no unpleasant side effects. After a beautiful descent through pine forests that could almost be mistaken for the Belgian Ardennes, I reach Kandy. The mountain city was Sri Lanka's last royal capital before the British took control in 1815. The cool mountain air soon gives way to a suffocating cloud of exhaust fumes. A face mask wouldn't be a bad idea here. The chaos is overwhelming, but luckily my hotel is just outside the centre, hidden among the greenery.

A masterpiece of asphalt

The next morning, I have to cross Kandy again. Traffic is a disaster, and without a healthy dose of assertiveness you can easily disappear into the chaos. And yet, I'm secretly enjoying it. Because something special is waiting ahead: 18 Bend's Road. As the name suggests, this spectacular stretch of asphalt features eighteen hairpin bends. When I reach the viewpoint, I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. I knew I would be riding through rice fields and tea plantations, but I hadn't expected to find a mountain pass that could make some Alpine roads look rather ordinary.

The road appears freshly paved and is remarkably quiet. With a wide grin on my face, I throw the Enfield from one corner to the next, counting the hairpins until number eighteen finally appears. The weather is changing by now. Mist fills the valley a sure sign that I'm approaching Sri Lanka's famous tea country.

Tea was introduced to the island from China by the British during the second half of the nineteenth century. Today, Ceylon tea is one of Sri Lanka's most important exports. The humid, mountainous interior provides ideal conditions for growing it, but the plantations offer more than just a valuable crop.