now that the light is fading
When I hear the opening bars of 'Color Song'—the cicadas creaking in the background—I find myself looking out over the thick green canopy of Sri Lanka’s Southern Province, enveloped by the sounds of the jungle and Maggie Rogers’ first EP that played on repeat during my first trip here.
You always remember your first. It’s been eight years, and that trip marked the beginning of a greater adventure. Did I know that I’d end up living here less than a year later? Did I realise that the crumbly surf at Dewata would pave the way for endless sessions at Sticks and Lazy Lefts? Could I have predicted that the friends I spent my first trip with would be the people I’d end up living with in an old hotel with two dogs called Mama and Captain Frank?
It’s strange to categorise my time there. First, a two-week trip in 2017 when Hennie and Chris introduced me to its beauty. I’m struggling to remember if they had already bought the old house next to where we were staying. It all blurs into one. I do remember the coconut pancakes at Hangtime in Weligama and Lahiru’s cooking lesson where we learned the secret to a perfect coconut sambol: a crumbled stock cube of Maggi and a big pinch of MSG. I remember lunch at Mr Gamini’s, a local diving guide and self-confessed professional snorkeller, who Hennie and Chris befriended years earlier. I remember paddling out to Fisherman’s Reef for a special sunrise surf. I remember the chaos of the Matara Road and that it took us straight to Hiriketiya, where I surfed a point break and turned left for the first time.
Fast forward six months, and I find myself cycling to work (we came to call it The Railway House), often chased by beautiful stray pups and, on one alarming occasion, a monitor lizard. Mornings looked like moving on the mat, biking to Soul & Surf —the hotel I worked for—and eating a breakfast of daal, roti, eggs and sambol. There would be big smiles and conversations with Gayan, whose wife made the best daal in Ahangama; she would package it up in a little plastic bag, and Gayan would deliver it by hand in a tuktuk. When I didn’t eat breakfast there, I would walk across the Matara Road and turn right toward Mr Sunil’s, back then a little-known shack where the eponymous owner served up the best breakfast sandwiches: roti, fried egg, noodles and a heavenly spiced chutney that I still think about. Now, Mr Sunil’s is known by locals and visitors, but I’ll always remember sitting alone in front of the water, sipping a tambali coconut and nibbling on a piping hot wada.
The Railway House was loud, on account of the railway it was situated practically on top of. The kitchen was dark, and I don’t remember cooking much. I wasn’t doing too great mentally, even though I knew I was so lucky to exist in this paradise. The strangeness and guilt of being a foreigner living here was taking over. I ended up moving into the hotel-turned-house we had stayed in months before, with the same people who had bought the plot of land next door. If living in Sri Lanka teaches you anything, it’s that you need to take root in family.
Days were spent surfing, mostly at Sticks, a break that humbled me regularly. The tops of my feet were scarred by the reef; there was one session where I was churned under relentless waves, losing my board in the process. It was saved by a group of fishermen whose wooden fishing posts gave the surf break its name.
I began to see these scars as heroic battle wounds. I found myself surfing there twice a day, learning from Mel, whom I had lived with at The Railway House, finding power in these unpredictable wedges of water. We’d spend our evenings drinking Lion beers at Sion or dancing at Cheeky Monkey in Midigama. And when we were feeling particularly flush, we’d put on our best clothes and climb up to the rooftop of Ceylon Sliders in Weligama. Brunches here were also a treat—French Press coffee and big bowls of granola with fresh fruit. There was another trip to Hiriketiya to stay at Jasper House, where we listened to the rain and ate at Dot’s and floated in the ocean.
Eventually I made my way back to India. I lasted a few months in Sri Lanka, but the pull of Varkala’s magic was too strong. It would be two years until I returned.
It was the beginning of 2020; the threat of a global pandemic loomed. I went for 10 days, but 10 days is enough there. There were sunrise surf sessions at Lazy Lefts. Cocktails at The Lighthouse. Bumping into old friends eating breakfast at The Kip. More coconut pancakes at Hangtime and fancy sunset drinks at Cape Weligama. A diving excursion with good old Mr Gamini. So many sandwiches at Mr Sunil’s. Yoga classes at Sri Yoga Shala, where I’d linger just to swim in their salt water pool. Pizza and an opportunity to dance by the ocean at The Doctor’s House in Madiha.
We stayed at the house my friends were building two years earlier. Kara is a magical guest house with four rooms that flow out to a massive jungle garden. When I arrived around 10 pm, Duratna, a permanent fixture during my time there, stood guard outside. The headlights illuminated him, his bouncy, protruding belly robed in a beautiful lunghi. I stepped out of the car, and he lit up with a smile. “Cat!” he called out, giving me the biggest hug. Beyond the beauty of Sri Lanka—the perfect surf, the deep green jungle, the dreamy lookouts—this is the magic of this island.
Cat Sarsfield
Not everyone is a reader, but when Cat puts pen to paper, just about everyone becomes one. A Londoner, certainly, but this storyteller has actually laid roots in many places across the globe. From Cornwall to Bali, she's seen it all. While her bread and butter is crafting concise copy, what's dearest to her may well be, well, bread and butter. Or rice. Or roast chicken. Come to Cat for perfect pubs, great restos for a solo dinner and the dreamiest surf spots.
