Into the Hill Country: Tea Trails and the Quiet Roads to Kandy
Hiking through Sri Lanka’s highlands in search of solitude, stories, and the soul of slow travel
The train to Kandy chugged into motion just as the morning mist began lifting from the tracks. I’d grown used to the unhurried rhythm of Sri Lankan railways by then—the lurch of old carriages, the low whistle echoing through the trees, the kind of movement that leaves time for thinking, noticing, being. This leg of the journey felt different, though. The air got cooler with each mile, the landscape greener and wilder, and somewhere along the way, I felt the shift from observer to participant. The island was starting to seep in.
The train wound its way through the hills like a thread through green silk. I leaned out of the window, letting the breeze push against my face as we passed waterfalls tumbling out of nowhere, tea pickers hunched in the fields like brushstrokes on a canvas, and tiny villages where life moved to its tune. Somewhere near Hatton, an older man beside me tapped my arm and pointed to a distant peak. “Adam’s Peak,” he said with a smile, then turned back to his paper. Just that. No explanation needed.
Kandy itself was a vibrant contrast to the quiet that had come before. Tucked between mountains and wrapped around a lake, it buzzed with life—temples ringing with prayer, streets weaving with tuk-tuks, and markets spilling with spices and fruit. I visited the Temple of the Tooth, where the air was thick with incense and reverence. But I didn’t stay long. The hills were calling.
I packed a small bag and left the city behind, heading further into the highlands. I wanted to walk—really walk—through the landscapes that had always felt more like stories than real places. The kind of places where the silence has texture. I hiked through narrow red-dirt paths between rows of tea bushes, their tidy green curves rippling down the hillsides. Women in bright saris moved through the fields like dancers, their hands quick, their expressions unreadable.
One morning, in a village that didn’t appear on any map, I was invited into a family’s home for tea. They spoke no English, and I spoke no Sinhala or Tamil, but we communicated in the language of warmth and welcome. They brewed the tea strong and sweet, served in chipped white mugs, and we sat on the porch as the mist rolled in again. I remember the quiet more than the words. The smell of earth. The simple act of being there, of being trusted with a moment of their lives.
That’s the thing about these places—you go looking for stories, and you come back with silences, with feelings you can’t quite name. I came for the scenery, for the legendary train ride, for the tea fields I’d seen in books. But what stayed with me was the pace, the stillness, the invitation to slow down enough to actually feel something.
As a traveller, this part of the journey taught me that remoteness doesn’t always mean isolation. Sometimes the further you go from the cities and signs, the closer you get to connection. And as a writer, it reminded me that the smallest details—steam rising from a cup, laughter in a language you don’t understand, footsteps on a dirt road—often carry the most weight.
Sri Lanka’s hill country didn’t just shift my pace. It shifted my perspective. It showed me that beauty isn’t always dramatic, that meaning isn’t always loud, and that walking—truly walking—through a place is sometimes the best way to listen to it. In this series of journeys that have shaped me, the hills around Kandy carved out a quiet space in my memory. One I return to when I need to remember why I travel at all.