Can a second trip somewhere outdo the first? Follow these tips for recapturing the magic
The most content I've ever felt in life was when I lived by a beach for six months in Sri Lanka. After working for seven years in the Middle East, my wife and I decided to take some time off and learn to be parents to our infant son before we submitted to the grind of daily life back home in Melbourne.
Mirissa, the coastal town we settled in, is close to the island's most southerly point. Ordinarily, it would be busy with backpackers who'd stay in cheap lodgings and spend their days lazing about on its coconut palm-shaded beach. But a sharp dip in tourism, caused by a brutal civil war that raged across Sri Lanka's northern and eastern regions until 2009, meant that we were often the only foreigners in town.
We rented an upstairs apartment with five bedrooms, cold showers and a rudimentary kitchen, and shopped at the local markets. Several times a week, we'd stroll down to the beach to order fresh seafood in ridiculously affordable restaurants while gazing out to sea and feeling the sand between our toes.
When friends and family came to visit, we'd traipse off to different parts of the island with them, stopping to hike through tea plantations, amble through ancient ruins or spot leopards and elephants on safari. On one occasion, a friend splashed out on a night at a hotel called Kandalama. Clinging to a hillside among house-sized boulders, it was deliberately shrouded in vegetation to the point where it looked like the jungle was slowly devouring it. I'd never seen a hotel like it.
I learnt that the architect who designed the hotel was Geoffrey Bawa and that he'd designed numerous others around the country, as well as prominent public edifices like the parliament and the residential home of the president, both in Colombo. I also discovered that guests could stay in Bawa's retirement home on a former cinnamon and rubber plantation in Bentota, midway between Colombo and Mirissa.
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Years later, during my most recent Sri Lankan visit, I included a two-night stay at Lunuganga – a Sinhalese word meaning 'salt river'. Bawa purchased the property as a weekender in 1948, then spent 40 years transforming it into a tranquil haven where he would live out his final years (Bawa died in 2003, aged 83).
Ten rooms accommodating 20 guests are spread across a 15-acre (six-hectare) estate wrapped inside the embracing arms of Dedduwa Lake. I'm escorted to a spacious room that once served as a gate house. It contains timber ceiling beams and columns, teak furnishings, a king-sized bed, courtyard plunge pool and concrete floors that are cool underfoot. Other options include Bawa's personal suite, a glasshouse and a gallery that previously housed the architect's art collection.
While my room includes Wi-Fi connectivity, there's no TV. Lunuganga is unapologetically designed as a distraction-free getaway for canoodling couples, so on that point I feel isolated. However, there's no shortage of melodious songbirds to keep me company.
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