There are only a few places in the world that take hold of you instantly. To me, Galle was one of them.
I arrived exhausted and heartbroken. I was in a crisis in my career, unsure of my direction, and my writing. In hindsight, my journey there was a search for something simple: a room, some silence, and time to figure it all out.
It’s early morning in Sri Lanka. Sunlight filters through the thin white curtains, brightening my room.
I’m on the second floor of a colonial-style homestay with no other guests but me. My hosts are a middle-aged couple and the woman’s old mother. The family also includes two dogs: Bubble, a sleek black lab, and Hexi, a smaller brown mutt.
I go downstairs to say good morning. Bare feet in damp grass, I gather butterfly pea flowers and limes from the garden.
The driveway is lined with coconut, papaya, and starfruit trees. Passionfruit and pepper vines curl around the beams of a pergola. In the backyard, a small kitchen garden grows garlic, turmeric, ginger, curry leaves, and herbs I cannot name.
My hostess is in the kitchen, preparing ingredients for lunch. The sink is full of dripping leaves, a coconut is cracked in two, and just outside the door are two silvery fish, waiting to be parted and stewed for today’s curry. She hands me two tiny rose heads to add to my tea.
Bringing it upstairs, I open the balcony doors wide and sit down to do my morning journaling under the shade of two tall palms. I listen to the sounds of the area waking up: the neighbours chatting and shouting, scootering off, stray dogs barking, the distant prayer call of a mosque.
We’re in the outskirts of Galle, a coastal town on the southwestern edge of the island. The old Dutch fort still stands as its centre, its thick stone walls protecting the old town from the wear of the ocean.
My hosts have lent me their daughter’s small yellow bicycle. The beach is about a five minute ride away, the old town fifteen, enjoying the wind in my hair and dodging the famously brutal Sri Lankan buses on the main road.
I spent the first half of my day in my room, writing. My breakfast consists of Greek yoghurt, fresh fruits, and a drizzle of treacle, a thick golden syrup specific to Sri Lanka. If I’m lucky, my hostess prepares ‘Kola Kanda’ — a warm green porridge of local herbs, rice, and coconut milk.
She also prepares quite a display of local dishes for lunch, typically a fish- or jackfruit curry, dhal, sambol, pappadam, two to three vegetable dishes, and mounts of white rice.
After lunch, I ride to Old town to sit and work at my favourite café, Kaffi Galle Fort. From the outside it’s unassuming, but inside it opens into a quiet pillared courtyard around an old mango tree where a group of monkeys like to gather and play in the evenings.
Sharing its space with a souvenir-shop selling cashmere goods and ceramics, the café serves a variety of delicious drinks, cookies, and pastries.
What I come for most of all is the silence and sense of tranquility. I spend so much time there that the staff knows my name, my order, and my favourite table.
Kaffi, Galle Fort
The coffee shop closes at five, yet they begin to let me stay a bit longer. It plays beautifully into another Galle ritual of mine: Watching the sunset.
Around 6 PM I head to the walls of the fort to sit and read, and to watch the sun set over the ocean. Every evening is a new display of yellow melting into orange, dripping into the blues of the ocean and the grey of the ancient stone walls.
The ever-changing sky is dotted with silhouettes of kites raised by local children. As the dark descends over the old town, the iconic lighthouse is lit with a soft golden glow.
As the evening falls, the streets of the old town are lit up, and they come alive. Tourists, travellers, locals, merchants, tuktuk-drivers and artists all crowd the streets, lined with boutique souvenir shops, art galleries, cafés, and a wide variety of restaurants serving dishes from all around the globe.
In that sense, Galle is a junction. A point where worlds meet and lines connect.
The live music from a restaurant drifts out into the street, merging with the screech of a peacock picking up crumbs from the cobblestones. A child calls to her mother, asking her to come and see. I wander, slowly, considering where to eat dinner from my inner list of possible options.
Then I bike home, to that room of my own.
