The River House

To crib, somewhat poorly, from Walt Whitman: Sri Lanka is not particularly large, but it contains multitudes. After three weeks in the country, Mr Smith and I had clambered over ancient ruins and scaled vertigo-inducing mountains; sped through the brilliantly green hill country by tuk-tuk, and crossed it at a snail’s pace by train; spent days sunbathing with chilled coconut water in hand, and evenings stalking elephants in the wild. (And somewhere in there, he proposed, and luckily for the remainder of our holiday, I accepted; but that’s a story for another time.)

Which is to say: we’d seen beach Sri Lanka, historic Sri Lanka, mountainous-tea-plantation Sri Lanka. But the River House – shall we call it lush riverside Sri Lanka? – may have been our favourite of all.

The property itself helped, of course; I’m not sure a tent pitched in the nature preserve would’ve had quite the same effect. With five rooms on a sprawling property of frangipani trees and swaying palms, it feels less like a hotel and more like an awfully smart private home. And our room – the second-floor Menik Suite – must have been the smartest of all.

The room itself is elegant enough: a stately four-poster bed, antique carved wooden furniture, and enough space to turn cartwheels, which I certainly felt like doing. (About that bed: this being, well, a river house in the tropics, we’d recommend you request a mosquito net.) Double doors led onto an equally sized balcony – well, outdoor living room – with three seating areas, a dining table, a stocked minibar, and a tiled pool along its entire length. We’ve done balconies, we’ve done private pools; but a private pool on a balcony felt more decadent still.

With his unerring sense of what every occasion calls for, Mr Smith wasted no time in pouring two gin and tonics. (Having opted against malaria medication, we had a strict daily dose of quinine to maintain.) We sipped them from our pool, staring out onto the grounds and the river beyond. ‘I was going to put on some music,’ he mused, ‘but I’d rather just listen to the birds…’ easily half a dozen in continual chirp.

Feeling as if we should properly earn our second round, we took a kayak out onto the river itself for a sunset paddle, an awfully idyllic one; schools of silver fish jumped in high arcs in front of us while white herons glided slowly overhead. But our river trip early the next morning – we’d asked the hotel to arrange us a guide – proved a far superior nature excursion.

Winding up through the Madu Ganga, a legally protected nature reserve, we spotted monkeys and hanging fruit bats; snapped photos of traditional bamboo fish traps and skinny, single-paddled canoes; wove through the mangroves and for a time, glided upriver alongside a lurking crocodile. (‘Keep your arms inside the boat, please.’) We stopped off to see a local cinnamon farmer curling bark by hand, and a local temple where a wisecracking monk chanted while tying string around our wrists, in a ritual blessing our travels.

Our uncharacteristically early morning merited a huge breakfast upon return, perhaps the best we had in Sri Lanka: tangles of rice flour string hoppers and thin disks of flaky onion roti, served with intricately spiced curries and a peppery coconut-chilli sambol. To sip, king coconuts – still intact, their tops neatly lopped off with a straw to drink the water.

It’s easy to lose hours on the grounds at the River House, whether lounging on your own balcony or at their attractive, secluded pool. But nearing the end of our Sri Lanka trip, we wanted one last beach afternoon. Easily arranged: the hotel’s tuk-tuk shuttled us the 10 quick minutes to its beachfront sister resort. We took in a few hours of afternoon sun, breaking occasionally for a dive into the cool waves; at cocktail hour, a cinnamon-ginger-lemongrass iced tea so impressive that Mr Smith, a mixologist by trade, vowed to replicate it at home. 

With only a night remaining, we were reluctant to leave our balcony, though the open-air restaurant was perfectly pleasant. So our favourite waiter-butler, Lakmal, suggested we take a walk while he arranged dinner en suite. We passed the time sitting in the motorboat docked down at the waterfront, where just at sunset, fruit bats woke from their daytime slumber – the sort of bats with a half-metre wingspan, the sort actually shaped like bats. We watched as one, then 10, then hundreds, swooped across the lake. It’s an unmissable sight, thought I’d recommend the skittish (of which I am one) watch with a drink in hand.

Lakmal had a can’t-keep-this-secret-any-longer smile as he led us back to our room and threw open the doors to the balcony with pride. Fully merited pride. Candles and tea lights illuminated the space in a soft glow. Flower petals were not only strewn about the perimeter, but arranged into true flower art – patterns and spirals of tiny blossoms winding around the table and across the pool. It was a setting worthy of a proposal, or a Bachelor TV-show finale… or a breathlessly happy, newly engaged couple who squealed with delight (me) and clapped Lakmal on the shoulder (Mr Smith).

As the doors closed behind us, we did the only thing one does in that situation: cue up Van Morrison on the iPhone, put down the G&Ts, and dance a few songs in the flickering candlelight. I vaguely remember dinner, a classically Sri Lankan array of six excellent curries, and I’m sure there was more Tanqueray. But it’s hard to recall anything other than the glowing candles on our stunning balcony, the late-night swim that ensued, and a night that was beyond idyllic.