Uga Chena Huts

A safari beach holiday is just that: a holiday, by the beach, on safari. So expect to share your sunlounger with elephants, leopards and giant lizards and forget the idea of any alone time with Mr Smith, or that intriguing book you picked up at the airport. This is not the Caribbean coast – you will be cautiously surveyed by gamekeepers in raised sentry towers and, unless you have the upper body strength of Michael Phelps, you probably won’t be getting your trunks wet in the Sri Lankan riptides. But, we’re not staying in these grass-roofed, air-conditioned huts for any old beach break.

Sam, our safari guide, is dressed like Mick Dundee’s sidekick ‘Wal’ for authenticity. He escorts us along the raised walkways to our hut; each hideaway is sheltered by dense mangroves, which are tall enough that you can’t see over them and thick enough to disguise who (or what) might be watching you through them. We’re instructed to walk in the middle of the path and request an escort between 6pm and 8am. There’s even a bell at the door, which we have to ring to let reception know we’ve arrived safely.

Despite the hut’s impressive interior (super king-size bed, low-slung ceiling fans and floor-to-ceiling patio doors), our attentions are immediately drawn to the private plunge pool, which is presently inhabited by no fewer than a dozen black-faced monkeys. We briefly admire the trimmings inside and head out for a timely reminder that we are the visitors, not them, with a cheeky warning of leaves and fruit tossed loosely in our direction. We’re left in no doubt that if they wanted to shoot to harm, they could and would, with questions asked later.  

As we leave our new jungle dwelling to eat at the ‘all-inclusive’ dining hut, another gang of cackling, hairy ne’er-do-wells mockingly play on the raised pathway and in the leafy canopy. We wisely choose to treat them with the same respect as any congregating teenage hoodies – showing no fear, we walk with an unwavering gait straight past them, ignoring their disapproving chatter and chuckles. After a slap-up Sri Lankan meal and a round of cocktails, sharing stories of ‘whoas’ and ‘wows’ with other guests and their safari successes, we return to the hut to find two neat piles of monkey dung on our doormat. Lest we forget our place, this is their turf and they will have the last laugh.

The huts themselves come equipped with every mod-con one could imagine. The contrast between the rustic, mud-and-grass exterior and the luxurious interior is a pleasing evocation of modern jungle life. Natural materials and contemporary features harmoniously blend, and there’s a large, double-ended bath tub in the bedroom, his and hers sinks, a fully stocked minibar and a James Bond-style lighting-control panel.  A round, rattan day-bed is a nest of cushions, placed in front of a suitably large TV, which we have no temptation to engage with as the real life Jungle Book plays live outside on our patio.

Having set the alarm for a 4am start, we pile, bleary-eyed, into the open-sided truck for our morning safari; with two drives included in our stay we hope to see as much of the native wildlife as possible. We’re rattled down near-undriveable tracks to join dozens of trucks at the entrance to the Yala National Park. We’re apprehensive about our chances of seeing anything amid this cloud of like-minded leopard-seekers, but our driver knows what he’s doing, switching tracks and cutting corners until we’re free of the masses. Soon, mongooses, buffalo and crocs make themselves known to us. Our driver even scopes out a safe place for a comedically rushed bathroom break behind some bushes, staying close by to ward off unwanted attention from the locals.  An impromptu breakfast of tea and cakes out of the truck’s boot follows.  

Back on the trail, with all the clarity and colour of a childhood memory, this little adventure is quickly reminiscent of me trying on my Grandad’s reading glasses – everything is much larger, closer, and a little more dreamy than imagined. The bugs and butterflies are easily four times the size of anything a British summer could throw at us, the lizards at least as long as I am tall, and – the highlight, bigger and more beautiful than featured in any Attenborough documentary – the parade of majestic elephants right in front of us. To our delight, the lead male sidles up to our four-wheel drive, giving the nearside front tyre a test kick with his trunk. Like a true second-hand-car salesman, he nods knowingly at the driver and continues on his merry way, with wifey in tow. There’s clearly more than enough room for two Mr and Mrs Smiths here on the plains.

After a bumpy, dusty return to base camp, we swap another early-morning safari for a dip in the serene communal pool before trying the spa’s unconventional treatments. As a regular traveller, Mr Smith is happy to have his biorhythms realigned, while I choose a Sun-Seeker Body Wrap.  Then, we relax (further) with a mojito at the swanky sunken bar, sharing anecdotes from the day’s expedition and reflecting on the sunbathing crocodiles, feasting eagles, stealthy leopards and – of course – the awe-inspiring elephants. Clearly well-versed in the daily ‘show time’, all had performed brilliantly to Uga Chena Huts’ stage direction – good job guys, BAFTAs all round!