Uga Jungle Beach

I’m lying diagonally on the massive, king-sized bed in our cabin at Uga Jungle Beach, watching the finely carved, dark wood blades of the ceiling fan go whoosh, whoosh, whoosh above me. I’m contemplating whether to turn on the air conditioning or to increase the speed of the fan; the problem, you see, is that both require me standing up and walking over to the wall. I foolishly forgot to grab the AC remote control before flopping down on the bed, and now, having worked up a sweat sunning poolside and trudging back to the room to get my book and sunscreen, I’m so hot and sweaty that my limbs feel as heavy as a hippo’s. 

Welcome to Uga Jungle Beach, on the northeast coast of Sri Lanka. With its pristine beach, treehouse-style reception and restaurant, and private cabins dotted along winding paths, it’s a luxe hideaway with a remote feel. At mealtimes, we can see that the resort actually attracts families of all ages and sizes. Mr Smith and I are what some of my friends in North America call DINKs (Double Income, No Kids, geddit?), but if we did have children, Uga Jungle Beach is exactly the type of place we’d like to imagine we’d holiday: it’s family-friendly, and most people stay on an all-inclusive basis, but there’s nothing naff or ‘package holiday’ about it. 

For starters, privacy and space come easy. It appears to be the only resort in the area for miles – a far cry from the southern beaches of Weligama, where surfers (and surfer wannabes) head in droves. One evening, in fact, curious to see if the nearby towns are also quiet, we drive for half an hour to Nilaveli and Uppuveli, the nearest villages. Both are tiny, but a handful of hotels, restaurants and guest houses line the beach, their owners beckoning you to come in for a drink or a rice and curry. At our resort, by contrast, the entire beach seems hardly frequented and it’s easy to spend a day in complete seclusion on banks of deep, yellow sand. Even hotel guests seem to stay away – partly because the strong current means it can be dangerous to swim in the sea, partly because the poolside area has a buzzier vibe – but it’s lovely for those who do explore.

The service standards at the resort are excellent, too, and apparently, the hotel makes a conscious effort to employ local Tamil trainees whose families were affected by the civil war. One evening, for dinner, I order a traditional Sri Lankan curry, which comes with so many accompaniments that its bespoke serving platter spans the length of the table – yet our waiter still painstakingly describes each dish in detail. There’s a clear eagerness to please from all staff; bless the young lady who misunderstood my request to turn off the fan’s swivel mode and turned it on full blast instead. 

But back to my current dilemma. Mr Smith and I had just returned to Uga Jungle Beach after yet another lengthy drive. Road travel in Sri Lanka is convenient and finding a driver who’s keen is easy, but it’s never quick and the bumpy, winding roads don’t make for a particularly relaxing journey. Earlier, we’d bickered over where to stop for lunch before settling on a place that promised fresh prawns; I then found the chef ferociously beating a frozen bag of something on my way to the loo – but we were too hangry by then to find somewhere else to eat. By the time we arrived back at Jungle Beach and changed into our swimsuits, it was clear that some alone time – me by the pool, Mr Smith by the beach – was probably best for now. 

But the heat! They say the east doesn’t get quite as lovely weather as the south during the winter months, but my sweaty brow would beg to differ. I lie there, considering my options – and then realize that I’ve got my phone next to me on the bed. Forget fighting: Mr Smith can come and save me! I grab my phone, my sticky fingers leaving streaky prints on the screen. ‘Ok, I’m not mad anymore,’ I text. ‘Come back to the room now? And bring me an ice cream?’

Ten minutes later, I hear the key card in the door and Mr Smith enters the room. ‘Wait,’ I call out before he turns the corner. ‘Turn the air con on!’ 

To my relief, I hear the distinctive beep of the machine, and then a stream of cool air hits my face. As my body temperature returns to normal and I gradually come back to life, Mr Smith regales me with his adventures on the beach: how there’s no one around for miles; how there are occasional mysterious patches of black sand (apparently mineral deposits, we learn later); how the resort offers secluded candlelit dinners for two on the beach, and can even build you your very own fire pit. Maybe we should do that tonight, I suggest, my peace offering for our fiery afternoon and show of gratitude for saving me from melting. It’s a deal, says Mr Smith