The rain turns to a storm. By 3am the storm turns to a huge thunderstorm. Our hotel is on the top of the mountain and way too close to the clouds. The thunder actually rocks our hotel room, the lights flash on and off, the sound of the rain is deafening, and sleep is no longer possible. This is unlike anything we have ever experienced. We lie in the dark wondering if we will survive the next clap of thunder.

The morning is a long time coming. When we open the blinds the skies are still heavy, but the storm has passed

At breakfast, the storm is the only topic of conversation. Even the staff say they have never experienced anything like it. Later we are discussing it with the Hotel manager. We tell him we came in January because it was supposed to be the best time to visit. He tells us that sunshine was always guaranteed in January until last year, when they had a lot of rain. And this year it is even worse!

But Mr. Trump assures us there is no such thing as climate change.

The country is beautiful up in the mountains. We are surrounded by tea plantations and incredible vistas. There is nothing to do except soak in the atmosphere and hike. It is obvious that most people are here to hike. I am not. I was not made for hiking.

We are just outside the town of Ella. Preeth told us on the journey up the mountain that Ella was a town for tourists. It was his polite way of telling us to be prepared. But we weren’t.

My mother always told me that if I had nothing nice to say, say nothing. Unfortunately, my mother ignored her own advice, and dear readers, as you are well aware by now, so did I. Ella is a nightmare. It is heaving with tourists, all of them well under 30, with rucksacks on their backs, sandals on their feet, and almost nothing in their wallets. My mother would describe them as the great unwashed. Main street is not big enough to contain them. They fight for space on the sidewalks, and seep over onto the road where they fight for space with seemingly hundreds of tuk-tuks. Taking a leisurely stroll is impossible.

It is basically one long street lined with ugly buildings, cheaply made, and apparently thrown up overnight, with the sole purpose of providing a store front for businesses desperate to attract the tourist dollar. Built without the aid or hinderance of any planning commission, there is only one type of tourist Ella would attract, and they are there by the bus load. But attracting them to spend money is a problem – they have none! Consequently, the few shops that are there have nothing but the cheapest and most unattractive crap, crammed in around a large cooler filled with beer. There are endless bars, none of them appealing, with large signs advertising they have wifi. Consequently, every chair and every table is taken by groups of 20 year olds all on their phones or computers, nursing one beer between them, that they bought an hour ago.

The restaurants are cheap and not always cheerful. But however cheap they are, it is not cheap enough. A table for four will have 6 or 7 people squeezed in around it. They will be sharing any food they can afford, and they will sit at the table playing cards for hours.

There is a wonderful question asked by a young woman on Trip Advisor. She is going to be in Ella for 3 days and would welcome any recommendations of what she would do while there. A reasonable question, but then she says that she has very little money so she would appreciate only hearing suggestions of things that are free. That’s Ella for you!

It is the hippies of the 60’s all over again. We are at least 50 years older than anyone else.

Being completely unaware of Ella’s reputation, I thought it would be a good idea to research the restaurants and book one for each night we were there. There was very little information on line, very few photos and no websites. That should have told me something. I found the #1 restaurant on Trip Advisor on Whats App and booked it for the first night.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but this definitely wasn’t it. The wall facing the street was basically a row of bamboo blinds hanging down from the roof, which was a mix of bamboo, palm fronds and corrugated iron. Inside the floor was a hodge podge of wooden planks that looked as if they had been “rescued” from derelict homes.

An interesting look but not quite my thing

There was only a handful of tables. Well not really tables, more like large square pieces of old wooden board resting on an assortment of supports that stood no more than 20 inches off the ground. The hippie look would have been completed if there were huge pillows to sit on covered in Indian fabric. But instead, there were homemade wooden stools just 10″ tall.

I would have preferred the cushions, or God forbid, bean bags.

All the tables were full of people who looked perfectly at home there. We did not. But one table stood empty with a piece of paper torn out of a note pad taped to it. On it, written with a marker pen was the word “RERSEVED”. The owner, a delightful chap with a ponytail and John Lennon glasses, greeted us with more enthusiasm than we could possibly expect. He was so happy because we were the first reservation he had ever had.

Getting down on those stools was a challenge, getting comfortable on them was a far bigger challenge. But nothing prepared us for getting up after dinner and a bottle of wine. Either a crane or an ambulance would have to be called.

The food involved copious amounts of rice and was delicious. And of course incredibly cheap. Plus there was live entertainment. Which for us was not a good thing. Everyone else seemed to love it. It was provided by a long-haired, middle-aged man with a machine that played backing tracks, a guitar perfectly in tune, a voice badly out of tune, and most unfortunately, a microphone. He happily engaged everyone in conversation between each song but noticeably avoided any attempt at talking to us.

He knew how to read an audience.

The toilet was outside and round the back of the building. I made my way along the path only to be chased by a young man wanting me to wait while he checked to see if it was working. “Sometimes there is no water ” he explained. But there was.

Back on the 10″ stool, the “entertainer” was proudly telling us all that he had a song book of 80 songs from the 60’s to the present day, and he could play all of them by memory, without the music (it might have helped to have had it). He had the list of songs on his phone which he passed from table to table asking everyone their name and the tune they would like to hear. The rest of the room joined in with enthusiasm. Somehow, he never passed the phone to us.

Halfway through his performance, he suddenly noticed the glasses I had round my neck and told everyone to look at them. He had never seen anything like them. Suddenly I was center stage. Oh dear, my favourite place to be! Next thing I knew I was the singer’s best friend and had to choose a song.

Time to go!

The following evening, we have another restaurant to go to. Again, we had booked it using WhatsApp.

It has a certain curb appeal

The steps up to it are steep. They are made of metal with bamboo handrails, and they creak and wobble as we go up. We climb up to a tiny room crammed with tiny tables and a bar. The ceiling is bamboo, the front is open but the other three walls are just sheets of clear plastic hanging from a rope. But it has real tables, and real chairs, albeit of the plastic variety.

It has a certain charm

The owner greets us. He too has a certain charm. He has dark hair piled high on his head and hanging down in curls. He is wearing a T shirt that says, “peace and love and sex”. That just about covers everything! I want one. His shorts are huge and baggy with elastic hems that grip tightly, just below the knee. They look like giant diapers. I don’t want one! But we soon realise they are quite the thing in Ella. He has a smile that would light up any room and a personality that goes with it. He seems to take a shine to us, but I suspect he is like that with everyone.

There are just nine tables and one of them we are happy to see is empty. We tell him we have a reservation and he looks totally blank. I told him we called a few days ago. It doesn’t help. But we can have the empty table, so it really doesn’t matter.

The whole place has a wonderful feel to it ( having been in Ella for a couple of days, I would use the word “vibe” but then you would think someone else was writing this). We are made very welcome and don’t feel like the grandparents sitting in the corner of the room, although we certainly look like them. The food is Indian with a twist. We can’t quite work out what the twist is, but it comes piled high on the plate with a fried egg on top. It is so good. That and two enormous beers each, costs us just over $20. I could live like this. OK, I am getting carried away, there is no way I could live like this, but I certainly am enjoying it.

This time the toilet is downstairs and round the back. It lacks the charm of the restaurant.

In fact it has no charm at all.

The stairs are worrying me. They really do creek when I step on them. But we tell the owner we will be back the next day, in the hope he will keep us a table.

He doesn’t

The next day we arrive to chaos. Two of the steps on the stairs are broken and have fallen off. There is a weathered looking old man in grimy overalls wielding a welding torch trying desperately to repair them. Sparks are flying everywhere. The restaurant does not see this as any sort of hindrance and is open for business as usual. We look up and the place is packed. So, taking our lives in our hands we start the climb up, taking a giant leap over the two broken stairs while being careful to avoid the sparks from the torch. This is not what I am used to.

The owner remembers us, a good sign, but hasn’t got a table for us, a bad sign. Today his T shirt says “Believe in yourself. Someone has to”. I might want this one too. He invites us to wait, gesturing to a small rather grungy sofa, which is already overflowing with four people waiting. We stand.

The whole place smells of burning solder. The owner lights josh sticks (remember those) to cover up the smell. It doesn’t help! Now the place smells like josh sticks and burning solder. Then the lights all go out. There is a huge cheer from the diners. A few minutes later they come back on, this time to applause. And then the wind gets up and the rains come down. The plastic sheeting buffeted by the wind, offers little shelter. The lights go off several times but always come back on. The entire experience brings a sense of comradery to the place. The guests are laughing, the waiters are laughing with them. The food doesn’t arrive.

An hour later the grimy old man comes up the stairs and gives us all a thumbs up. A huge cheer goes up followed by applause and laughter.

Its the best of times and the worst of times.

And an evening to remember.