……………..by train.

The Ella Odyssey Train. Described as a “luxury train” (and you know how I am attracted to that word – no, not the word “train”, the other one), it offers one of the world’s most scenic train rides, with breathtaking views of lush tea plantations, misty mountains, and villages that we would never see any other way. That along with this photo has me hooked.

Unwilling to travel with the great unwashed, we ask our agent to book us seats in first class. He does some research and tells us there is an observation car and he has booked seats in that for us. Now that sounds exciting.

When we get to the station, we show our tickets to the ticket collector who directs us to a certain position halfway along the platform where the observation car will stop. We stand there with a group of people, who have also splurged on the observation car. One end of the platform is for the first-class carriages, and it is almost empty. The other end is for the second-class section and it is packed with the great unwashed, with all their worldly possessions stuffed into enormous backpacks. We are carrying nothing but water bottles and phones. Preeth has dropped us off at the station and will drive to Kandy with our luggage and meet us there. Now that is the way to travel.

The train is late. Not surprising, despite the sign on the station wall

Another sign hangs next to it

There is a box beneath it, seemingly stuffed full of suggestions. They have probably been there for years.

An announcement over the loudspeaker heralds the arrival of our train. It is 8.55. Exactly on time. We are impressed.

We shouldn’t have been.

Everyone pushes forward to the edge of the platform in anticipation. There is just one person who pays no attention. He is taking a leisurely walk along the middle of the track, carrying an enormous wrench in one hand, and a hammer in the other. It is a little worrying.

Obviously, he knows something we don’t.

We wait another twenty minutes before the train arrives. Not as bad as we feared. One thing is immediately obvious. What they call an observation car is not what we call an observation car. In fact it is identical to the other four first class carriages, with one exception. This car is packed with people who paid the surcharge for the observation car, while the other first class-carriages are completely empty. Sounds like a scam to me.

These Sri Lankans are crafty little devils.

But so are we.

We quickly move to an empty carriage where we can both have window seats. The ticket inspector, a severe looking young man, smartly dressed in a jacket that he has grown out of, asks for our tickets

We show them to him. He tells us we are in the wrong carriage.

We ask if we can stay here.

“But you have paid for the observation car” he says

“We prefer it here” we say.

He looks at us with a knowing smile and allows us to stay where we are as long as we move if anyone gets on and has tickets for our seats. We stop at 10 stations on the way. No one gets on. They all have tickets for the observation car.

As the journey goes on, the ticket inspector drops by and chats with us whenever he gets bored, which seems to be quite often. The severe look has gone, and he is really rather handsome when he smiles. His English his excellent and he has the sense of humour to go with it. He tells us he has relatives in England, and he desperately wants to go there, but getting a visa is impossible for him. He doesn’t say why, and as much as we would like to know, we don’t ask. It’s rather sad.

The journey is about 100 miles. The timetable says it will take 6 hours.

The local train takes ten hours. This train is just for the tourists, and they have the nerve to call it an express train. Even I, with my arithmetically challenged brain, can work out that means an average speed of just over 16 miles an hour. And they can’t even manage that. Our train ends up taking seven hours. Our friendly ticket inspector tells us 7 hours is not unusual in a way that suggests 7 hours is actually quite good.

And just to make sure that we are grateful for this rapid mode of transport, each carriage has an electric sign that reads

It wouldn’t be so bad, if the sign didn’t change regularly to show the current speed that we were traveling.

Not a good idea. But they do it in kilometers per hour because it sounds better than miles per hour. They have a point. Six miles an hour sounds so much slower.

As we approach each station, the sign flashes with the name of the station. The stations change, but the sign never does. It always reads “Ella”. Not quite such crafty little devils as I thought.

Seven hours is a very long time to sit on a train, despite the mesmerizing scenery.

There are endless vistas of tea plantations stretching as far as the eye can see.

We have seen the incredible plantation homes both here and in India. Built by the plantation owners, they are famous for their scale and luxury, and often for their private gardens. As you drive along the country roads huge gates open onto these estates. But there is a whole different world behind these fabulous houses, one that is kept well hidden from passersby in their cars. The view from the train reveals the rest of the story, and it is not surprising that the owners want to keep prying eyes away.

The lives of their workers are very different from the lives of the owners. Their hours are long, and their days are endless, as they carefully pick just the tiniest newest leaves from the top of the low growing plants. It is back breaking work.

In return for their hard labour the plantation owner provides them with housing. It sounds a lot better than it is .

No wonder they are hidden away. Only the occasional train reveals the dismal conditions they live in.

Our train moves on, but their lives do not.

Tea will never taste the same.

We relax in our first-class seats which are a little like the old airline seats that recline just a bit. They are, to put it politely, well used, but comfortable. We are next to a window, but it doesn’t open because the first class carriages are air conditioned.

The second-class carriages are not. There, the hoi polloi can open their windows, and, rather more alarmingly, their doors. It appears to be a well-known Instagram moment, as they all hang out by the open doors. And when I say hang out, I mean exactly that

The inner me that is nice, kind, and thoughtful wants to call to her to be careful, like some boring old fart. But the inner me that is not so nice, and I think you know what I mean, desperately wants the tree we are about to pass to smack her in the face.

It is obviously a competitive sport at which the women excel. We don’t see the men do anything like that. As the journey goes on, the competition heats up, and finally there is a winner

At least if she falls, she will have a soft landing.

Some of the more interesting sights are the stations we pass through. Many are for the towns and villages way up in the mountains with no tourists and little employment. The hard conditions are reflected in their stations, which often look almost derelict

In some of the towns, the station workers have found other ways to make ends meet

But some stations seem quite bustling, the platform lined with people waiting for the local train to arrive. They look wistfully on as our “luxury express” slowly, oh so slowly, passes by

Even the smallest of towns has a train station, built many years ago by the British (as was the entire railway), and kept as smart as possible by the station master, also kept as smart as possible, dressed in full regalia, while he stands patiently, waiting for a train, any train, to actually stop.

He seems to be contemplating the frightening possibility that it might never happen.

And after well over 6 hours, we are beginning to think the same about the end of our journey.

It is a little after 5 pm when we finally arrive in Kandy. Preeth is standing on the platform in the exact spot where the observation car should stop. How thoughtful is that. The only problem is, he is on the wrong platform.

When he finally greets us, it is clear he is not happy. The drive only took four hours, and he has been waiting at the station since 1.30. It appears to be our fault.

He drives us to our hotel, sulking. Unfortunately, he takes a wrong turn and gets a little lost. It does not improve his mood. We can’t wait to get out of the car.

When we do, the view from our hotel room cures all ills

And then there is the pool

Now, that is worth a seven hour train journey.