The morning I boarded the old blue train from Kandy, I had no idea I was about to ride through a postcard. Windows wide open, the air grew cooler as the train curved through endless carpets of tea. The hills were dressed in every shade of green, dotted with women in bright saris plucking leaves with quiet rhythm.
Every corner revealed something new. A waterfall spilling down a cliff, mist curling through the valleys, children waving from little stations. I leaned out of the carriage door, hair whipping in the wind, and felt as if time had slowed just for this ride.
By the time we reached Nuwara Eliya, the air smelled of eucalyptus and rain. The town felt like a piece of colonial history dropped in the middle of Sri Lanka’s highlands, complete with rose gardens and cozy tea houses. Sipping a hot cup of fresh Ceylon tea while looking out over the misty plantations was one of those rare travel moments that stays with you forever.
Every corner revealed something new. A waterfall spilling down a cliff, mist curling through the valleys, children waving from little stations. I leaned out of the carriage door, hair whipping in the wind, and felt as if time had slowed just for this ride.
By the time we reached Nuwara Eliya, the air smelled of eucalyptus and rain. The town felt like a piece of colonial history dropped in the middle of Sri Lanka’s highlands, complete with rose gardens and cozy tea houses. Sipping a hot cup of fresh Ceylon tea while looking out over the misty plantations was one of those rare travel moments that stays with you forever.
