Third time’s the charm.

That’s what I kept reminding myself as we wound our way up to Riverston in Illukkumbura, the road curling through valleys that, for once, seemed in no rush to slip behind clouds. Two nights and three days here lay ahead, and I had unfinished business — to climb Manigala at last under a clear, open sky.I’d climbed it twice before, but each time, the skies were moody, the ground slick, and the infamous leeches just a little too eager for company. This time, the sun was on my side. The ground was dry, the air clear, and the only thing clinging to my legs was a healthy dose of determination.

We set off by 7 a.m. from the Attanwala village with our two guides, Agara maama, a highly recommended local whose knowledge of every rock, plant, and story along the trail felt like it had been passed down for generations, and Sudath, from the tourism sector, equally steeped in the land’s lore and deeply committed to safeguarding the trails and tracks that wind through this verdant landscape.

The climb to Manigala’s summit is not punishing, about an hour and a half if you take it easy,  but it is rocky, each step part hike, part puzzle. At 1104 metres above sea level, the mountain rises like a green wall above the Knuckles Range, its long spine cutting a striking silhouette against the sky.

Manigala is more than just a viewpoint, it’s a mountain stitched together with folklore. One story says the mighty Ravana landed here in his mythical flying machine, the Dandu Monara. The summit plateau, broad and flat, is still called Ravanathenna, “Ravana’s landing place”, by some locals. Another tale is more grounded: Tamil labourers once noticed that the rock’s shadow shifted predictably through the day, turning it into a natural clock. Mani means “time,” and over the years, the mountain became Manigala, the time-telling rock. Whether you believe in kings of legend or in the practical genius of watchful workers, it’s hard to deny that the mountain carries both myth and memory in its stones.

Some say it holds a quiet energy, the kind that calms your thoughts and deepens your breath. I could feel it as we reached the top – a broad sweep of grass, the Knuckles Range unfolding in every direction, and a wind so clean it seemed to strip the dust right off your mind.

The descent was quicker, though no less scenic, and halfway down our guides surprised us with a spread of local sweetmeats and fresh fruit, the kind of simple, unexpected treat that tastes even better when you’ve earned it on a trail. By the time we reached the village, the afternoon sun was filtering through the trees, scattering dappled patterns across the path like a quiet welcome home.

Then came the best part — an ice-cold river bath that sent a jolt through every nerve. The water was so clear I could count the pebbles winking beneath my toes. I hadn’t planned for this, so I started cautiously, just dipping my feet in. But one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I’d taken the plunge. The first shock stole my breath, yet within moments that biting chill softened into a slow, delicious warmth as my body adjusted and my muscles loosened. I let the current hum gently past, lingering in the rare quiet, wrapped in the pure tranquility of the moment.

But peace here is seasonal. On long weekends, Riverston has a way of drawing in convoys of day-trippers armed with boomboxes, portable BBQs, and enough snack wrappers to pave the road they block with their haphazard parking. The mountains echo not with birdsong but with bass drops, and the trails wear the careless signature of those who mistake a nature escape for an open-air nightclub. Unfortunately, we weren’t spared — the long weekend had lured its usual crowd, spilling noise and litter into some of Sri Lanka’s most beautiful surroundings. 

Another thing that makes Riverston special is its sunrises. Up here, every sunrise feels hand-painted — soft gold spilling over the ridges, mist lifting like the land is slowly waking to greet you. And each one is worth waking up early to.

Yet, Riverston had shown me many faces before, but this was the first time she’d welcomed me without mist or rain — just the raw, unfiltered beauty of a mountain in the clear. And I knew, leeches or not, I’d be back again.

TRIVIA

The area known as Riverston, nestled within Sri Lanka’s Knuckles Mountain Range, also goes by its village name, Illukkumbura. Riverston’s name is thought to have sprung from its dramatic rocky outcrops and the river that snakes through the landscape, “river and stone” — a fitting tribute to its rugged beauty, as noted by the Central Province Tourism Department. Illukkumbura, meanwhile, refers specifically to the village and its surrounding valley in the Matale District. Beyond its postcard charm, Riverston is a peak famed for its hiking trails, including the climb to Pitawala Pathana’s “Mini World’s End.” A two-kilometre trail leads to its own summit, where the wind whips through year-round, the paths are neatly paved, and the views stretch as far as the weather will allow making it a favourite for both seasoned trekkers and those who prefer to wander without specialised gear.