There are friendships that don’t need warming up, reminders, or those polite “we really must catch up” messages. With Fiona and Kumi, it’s always been simple: make a plan, start the car and go. For us three friends, who once “flew the friendly skies,” our November getaway is practically a standing date. So there we were, loading bags into the boot of my car in the blue-grey light of a Colombo morning, and just like that, the road trip began.

Colombo to Dambulla

The A9 was blissfully empty as we slipped out of the city. An Amakie breakfast stop is always a given, and by the time we tucked into our mutton rolls, kimbula bunis and hot chocolates, the horizon had turned moodier and the air deliciously crisp. With check-in still hours away, we decided to sight-see our way north.

First stop: Dambulla Rock Temple, a place that somehow feels sacred every single visit. Sarongs hastily pulled from our bags in the boot, we climbed the familiar stone steps, the rock warm beneath our feet, until the caves opened up before us. Inside, centuries-old Buddhas sat in perfect stillness while lamps flickered and murals glowed softly in the dim light. 

Outside, monkeys conducted their usual snack-theft operations with great professionalism.

Eventually, we made our way to Atha Resorts (not Aatha!), tucked into a pocket of quiet green. It’s the kind of place where your shoulders drop an inch the moment you walk in. Warm smiles, cool shaded pathways, paddy-field views, and rooms that blend contemporary comfort with unmistakable Sri Lankan character.

Despite a gloomy forecast, we convinced ourselves that the Minneriya National Park deserved a shot. Normally, one is treated to herds of over 300 elephants during the Gathering. That evening? One. A single, solitary elephant. He stood at the edge of the water, like an introvert at a rave, calmly splashing water on himself, scratching his head and peacefully enjoying his universe, until he mock-charged a jeep that annoyed him, the highlight of his otherwise uneventful performance. The waiter at the hotel jokingly informed us that we had a better chance of seeing more (for free) along the road. 

Hunger eventually won, so on the drive back to the hotel we pulled up at a tiny roadside hut where the pol roti arrived piping hot and the lunu miris was so fiery it made us question our bravado. By the time we reached the resort, the heavens broke open. Heavy, soaking rain hammered down on the land around us and just like that, the night wrapped itself in silver noise.

Dambulla to Jaffna: Rain on Repeat

Early next morning, with the clouds still sulking, we headed north. The road to Jaffna is long but generous with paddy fields now inundated with the severity of the north eastern monsoon, lush greenery, open spaces and the kind of radio playlists that make you nostalgic for absolutely everything.

We checked into Fox Jaffna, a beautifully restored heritage property with just the right amount of charm and quirk. But the rain refused to leave us alone, trailing us like a clingy ex.

Still, nothing stops three determined women.

After a quick typically northern breakfast at the resort, we were in a tuk-tuk heading towards Nallur Kovil, wind, prayer bells, incense, and a fine mist of rain swirling around us in one big sensory whirl. We removed our shoes at the entrance, the cool temple floor grounding us instantly. A pujari dabbed our foreheads with sacred powder comprising turmeric and ash mixed into a blessing we didn’t fully understand but respectfully embraced. Around us, deep, resonant chants drifted through the air as priests invoked blessings over the devotees. We stood still for a moment, letting the sound settle into us. Nallur Kovil, though devoted primarily to Lord Murugan, also honours Shiva, Parvati, Ganesha, and even Surya, the Sun God, a sacred tapestry of deities woven into one powerful space.

Back in the kovil grounds, we were swept into laughter with fellow visitors who insisted we pose for photos with them, their attire as bright and joyful as the morning itself.

After the temple, we rewarded ourselves with Rio Ice Cream, because visiting Jaffna without Rio is practically a criminal offence.

Next stop was Sankilian’s Palace, a quiet, timeworn fragment of history standing resolute beneath brooding rainclouds. But it was heartbreaking to see how much more it had decayed; sections of the once-magnificent structure now crumbling under the weight of time and weather.

The rest of the morning drifted by gently as we wandered through Jaffna’s causeways and lagoons, poked around little shops, and watched the sky cycle through a hundred shades of grey.

And then, the downpour. A full, unapologetic tropical tantrum that made it abundantly clear: our grand plan to continue eastward needed to be abandoned. 

Mannar, it was.

Plan B: Straight to Mannar

Sometimes the best journeys are the unplanned ones. We rerouted and headed towards Mannar, the road shimmering with puddles and lined with palmyrah palms that swayed as if laughing at us.

With Fiona’s sharp eyes and soft heart perpetually tuned to stray-spotting mode, it didn’t take long before we stumbled upon three impossibly tiny pups, abandoned, trembling, and far too young to face the world alone. She was ready to bundle them straight into the car and take them along to our next stop, but I negotiated a compromise: a 26-kilometre reroute to find milk and buns. It felt less like a detour and more like a small, purposeful mission. Absolutely worth it.

Along the way, we made a pitstop for a little divine intervention at St. Anthony’s Church on the Navatkuli-Kerasitivu road, because we suddenly remembered lots of people who may or may not need  a prayer or two. And, naturally, to nibble on some boiled (and slightly burnt) corn, because road trips demand roadside snacks.

Closer to Mannar, we scanned the wetlands with eager eyes, hoping to catch the famed flamingos, expected any day now. No luck. Then again, luck hadn’t exactly been riding shotgun on this road trip. By late afternoon, we rolled into Palmyra House, easily one of the most atmospheric escapes in Mannar.

Outside, the rain continued. Inside, we devoured a feast of crab and prawns, fresh, spicy, and absolutely perfect. Rain is romantic only when there’s good seafood, I’m convinced.

Mannar to Kalpitiya: Chasing Sunshine

The next morning, it was time to finally outrun the clouds and for once, we actually did. As we neared Kalpitiya, the skies lifted like a curtain rising, revealing the kind of blue we’d been praying for since Day One.

Driving along these roads was pure bliss with long, winding stretches that begged you to roll the windows down, and hidden off-road spots perfect for hopping out and stretching our legs. But, as always on this trip, our joy was mercifully… short-lived. First, we were pulled over for speeding but let off with a stern, fatherly warning. Thirty minutes later, déjà vu, out jumps another cop from behind a parapet wall frantically waving his hands. This time, there was no mercy. Off we went on an unexpected scavenger hunt: find a post office, pay the fine, retrieve my licence, and try not to lose our sense of humour in the process.

From that moment on, Kumi became the self-appointed Speed Police. Stationed in the backseat like a strict school prefect, she monitored the speedometer with hawk-like precision, announcing every kilometre over the limit with dramatic flair. Our peaceful coastal drive had officially gained a third soundtrack: waves, wind, and Kumi’s constant “SLOW DOWN!”

Dolphin Beach greeted us with blue-on-blue horizons, warm breezes, and the kind of sun we’d been begging for since Day 1.

We spent the day by the sea, calm waters, salt in our hair, and more seafood because… well, tradition.

Day 6: Back to Colombo

All good road trips end with a quiet drive back home. Six days, 1027 kms, countless detours, one elephant, too much rain, three friends, and more memories than miles.

It wasn’t the trip we planned. It was better — messy, funny, unexpected, delicious.

Just the way the best ones always are.