After leaving Maduwanwela, the road begins to climb steadily into the hills.

The heat of the low country slowly disappears. Paddy fields give way to tea estates. Wisps of mist drift across the road, and the air turns cool enough for us to switch off the air conditioning and wind down the windows.

Sooriyakanda has a way of slowing everything down.

Unlike Ella or Horton Plains, these mountains do not demand attention. They reveal themselves quietly through rolling green slopes, distant valleys and ever-changing clouds. Every bend in the road offers another glimpse of mist-covered hills disappearing into the horizon.

By sunset, the landscape is wrapped in a soft blanket of cloud. Rain showers drift in and out without warning. The only sensible thing to do is sit back, enjoy the cool weather, open a bottle of wine (of course) and settle into the evening.

Our overnight stop is Mount View Holiday Resort, owned by Samantha, a gentle soul who seems to have appointed himself the unofficial guardian of local stories. Throughout the weekend, he becomes my advisor, navigator and storyteller, dispensing directions, history lessons and village gossip with equal enthusiasm. By the end of the evening, it feels less like staying in a guesthouse and more like visiting an old friend who happens to know everything worth knowing about the area.

The following morning, we wake to grey skies and the lingering threat of rain. A visit to Sinharaja is always at the mercy of the weather, and we step outside hoping the clouds will show some mercy. Fortunately, the morning holds, and with cautious optimism we set off towards Sinharaja Aranya Senasanaya.

As we approach the monastery, the forest seems to close around us. The air grows cooler, birdsong replaces engine noise, and the towering trees remind us that we are entering one of the most precious ecosystems in Sri Lanka.

The monastery itself is peaceful, its pathways winding through forested slopes and rocky outcrops. For decades, monks have cultivated this sanctuary as a place of meditation and contemplation where nature and spirituality exist side by side.

One of the most striking features today is the collection of giant Buddha statues scattered throughout the landscape. At first glance, they appear ancient, as though they have emerged naturally from the forest itself. In reality, many of them are relatively recent additions, constructed only within the last few years.

Somewhere below us lies a series of caves, reached by scrambling over boulders and negotiating narrow, slippery paths. With the ground still wet and conditions less than ideal, discretion proves the better part of adventure. We abandon our descent halfway and leave the caves unexplored, saving that journey for another day.

Further up the hillside stands a newly constructed chaitya, its bright white form visible through the trees. A short distance away rises an enormous standing Buddha statue, reminiscent of the Aukana Buddha in both posture and scale.

There is no denying the craftsmanship or devotion that has gone into creating these structures. Yet standing there, surrounded by one of the oldest rainforests in Asia, I find myself conflicted.

Sinharaja is not merely another forest. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, one of the last surviving remnants of Sri Lanka’s primary tropical rainforest. Some scientists believe parts of this ecosystem date back to the ancient supercontinent Gondwana, making it one of the island’s most significant natural treasures. Here, the forest itself is the monument.

The sheer scale of the statue feels at odds with the landscape around it. Perhaps others may see these additions differently, but standing beneath these towering trees, I cannot help feeling that the rainforest needs no grand statements. Its beauty is already complete.

What saddens me even more is what lies beyond the monastery.

As we travel through the surrounding area, signs of development are increasingly visible. Hillsides that once belonged to the forest are being cleared. Large hotels and commercial structures are appearing ever closer to the rainforest boundary. Roads cut deeper into areas that only a few years ago felt remote and untouched.

Progress is inevitable, and tourism undoubtedly brings livelihoods to local communities. Yet there is a fine line between benefiting from nature and consuming it.

Sinharaja has survived for millions of years. It shelters species found nowhere else on Earth. We inherited this forest without creating it, and our responsibility is surely to pass it on in the same spirit. Too often, however, we behave as though every empty piece of land exists simply to be claimed, developed and monetised.

As we drive away from the forest, I find myself asking a simple question: why is it so difficult for us to respect what was never ours in the first place?

Not every mountain needs a hotel. Not every clearing needs a building. Not every landscape needs to be improved.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer a place is simply to leave it alone.

And nowhere does that feel truer than in the shadow of Sinharaja.