Ella (Sri Lanka) - Nuwara Eliya (Sri Lanka)
10 - 11 January 2026
There’s always something energising about a final morning in a place that has genuinely exceeded expectations. Ella had done exactly that to us. What had initially presented itself as another stop on a Sri Lankan itinerary had somehow become something softer, slower, and far more memorable than we had anticipated. Yet rather than feeling melancholic about leaving, there was an unmistakable sense of excitement in the air that morning — the kind that only travel seems to create, where reflection on what you’ve just experienced somehow blends seamlessly with anticipation for whatever comes next. Perhaps it was the mountain air, the endless green hills, or the way the clouds drifted lazily through the valleys each morning, but Ella had a way of making you feel entirely present while simultaneously making you excited to continue moving forward.
Our final morning arrived wrapped in cool air and low cloud, the surrounding hills still partially hidden as though the town itself wasn’t quite ready to wake up yet. Inga, Aiden and I wandered down into the main street for breakfast, settling into one of Ella’s many cafés where the scent of coffee, toast and tropical fruit drifted lazily through the open windows. The town was already beginning its daily ritual; backpackers discussing train schedules with exaggerated expertise, tuk-tuks humming along the road, and travellers quietly staring into the surrounding greenery as though attempting to absorb one last moment before moving on.
After breakfast I made my way uphill toward Ella railway station to secure our tickets to Nuwara Eliya. Now, let me say this upfront — Sri Lankan train tickets are not exactly luxurious keepsakes. There are no sleek QR codes, polished apps or sophisticated electronic gates waiting to scan your existence into the transport matrix. No, these were tiny coloured cardboard tickets that looked as though they had survived several decades largely unchanged. The type of tickets that would ultimately have a neat little hole punched through them by a station attendant upon entry.
Oddly enough, they found a quiet nostalgic home in a corner of my mind almost immediately
Standing there holding those tiny cardboard stubs triggered some 'old school' cool memories of boarding trains at good 'ole Seven Hills station. I was instantly transported back to childhood train rides in Sydney during the 1980s and early 90s, where those same little tickets represented some degree of potential adventure, movement and possibility of anything - I didn't know what, I wasn't even a teenager then but the promise of 'something' was a special vibe.. Funny how something so insignificant can unexpectedly unlock entire eras of memory.
Ella station itself only amplified this strange sense of displacement. Sitting amongst the rolling hills and thick greenery of Sri Lanka’s highlands, the station somehow felt completely detached from the version of Sri Lanka I had imagined and anticipated before arriving. There was something distinctly quaint and oddly English about it all; the small station building, the manicured gardens, the sleepy atmosphere, the gentle curve of the tracks disappearing into mist-covered hills. Had someone told me I’d somehow wandered into a tiny countryside station in Yorkshire, I may not have argued particularly hard against it. The only think that went against that the inordinate amount of tourists that occupied prime space on the platform. The outbound side of the station was packed with bags, young backpackers trying out yoga poses on the grass, the swapping and identification of necessary transport snacks ....and also headphones, iphones, random conversations, and subdued energy. This was not a 'local ride'.
With that said, our decision to take the train to Nuwara Eliya had been heavily influenced by the endless praise surrounding Sri Lanka’s famous Kandy-to-Ella rail journey, a route often described in almost mythical terms by travellers, blogs and just about any YouTube related video that you might cut across in your research. However, the full nine-hour pilgrimage that many v-bloggers discussed felt somehow misplaced with a seven-year-old in tow. Very much less like an enchanting travel experience and more like an elaborate psychological experiment of the uneducated. Conversely, the three hours to Ambewala felt to us like it was jus going to be the sweet spot — long enough to immerse ourselves in the scenery, but not so long that Aiden would eventually begin negotiating for his own independence from the family unit.
As the train slowly rolled out of Ella station and began winding deeper into the highlands, it quickly became obvious why this journey had earned its reputation.
The scenery was mesmerising.
Rolling tea plantations unfolded across the hillsides like textured green blankets carefully draped over the contours of the mountains. Dense jungle appeared and disappeared between pockets of farmland and sleepy villages. Occasionally the train curved dramatically enough for us to see the full length of it snaking through the hills ahead, with carriages of predominantly blue framed against impossibly vivid greenery.
What makes train travel through Sri Lanka particularly immersive however, is that the journey never feels sealed off from the world outside. Doors remain open, windows wide, and the outside environment pours directly into the carriage. Wind rushes through your hair, cool mountain air sweeps across the seats, and every scent, sound and temperature shift becomes part of the experience itself.
At various points along the journey the train disappeared into drifting mountain cloud, the outside world fading into soft white haze before revealing itself again in fragments of tea plantations, forests and distant hillsides. There was something strangely dreamlike about it all, as though we were moving through a place that existed somewhere between reality and imagination. In those moments, suspended amongst the clouds of Sri Lanka’s highlands, the journey felt less like transport and more like passage through some mythical forgotten world. a place so calm and impossibly beautiful that it barely seemed real at all.
And yes…of course we became those people that took videos and photos of themselves hanging out the train doors of a moving train ... by what wouldn't you, what an epic experience!
Truthfully, resisting the temptation felt almost impossible. At various moments we stood there leaning outward into the rushing air, smiling like complete idiots. Phones emerged constantly for photos and videos, though somewhere along the way you to to get to capturing that small element of realisation that its the actual experience itself that matters far more than whatever image it is that you manage to capture.
Still, one particular moment did manage to stay with me.
At one point during the journey I looked across at Aiden perched quietly on his seat beside the open window, popcorn clutched in his hands, completely absorbed by the world unfolding outside. He barely moved. No distractions, no screens, no impatience, just total engagement with the experience itself, as though he were sitting inside his own private cinema watching the landscape drift past frame by frame. I managed to catch a short video of the moment on my phone, and I suspect years from now it’ll remain one of those tiny memories that somehow carries far more emotional weight than it has any right to.
There was something wonderfully simple about the entire experience. No luxury, no extravagance, no complicated itinerary mechanics. Just three hours of movement through some of the most beautiful scenery in Sri Lanka, shared together as a family.
And honestly, for roughly three dollars per person, I’m not entirely sure travel gets much better than that.
Arriving at the outpost of Ambewala, we felt refreshed and strangely energised. The three-hour journey had disappeared in what felt like a moment, which in itself seemed slightly absurd considering how absorbing the entire experience had been. In all honesty, it came remarkably close to being the highlight of this particular stretch of the trip. For the scenery, the atmosphere, the photos, the sense of immersion but perhaps most of all because it quietly reinforced that well-worn travel cliché that somehow manages to remain completely true; it’s not about the destination, but the journey.
This part was very good.
Our final stop however was not actually Nuwara Eliya itself, but rather the somewhat desolate and unexpectedly isolated station of Ambewala. By road it was supposedly only around 15 kilometres from Nuwara Eliya, perhaps thirty minutes under normal circumstances. We found out that the reason the train no longer continued directly through, as we understood it, was due to landslides and landslips caused by the extraordinary rainfall the region had experienced in the weeks prior. The evidence of which was not difficult to miss.
Throughout the journey enormous scars cut through sections of hillside where entire swathes of earth had simply disappeared into the valleys below. Some slopes still looked deeply unstable, hanging precariously above the roads in ways that triggered more than a little suppressed anxiety within me. Externally I maintained the calm and measured appearance expected of a responsible husband and father. Internally however, my brain had quietly begun preparing a series of unnecessarily dramatic disaster scenarios. Plan for the worst and then dismiss the ideas just as quickly - isn't that the way?
Arriving at Ambewela also placed us directly back into one of the more familiar travel rituals known to mankind, negotiating transport prices with what can only loosely be described as the local transfer mafia.
There is simply no reliable way in these situations to determine what constitutes a genuinely fair price. Every tuk-tuk driver, van operator and taxi owner seemed to be eyeing arriving travellers with the collective anticipation of sharks circling a struggling seal. Bright-eyed tourists stepping off trains with luggage in hand are essentially moving dollar signs wrapped in Raybans and optimism.
The road outside the station buzzed with offers, negotiations and the inevitable layered upselling that accompanies these encounters.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘What are your plans tomorrow?’
‘I can take you sightseeing.’
‘Best tea plantation.’
‘Very good price my friend.’
Naturally mate....you are my best friend....we are all great friends here.
I had booked us into the Hilldale Retreat, a boutique hotel located roughly ten kilometres outside Nuwara Eliya itself. We were only staying one evening and had absolutely no plans for sightseeing whatsoever. We simply wanted transport to the hotel and, ideally, a short period of silence.
We eventually secured our transfer, naturally at a price that almost certainly bore little resemblance to local economic reality, and began what would somehow become a far longer and more psychologically taxing drive than anticipated.
Initially our driver maintained a relentless stream of conversation, recommendations and sales pitches delivered with admirable persistence. Yet as we gradually climbed beyond Nuwara Eliya and deeper into the surrounding hills, the mood inside the vehicle began to subtly shift.
The chatter slowed.
Then eventually stopped altogether.
The reason soon became obvious.
A dense mountain fog had descended across the road so heavily that visibility was reduced to only a few metres ahead of us. To describe it as driving through cloud would not really do it justice. It felt more like we had somehow entered another dimension entirely , one composed purely of whiteness, moisture and looming uncertainty.
Now ordinarily, this might have been mildly atmospheric.
Unfortunately our driver appeared to interpret these conditions as a challenge rather than a warning.
We continued tearing through the hills at a speed that felt wildly inappropriate for circumstances where the road itself seemed to vanish every few seconds into dense fog. Add to that sections of damaged roadway where parts of the hillside had partially collapsed away, alongside vehicles emerging suddenly from the opposite direction like spectral apparitions, and the entire experience became significantly less relaxing than I would have preferred.
There were several genuinely hair-raising moments.
I’m fairly certain that for the final few kilometres prior to arrival I subconsciously held my breath.
Which is why arriving at Hilldale Retreat felt less like checking into accommodation and more like reaching sanctuary.
Hilldale Retreat - Nuwara Eliya - Sri Lanka
Perched quietly amongst the cool hills beyond Nuwara Eliya, Hilldale carried the sort of calm atmosphere that immediately lowers your pulse rate upon arrival. Surrounded by mist-covered greenery and rolling tea country, the property balanced comfort and simplicity beautifully. Warm lighting spilled softly through the reception area, the rooms were comfortable and thoughtfully appointed, and after the chaos of the drive there was something deeply restorative about the silence that settled over the property.
Ella may have felt dreamlike, but Hilldale felt like recovery.
And for one quiet evening in the Sri Lankan highlands, that was more than enough.
