We stay in Colombo for an easy intro into the new Sri Lanka, opting for smack-dab-in-the-middle of the Fort's district Hilton Hotel. Unlike many Hiltons, this one has personality, serving as a locus for locals and visitors alike. Its outdoor restaurant is a good one too. A fine crab curry and a kottu roti compel me to believe that Sri Lankan cuisine has more to offer than bog standard sub-continental fare. The kottu roti, which incidentally is the national dish, is prepared with fiercely chopped roti mixed into aromatic vegetables, seafood and chicken and lots of spices. It's normally a street dish. The 'chop, chop, chop' noises you hear while strolling the market streets of Sri Lanka comes from someone using cleavers on a grill, chopping the rotis into the curried mix and using them to scoop the mixture onto a banana leaf for easy eating.

Colombo's main market area around 'C' Street is a jumble. Jewellery is a good buy but bargain hard and try to find someone who knows plastic or glass from the real thing. Sri Lankan sapphires and rubies aren't cheap. If you think you've found a bargain sapphire, likely it's not a real sapphire.

Heading south to Galle, our driver Chamindah picks us up on time in front of the Hilton. This was his first and only on time pick up. No matter however, going with the flow in Sri Lanka is the only true choice. The Galle Fort Hotel sent Chamindah via a tour wholesaler. He becomes our main man for the time we have in Sri Lanka. Fixer, arranger and organiser, he's a quixotic character. The van is equally unpredictable. We have our first breakdown only 10 kilometres from the Hilton. Stranded in heavy traffic with a stripped fan belt, we wait while Chamindah makes numerous calls and attempts rudimentary roadside repairs. I wait on the footpath outside a Christian church. Opposite is a Hindu temple. Nearby is a Buddhist temple. Christmas is coming. Two boys, 4 or 5 years old are standing outside the church selling what looks like dried straw. I can't figure out why. My Sinhalese is non-existent and their English is basic. After some frustrating minutes, 'What's this grass for? Why are you selling it here?', finally the oldest kid spreads out his arms as if he's on a crucifix and says loudly, 'Jesus!' The penny drops. He's selling straw for fake mangers and little baby Jesuses. I'm impressed with his imagination, the interpretation leaves me howling with laughter.

The Galle Fort hotel, owned by two Australians, is a renovated trader's mansion next door to the Amangalle hotel. It occupies a choice location in the middle of old Galle. Co-owners Karl Steiner and Chris Ong have devoted their obviously fine attention to detail with a taste for rare antiques combining in one superb hotel. Chris manages the kitchen activities here, guiding his chefs while serving a nightly 3-course feast of pan-European/Asian flavours. The food is very good. Hotel guests are given priority seating. The restaurant is one of the best in the district, open to the public and justifiably popular in this busy tourist town. The evening cocktail hour, served on the capacious verandah, has become de rigeur for Galle's ex-pat community. It's an excellent people watching pastime too. If interested in meeting a variety of the eccentric ex-pat or local cashed-up townspeople, this is the perfect place in which to accomplish social acclimitisation.

We lay about the pool or venture afield to other beaches. This is the centre of Sri Lanka's boutique hotel country. Small restaurants serving fine fare are numerous. Karl or Chris are happy to recommend their favourites, arrange transport and facilitate entry into off-limits for outsiders access. A day spent at another restaurant on a beach famed for its stilt riding fishermen was a great success.

After a week of laying about in Galle's seductive tropical torpor, we begin the real business of touring the heart of Sri Lanka. Same van, same driver. The road beyond Kandy beckons...

Chamindah stops the van. He turns around, smiles at me and points to a large tortoise trying to cross the road. I climb out, pick it up and place it gently near a tree in the direction it was travelling. Chamindah clasps his hands together giving thanks to Buddha and we set off towards the rock monastery fortress of Sigiriya.

I decide that I like Chamindah despite his hapless nature and his lackadaisical attitude about punctuality. He’s a faithful Buddhist, has a grin as wide as the rear end of a water buffalo and stops for all animals no matter how small they are. He dodges kittens and puppies with sacred alacrity.

When the van broke down days before, the first of many times, he turned, smiled and said, 'One minute.' Hours later the van was repaired. According to Chamindah time, one minute means two hours. Two hours means days. Luckily he never says 'In a couple of days.' No doubt I’d still be in Sri Lanka, plodding along like my tortoise friend, safe from turning into road kill but never on time.

But I don’t mind. All mishaps provide opportunities for chatting with friendly local mechanics who can apparently fix a broken radiator hose with a rubber band. A disconnected fly-wheel is repaired with a piece of scrap metal and twisted wire. Smiles all around, endless cups of tea, maybe a beer if it’s late in the afternoon, it’s so easy to while away the hours. I’m riding on serendipity time; recalling this island nation’s previous moniker, Serendib and I’m ready for unexpected pleasures no matter the form they take. Sri Lanka has had many names. For me they all mean the same, Halfway to Paradise on the Road to Nirvana.

We drive haphazardly into the interior, our destination the Cultural Triangle. Here Sri Lanka’s kingdoms held sway over the whole of the island centuries ago. From the capital at Anuradhapura a great dynasty ruled. While other south Asian historic ruins: Angkor Wat, Ayutthaya and Borobudur are known to most travellers, Sri Lanka’s are not, which is a pity as they’re packed with architectural treasures. Now that the fighting between the Tamil Tigers and the National Army has ceased, the going is easier though due care should be taken. The area around the Cultural Triangle was formerly the border zone between opposing sides. Now it’s well within control of the Sri Lankan Government. No matter your political views, the local people are suffering due to a lack of travellers from abroad.

It’s very quiet, few visitors are about. Police roadblocks check passing vehicles but we’re never bothered. As soon as they see a couple of foreigners in the clapped out van they wave us on with a smile. The Sri Lankan economy depends heavily on tourism. Since the tsunami and the recent war the country has suffered. Two paramount concerns prevail: unemployment and lack of income. We are welcomed everywhere we go with open arms.

The cave temples at Dambulla are marvels of painterly consistency. The Buddha’s smiles are so subtly different that the artisans crafting his serene visage must have had a master template from which to work. The enormous statues barely fit into the caves, adapting to the natural contours of the sloping walls. Cool interiors and dimly lit spaces contrast dramatically with the heat and hard light outside. We’ve climbed hundreds of steps to reach the plateau where five caves extend in a line along a natural fold in the mountain. The statues were carved during the reign of King Valagamba (1st century BCE). Over 150 Buddha images may be seen here. I lose count after 80.

From the terraced ledge, I stop to gaze at the monsoon drenched countryside. Though Sri Lanka is an island roughly the size of Tasmania, they have in common a perception of immensity. My eyes wander towards the 2,000 metres central highlands. The sharp peaks, densely forested slopes and tea plantations make me wonder if I’m looking at a continent. It seems that big.

The volcanic outcrop of Sigiriya thrusts upwards. From the heights of Dambulla, the geological wonder that is Sigiriya stands alone. On a vast jungle plain criss-crossed by elephant tracks and dotted with small villages tucked away in swards of green, Sigiriya looks like a fantasy fortress. How the monks and their assistants built anything atop the sheer walled promontory is a wonder in itself.

The surrounding water gardens add to the overall impression that the whole complex is something of a miracle in its inception, much less its completion. Moats encompass the gardens, signs warning visitors not to get too close for fear of crocodiles and water monitors keep even the foolhardy from indulging in a cooling dip. Snakes hide in the rushes searching for frogs. Langurs and macaques loop from one tree to the next. The scene is Eden-esque, outwardly tamed but secretly wild. Making our way to the famous boulder gardens, ancient watercourses marking the path, a hornet’s nest is the only danger we encounter. The sign indicating the presence of the little beasties is one of the few modern touches, albeit a silly one. Evidently the best thing to do when encountering a hornet swarm is to wave furiously one’s arms whilst sprinting like an Olympian in pursuit of a gold medal.

Sigiriya’s history reveals much. Once believed to have been the fortress sanctuary of a 4th century CE king, archaeologists now consider that by the 3rd century BCE, Sigiriaya was an important monastery devoted to Mahayana-Theravada Buddhism that also supported a thriving city. It was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1982.

Climbing to the top of Sigiriya is best done slowly. After a couple of hours, we’re at the base of the fortress itself. Two huge carved lion’s paws, all that’s left of a gigantic leonine statue that guarded the entrance to the final ascent, grasp the bottom steps. It’s like passing between stupendous costume party shoes. The Mirror Wall we pass on the way to the summit forms a long corridor that protects dizzy climbers from tumbling down the sheer rock face. A thousand years of graffiti adorns its glazed surface. Linguists have been studying versions of ‘I was here with Chamindah’ since Sigiriya was re-discovered in 1898 by the British archaeologist H.C.P. Bell. Early Sinhalese translated from the Mirror Wall has helped to understand its development into the national language.

Finally we reach the summit just in time for a soaking tropical downpour. We run for the nearest tree and wait under it with a couple of monkeys and three German women who, with us, are Sigiriya’s only foreign visitors that day. As suddenly as the rain begins, it disappears. Steam rises off the nearby plains. The sun beats hard again, instantly drying my soaked t-shirt. A rainbow caps off the whole panorama. I understand now why the monks were so inspired by this place. It does seem but a short step to Nirvana from here.

At Mihintale, the sacred mountain where Buddhism was first introduced to Sri Lanka many centuries ago by the Emporer Ashoka’s son Prince Mahinda, we are met by a guide as soon as we step from the van. 'Welcome! Welcome! You are my only guests today. Please let me show you this place.' Trained by the government’s archaeology unit, he is a source of informed wonder. We clamber along precarious ledges that hide the original sanctuaries, dug out by hermitic monks long before the ancient monastery itself was built. 'The monks came here to meditate and commune with nature,' says our guide. A snake slips out of a cleft in a cave and I experience an Indiana Jones moment. 'A good omen,' continues our fearless leader, 'nature is everywhere here, you can sense it, feel how cool it is inside this cave.' I don’t really want to be in a cave where the snake just left but am drawn to it nonetheless. Hairs on my neck are at attention and I prefer to be back at the thousand year old stupa, or dagoba as it’s called in Sri Lanka, looking at the bas-reliefs sculptures of elephants, lions and peacocks. Instead I graze my scalp painfully on the low-slung rock ceiling, cursing my inattention while concentrating instead on imaginary slithering at my feet.

Later that day we stop at a 12 metre high standing Buddha, carved in the ‘ashiva mudra’, or blessing, pose out of a rock cliff in the middle of nowhere. The Buddha at Aukana is surely off the beaten path; we are the only non-Sri Lankans among the pilgrims who come here to pray at Buddha’s feet. Aukana means ‘sun-eating’, morning is the best time to visit it. So masterfully executed in its proportions that I’m assured a single drop of water descending from the Buddha’s forehead will fall precisely halfway between his feet resting on a huge lotus plinth. Of course I wait to see it for myself and am pleased to see the splash between Buddha’s toes.

Anuradhapura became the capital in 380BCE and ruled greater Sri Lanka for nearly a thousand years. It spreads out over a vast area at the boundary of modern Anuradhapura, a frontier town at the edge of the formerly Tamil Tiger controlled north. Here the modern and ancient mingle loosely. High rise dagobas stand out as they did hundreds of years ago. Soldiers stand at gates striking poses probably like they did when this was the centre of a highly militarised society constantly defending itself from southern Indian invaders.

Despite all the army falderal, Anuradhapura’s main claim to eternal fame is Sri Maha Bodhi, the sacred bodhi tree. Grown from a cutting, it was taken from the Tree of Enlightenment at Bodhgaya in India by Princess Sangamitta, sister of Prince Mahinda who introduced Buddhism at Mihintale. The Sri Maha Bodhi is the world’s oldest authenticated tree, successively guarded for over 2,000 years even during foreign occupation. This is one of Sri Lanka’s holiest sites, indeed it is for all Buddhists. Unlike the Buddha’s Sacred Tooth Temple in Kandy and Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak) where Buddha supposedly left a footprint while he ascended to heaven, here fellow travellers are few and far between. The aura is palpable, it is an enchanted scene though not at all like many of the world’s other holy places. Monkeys tease the temple’s cats, dogs leap about playing with one another, there is much laughter and people idle away the time while they make puja, chat, pray and gossip. It’s all so relaxed, family friendly and peaceful that I almost forget that I’m standing in front of the world’s oldest sacred tree. I think the Buddha would have liked that. And if this isn’t enough to satisfy an ardent Buddha relic collector, the most ancient visible stupa in the world, the nearby Thuparama Dagoba is said to house the Buddha’s right collarbone.

Anuradhapura is packed with temples, holy lakes, dagobas and palaces. Moonstones and accompanying guard stones are scattered liberally around the ruins. Inscribed with intricate carvings signifying steps taken on the path to Nirvana, these temple platforms educate acolytes and visitors alike. I am entranced that so many bare feet have been here before mine but, on the road to Nirvana, we’re all blessed with our own personal point of view.