Today the lonely journey home. A weary man regrets what he has not done:
At Kandy I seek my last Sri Lankan Tea: thick and sweet. In beautiful Singhalese script I am offered:
Tea-time Cake Rs150/=
Hindus sit on the ground fixing umbrellas. Muslims corner the pastry market. Dogs wander, bereft of social purpose, sad.
I negotiate the Byzantine railway rules, the friendly suicidal tuktuks, little girls in bonnets, plump babies dressed regrettably, 3rd class carriages, “No Riding on the Footboard” and join a train: