It may be unlucky for some but for me, Day 13 brings another flight that didn’t end in a ball of flames (as I think each one will at the point of takeoff). It’s not that I’m plane-phobic; I just ponder my imminent demise and mentally say ‘goodbye’ to anyone I care about at around the point the captain says ‘Cabin crew prepare for takeoff’. I usually have a brief acknowledgement that I’m dying both unfulfilled and a long way from my prime (on the leeward side of the mountain) but then essentially turn to the inflight Entertainment brochure to allow the aesthetic disappointment at the selection of movies rinse the rising panic from my system. I’m THAT kind of freak.
However today’s flight is a SEA PLANE! SEA PLANE (please think of that with the theme tune to STING RAY! STING RAY in the background or it just doesn’t work) and Eddie is dead excited. Before we get to the jetty where we’ll board said wonder-wings, we stop off at a little church for a gawp at the gravestones. It’s frankly a bit spooky, like a scion of Little England perched in a Sri Lankan valley. The gravestones are mostly children and men in their 40s, who died in the late 1800 and early 1900s. Which is also a little weird. What the hell were the women of Victorian Ceylon giving to their families for breakfast? Arsenic porridge?
After this little jaunt into the world of early century infanticide, we all sit on the jetty of the Summerville Bungalow (another gorgeosity from the company that owns Norwood) and await the plane.
And here it is.
Basically it’s the coolest thing most of us have ever seen (ok I’ve been in one before a few times but I still can’t hold my shit together about how cool seaplanes are) and we fly round Adam’s Peak TWICE for photos and generally gloating about how hardcore we are at having climbed it. Then it’s only 20 minutes to Colombo (too short!) and an arrivals lounge made of twigs and we’re back at the Wallawa, where we started our journey. We’re leaving Sri Lanka. Boo! But we’re going to Bali. Hurray!