The day after Christmas, we wound our way along curving mountain roads to the highest point on the island, Nuwara Eliya. There, hidden in the mist, tucked amidst the rolling green tea fields, was a small lodge with a fireplace, couches with blankets, and an endless amount of carols, Goatfell.
We were in search of cooler weather. To sink into a deep couch in front of a crackling fire with tea or hot chocolate. An ethereal mist rolled across the hilltop, touching the grass with dew. On one side of the lodge was a perfectly manicured lawn decorated with croquet hoops. On the other, a stand of majestic cypress trees, guarding a magic, elven glade, containing wishes and dreams, a playground for a child's imagination. The trees were marked with stenciled numbers to keep them safe from illegal forestry.
The drive from Colombo was long. When we arrived, we were welcomed with tea and coffee and an array of cookies, scones, and biscuits.
The days were filled with frolicking on the lawn around the lodge, spriting in and out of the enchanted, elfin glade, Elise and I ran through the mist on winding mountain roads; we couldn't see from one bend to the next due to the running through the clouds.
The kids even tried their hand at croquet (though I debate the 2iadom of giving small children wooden mallets...the grounds keeper will have definitely earned his keep that week).
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