I’m midway through an Ayurvedic massage at Anantara Kalutara when I realise I’ve dozed off. My cheek is pressed into the cradle of the headrest; the therapist’s hands pause, and I awake to the sound of the Indian Ocean. The air smells of warm herbal oil and the faint sweetness of frangipani. I murmur an apology, but my masseuse just chuckles and insists this is a good thing. In that drowsy moment—face-down on a massage table in a pavilion surrounded by a lotus-dotted pond and the hush of tropical gardens—I realise I have permission to do nothing at all.
This sets the tone for my Sri Lankan escape: languid days of rest, rejuvenation, and refined discovery. I arrive on the island’s south-west coast burnt out and bleary-eyed, craving a reset. Sri Lanka seems an unlikely choice at first—news from the country of late had been dominated by economic upheaval and crisis—but on the ground, I find a nation at peace, gently dusting itself off and inviting visitors to share in its revival. Over the next week, I drift blissfully among three idyllic resorts—from a Geoffrey Bawa-designed sanctuary in Kalutara to a cliffside retreat in Tangalle, and finally a sleek city perch in Colombo—uncovering a soft-power renaissance built on wellness, indulgence, and modern heritage.
It’s a slow journey by design, thoughtfully curated to begin long before reaching Sri Lankan shores. My short flight with SriLankan Airlines’ Business Class—complete with a fully flat bed and soothing mood lighting—feels more like the first night of an exclusive retreat than air travel. SriLankan Airlines operates an extensive network across India, connecting 14 cities—more than any other foreign carrier in the country—with frequent, convenient links to Colombo and beyond. From major hubs like Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, Bengaluru, Hyderabad and Kochi, to tier‑II cities such as Madurai, Trichy, Thiruvananthapuram, and Ahmedabad, SriLankan ensures that your retreat begins well before boarding the flight. With around 80 weekly flights from India via Colombo’s Bandaranaike International Airport, connectivity is seamless—whether you’re departing from busy metros or regional centres. So when you settle into that cradle‑like seat, drift into soft lighting, and the cabin hum sheets over you, you’re not just embarking on an overnight flight—you’re entering the first chapter of a thoughtfully curated Sri Lankan retreat that begins the moment you leave home.
Even in the island country, instead of racing to every tourist landmark, the team at Minor Hotels has curated an itinerary that favours depth over distance. It’s a travel experience where I discover how staying in could become an adventure. The itinerary is simple, and each stop reveals a different facet of Sri Lanka’s revival. Having suffered deeply in recent years, this island is now finding its footing through the gentlest of powers: hospitality, culture, and the well-being of body and soul.
Post-crisis Revival
Strolling the cobbled lanes of Galle Fort, it’s hard to imagine that just a few years ago this UNESCO-listed fort town was devoid of tourists. In the wake of Sri Lanka’s Easter 2019 terror attacks, the fort’s usually bustling bastions stood eerily empty. Then came the pandemic shutdown of 2020, followed by an unprecedented economic collapse in 2022 that brought the country to its knees. Yet, in 2025, Galle Fort is humming gently once again. November 2024 saw over 150,000 tourist arrivals to Sri Lanka—the highest monthly total since March 2020. The world is rediscovering this island slowly but surely, and Sri Lanka is welcoming travellers back with open arms.
Much of that welcome is being scripted by Sri Lanka’s luxury hotels and resorts—the very places hit hardest by the crises of the past few years. During my stays in Kalutara and Tangalle, I notice an almost familial warmth in the staff’s hospitality. There’s pride and relief in their smiles as they say “Ayubowan” (the traditional Sinhala greeting meaning “may you live long”) with palms pressed together. At both Kalutara and Tangalle, the focus is firmly on the present and what’s ahead. Over dinner one night, I chat with General Manager, Anantara Kalutara Resort, Keith Tomkies, who speaks not of 2022’s hardships, but of optimism: bookings are strong, especially from Indian and Middle Eastern guests, and a calm, forward-looking confidence pervades the conversation. It’s not boastful—just a calm, forward-looking confidence that feels both hard-won and deeply rooted.
At Anantara Peace Haven Tangalle, for instance, I learn that they’ve set aside a 750 square-meter plot of land on the property to grow organic produce using traditional methods; each thrice-yearly harvest is donated to nearby village families and also used in the resort’s own kitchen. The seafood served at dinner is that morning’s catch, brought in by local fishermen. These initiatives aren’t just glossy CSR gestures. Sri Lanka’s hotels are not only investing in creature comforts, but also in the island’s cultural and environmental heritage: the kind of soft power that leaves a lasting impression on travellers. International accolades are trickling in too. It seems fitting: this teardrop-shaped nation, once mired in crisis, is now using the soft power of hospitality and culture to revive itself. In doing so, it’s gifting travellers something precious as well: a chance to heal, to indulge, and to find inspiration in its resilience.
Easing Into Stillness
My introduction to Sri Lanka’s unhurried pace begins at Anantara Kalutara Resort, a hideaway uniquely positioned between the Kalu Ganga river and the Indian Ocean. From the moment I arrive at this low-slung expanse of terracotta-tiled pavilions and water gardens, the pace of life shifts to a blissful crawl. The resort itself is a lesson in relaxation, envisioned by Sri Lanka’s famed architect Geoffrey Bawa—his final architectural project, completed posthumously by his protégé. In the open-air lobby, Bawa’s signature design elements surround me: lofty ceilings that let the breeze flow, courtyards with reflecting ponds, and views that funnel the eye toward sea and lagoon. It feels like a shrine to tropical modernism. Besides its 141 rooms, suites, and villas, the resort also offers a world-class Anantara Spa, an infinity pool, kids’ and teens’ clubs, wellness pavilions, watersports, and multiple restaurants serving Sri Lankan and global cuisine. This tranquil enclave is truly Bawa’s last gift to his homeland, and it welcomes me with open arms.
My private villa here becomes a sanctuary where I practise the fine art of doing nothing. I’m staying in a One Bedroom Garden Pool Villa – a serene 228 square-metre haven that marries traditional Sri Lankan design with modern luxury. The villa’s interior is airy and elegant, decked in rich teak and local textiles, but it’s the outdoor space that truly steals my heart. A high wall encloses a lush little garden, where a jade-green plunge pool shimmers in the sunlight. On the wooden deck, two sun loungers and a dining table invite leisurely idling. I curl up on a daybed with a novel and a pot of tea as the first rays of sun glint off the pool’s surface.
I hadn’t planned to start my journey in Sri Lanka by falling asleep on day one, but clearly my body had other ideas during a therapy session at the resort’s Anantara Spa. There, I also discover just how tightly wound I’ve been—and how swiftly Sri Lanka can unravel me. After a massage with herb-infused oils to improve circulation and sleep, it’s time for Shirodhara. A gentle stream of lukewarm oil is poured onto my forehead, and I drift into that delicious twilight between waking and sleep. In the end, I succumb entirely—by the time the therapist softly rings a Tibetan bowl to signal the session’s close, I am snoring. Any embarrassment is erased by how refreshed I feel, which the therapist also validates. My limbs are loose, my mind quiet.
In this cocoon of wellness, the group of journalists I’m traveling with, collectively begin abandoning the itinerary one thing at a time. For instance, I’m about as flexible as a wooden chair, but something about doing cat-cow stretches and child’s poses with the backdrop of a sunrise on my yoga mat, makes the rainforest zip-line excursion I’d daydreamed about, evaporate from my to-do list. Boat ride on the Bentota River? Cancelled. A day trip to a turtle hatchery? Maybe next time. Instead, I embrace Sri Lanka’s gift of stillness. At Kalutara, I meander between my villa, the spa, and my private pool, moving as languidly as the lagoon beside me. I wander down to the beach where the Kalu Ganga meets the Indian Ocean. I realise I haven’t checked my phone in hours. In a world that urges us to constantly do more, here I revel in the luxury of less. Geoffrey Bawa’s final retreat has given me exactly what I didn’t know I needed: the luxury of slowing down.
Oceanfront Days Of Ease
Continuing further down the coast to Anantara Peace Haven Tangalle, I fully adjust to “island time”. Good thing, too, because Tangalle, with 72 oceanfront acres where one could wander for hours without ever leaving the grounds, practically demands it. Arriving here feels like crossing into a private paradise. The resort sits on a secluded cliffside estate, boasting a golden crescent of beach and rolling green lawns. A gentle hush pervades the property, broken only by the percussion of the waves.
I’m whisked in a buggy under towering palms to my 97 square metre Ocean View villa, where the interior exudes easy elegance—gleaming teak floors, gauzy linen drapes, and subtle Sri Lankan crafts accenting the space. Outside, a plunge pool and daybed overlook a crescent of moonlit sand. Even in darkness, the ocean’s lullaby promises that tomorrow will be just as unhurried. I’m already primed to embrace “staying in” as the main event; perhaps the pinnacle of indulgence.
Dawn at Tangalle paints the sky in watercolor pastels of pink and gold. I wake naturally to soft light and step outside to witness the sunrise over the water, the horizon slowly catching fire. In the early hours, the entire world feels like it belongs to me alone. I wander down from my villa and find the beach, empty except for scuttling crabs and the security. The sand is cool and powdery under my feet. I stroll aimlessly, letting gentle waves lap at my ankles. There is something cathartic about an unhurried beach walk at daybreak – no camera, no checklist, just the present moment unfolding with each wave.
Eventually hunger draws me to breakfast. Despite a lavish spread, I gravitate to the Sri Lankan specialties: creamy buffalo curd drizzled with treacle, succulent mango and papaya slices, and made-to-order egg hoppers. I dress my hopper (a bowl-shaped rice flour crêpe) with a tangy onion-chili relish and pair it with coconut sambol. With no plans scheduled, my day unfolds organically. I split my morning between the warm ocean and my plunge pool, oscillating from saltwater to freshwater to a plush lounger under the palms. Time becomes elastic; I nap, I daydream, I lose track of how long I’ve been listening to the waves. When the tropical sun climbs high, I retreat to the sanctuary of the Anantara Spa.
One highlight of Tangalle is how seamlessly luxury mingles with local life. Both Anantara resorts emphasise fresh, organic cuisine, and I shamelessly take full advantage. The most memorable meal of my trip comes on my final day at Tangalle, in the form of an experience the resort calls “Amma’s Kitchen” (in many South Asian languages, amma means mother, and this dinner was indeed a motherly embrace in gastronomical form).
We are guided to a rustic open-air kitchen set up by the paddy fields on the resort’s grounds. A local village cook—the amma herself—presides over clay pots bubbling on wood-fired stoves. The scene could be a page from a bygone era: she crouches by a grinding stone, milling fresh coconut sambol, then beams and motions for us to come closer. We help pluck herbs from the garden, sniffing curry leaves and pandan. Amma tosses handfuls of freshly picked pandan, jackfruit seeds, eggplant, and snake gourd into the pots, cooking purely by instinct and taste. The air soon hangs heavy with the aromas of roasting curry powder, fried shallots, and the smoky sweetness of coconut-husk embers.
When we finally sit down to eat under a thatched pavilion, I feel like an honoured guest at someone’s ancestral home. We dine off banana leaves laid over clay plates, digging into turmeric-yellow dal, spiced prawn curry from the morning’s catch, tender gotukula salad, and chicken curry rich with cardamom and cloves—farm-fresh vegetables have a depth of flavour I’ve rarely encountered.
By the time desserts arrives (watalappam—a silky coconut custard pudding), I’m in a state of bliss that transcends taste. There is something profoundly healing about this meal. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of it, or the love with which it was prepared. Or perhaps it’s knowing that everything we ate is organic, locally grown, and made according to age-old recipes passed down through generations.
A Gentle Return To Reality
My final night in Sri Lanka finds me back in the capital city, though still cocooned in luxury. I trade the coastal tranquility for an urban sanctuary at the NH Collection Colombo, a newly opened high-rise hotel that offers a serene perch above the city’s bustle. After days of village kitchens and palm-fringed horizons, Colombo’s traffic and skyscrapers could have been jarring. Instead, from my vantage point on the hotel’s 24th-floor rooftop, I find an unexpected calm. The city’s sounds are muted up here. Twilight has painted the sky in mauve and copper, and the city’s skyline begins to glitter to life. The metropolis stretches around me in a collage of old and new—colonial-era buildings juxtaposed with glassy high-rises—and just a few blocks away, the Indian Ocean continues its eternal rhythm along Galle Face.
In ten days, I haven’t “seen it all” in Sri Lanka—far from it. I skipped iconic sites like Kandy’s Temple of the Tooth and the ancient citadel of Sigiriya. But what I gained was a profound sense of peace and connection with the places I did linger in. Whether it was a resort, a fort town, or a simple village kitchen, I gave myself permission to be present—and Sri Lanka, in turn, revealed its gentle, hospitable self to me in those unhurried moments. The real luxury of this trip wasn’t in thread-count sheets or private plunge pools, but in the freedom to savour every moment fully. In a world fixated on speed, taking the slow road gave me richer stories: the nightly chorus of crickets outside my villa, the taste of freshly plucked curry leaves crushed between my fingers, the silhouette of a lone fisherman’s canoe against a fiery sunset sky. These quiet wonders, I suspect, will outlast any checklist of landmarks.
