Bungalow 126 years not out in the hills

ADITHA DISSANAYAKE

If you had told me 11 years ago, even the most surreal surroundings can turn out to be tedious after a week or two, I would not have believed you. If you had said it to me five years ago I would have shrugged my shoulders, turned down my lips and muttered “perhaps”. If you had said it last year I know I would have nodded in agreement and said “definitely.”

Ten long years of gazing at the same mountain tops, the same cyprus trees, the same set of arm chairs, the same hat-stand, the same fireplace, (the list is endless) exhausts the soul. Just as the spirit begins to weaken it is exhilarating to find the winds of change blowing upon me.

Transferred from Talawakelle to Nanu Oya. From Great Western Estate to Dessford. From one old bungalow to yet another old bungalow.

“Old” this time, means really old. August 12, 1885. If the stone with the date carved on it is anything to go by, the manager’s bungalow on Dessford Estate is hundred and twenty six years old come next August.

Stepping through the front door is like stepping into the world of Elizabeth and Darcy in Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice.

The huge fireplace in the sitting room with the arm chairs covered in printed fabric with red flowers, the red carpet worn out by the feet of uncountable number of visitors through out these long years, the thick red curtains blocking out the cheerful rays of the sun who cheekily try to peep into the room, create the kind of atmosphere Victorian families would have known two centuries ago.

Flower-decked driveway

Yet, as if to make up for the stately but gloomy appearance of the sitting room, the morning room beckons the weary traveller to remove her shoes, place her legs on a low stool, fix her gaze on the lush carpet of tea beyond the old cyprus tree, and relax.

Once the cup of tea and homemade buns have warmed me, I step out of doors through the long french windows onto the well cut lawn.

Here I meet the residential squirrel who hops around searching for cypruss cones on the ground. As I stand still gazing at the nut picker I begin to hear the sound of music...no, not Julie Andrews singing Do, Re, Mi , but the music of the fly catchers, magpies and sparrows.

Climbing down the stone steps, so well trodden the surface is as smooth as a cement floor we come across a pond, now drained of water but still retaining traces of the glory it would once have held. Bees hum around the Agapanthus bushes humming a cheerful tune; bees whose ancestors might have swarmed around the lotus flowers that would once have blossomed in the now empty pond.

Adjusting to new surroundings is not easy. Especially when the house seems to be built on several acres of land. Walking through ever so many doors and corridors is like walking through a maze with a dozen dead-ends.

Eureka, when I finally locate the dinning room after two wrong turns. Eureka again, when I locate the “gentleman’s valet clothes stand” to find my muffler, for winter is upon us here in Nanu Oya.

What a joy to see the sun for about ten minutes everyday; when the mist lifts, when the squirrels and the birds come out with their songs of thanksgiving for this brief respite from the incessant monsoon rains.

But how luxurious too, to cuddle under a heavy blanket at night, to fall asleep listening to the rain drops falling on the roof, recalling Jason Donovan’s song about the rhythm of the falling rain. My two newfound friends in the morning; Tin Tin the squirrel and Chirp the magpie. “Change is what keeps you young”. I believe them.

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