“I’M the king of the castle?” The childhood rhyme plays through my mind as I stand, hands on hips, jelly-legged, sucking in air.
I’ve just climbed Lion Rock, also known as Sigiriya, the ancient capital of Sri Lanka some 1500 years ago. More than 100,000 men toiled with elephants, bullocks and bamboo scaffolding over seven years to create King Kashyapa’s eyrie-like “cloud in the sky” from a granite outcrop 200 metres above the surrounding plateau.
The formidable rock was chosen as a safety haven after Kashyapa engineered the assassination of his own father and drove his half-brother, the rightful heir, out of the country.
We approach Sigiriya from the west, crossing a moat once infested with crocodiles, and wander through the relics of elaborate water gardens running up to the foot of the rock.
Gigantic boulders tilt like tipsy sentries as the first stairway of wide stone appears. For a moment I feel like I’m on the set of Picnic at Hanging Rock instead of central Sri Lanka. We’re told there are 1200 steps. I decide not to count.
We pass caves and hollows where early Buddhist monks once lived (Kashyapa evicted them).
Soon we’re on newly-installed staircases, the first zigzagging across the western face, then a spiral straight up for 20 metres to one of the true wonders of this place, the Sigiriya frescoes.
Sri Lanka is a very conservative country. Public displays of affection are frowned on, as are skimpy clothes. But at this midway point, I’m staring at some gorgeous, voluptuous, mostly topless, females.
Fewer than 20 of what archaeologists say was a gallery of 500 portraits painted on plastered cave walls remain.
Up more original steps, wide and unevenly worn, and I’m thrilled to see a plateau up ahead. That wasn’t so bad, I’m thinking, congratulating myself on the ascent.
Wishful thinking: it was only where the gatehouse stood. Back in the day, a giant Sphinx-like lion protected the entrance to the inner sanctum. Only the carved stone feet remain today.
The final rise, up marble steps and then a narrow steel gantry clinging to the rock face followed by more marble steps, is steep. I take it steadily, pausing to take in the view.
A stranger stops beside me, puffing. We swig water and then link arms to take the last few marble steps to the summit. It’s a triumphant feeling to conquer Sigiriya! Kashyapa’s citadel is a rocky ruin – the timber structures rotted away long ago – yet imagination brings the place to life.
I can almost hear the dancers entertaining the king in his throne room, and the splash of water from his rooftop swimming pool.
And if the climb itself wasn’t enough to take the breath away, the 360-degree view from the top does.
Jungle, occasionally broken up by shimmering reservoirs, to mountains on the horizon.
Kashyapa certainly could see his enemies coming. Kashyapa’s rule was short-lived, from 473 to 495 CE. His brother, Moggallana, returned from India with an army of his own and marched on Sigiriya. A battle on the plains ensued but rather than face defeat, Kashyapa took his own life. Moggallana moved the capital back to Anuradhapura and returned the rock to the monks.
IF YOU GO...
Sigiriya is about 100km north of Kandy in central Sri Lanka. There is an entry fee to climb, and the ticket office accepts cash only. Take bottled water to drink. Local men may kindly offer you a “hand up” steep steps. A firm “No, I’m okay” is needed if you don’t want an unplanned guide’s fee.
