If Malta artist and writer Kenneth Zammit Tabona had to buy a tea and coconut plantation house and convert it into four sumptuous suites, one of which is so absolutely twee it manages to stand out, he would  write his ‘Hotel Notes’, which form part of the introductory package, exactly as George Cooper, the owner of Kahanda Kanda (KK to friends), did: peppered with exclamation marks, oh-nos (at the monks’ loud Bhuddist exortations around the hills) and much waving of fingers (‘Yes you can use the A/C but do it thoughtfully, not waistfully!”).

Bang in the hills of Angulugaha, a few miles out of Galle, Kenneth is missing but Kahanda Kanda’s George is very much present and regularly welcomes his guests warmly upon their descent from the car. “He hugs rah rah rah” my driver says cryptically and by way of a warning a few metres before we arrived, more than half a smile on his face. Well, George didn’t hug us, which, you know, made me feel a little perplexed. Had I done something wrong? Not followed pre-arrival, hug-attracting guest protocol?

He certainly has not done anything wrong with this stupendous little boutique hotel. The Tamarind Suite, which I stayed in, is a perfect holiday home, in that if we had to spend all my weekends in it, I’d be a very happy gal indeed. It is so much more than a hotel room that for the entire duration of my stay, I could hardly be bothered to go to the infinity pool which overlooks the other side of the plantation.

There is a double basin, a double shower (again from the Guide: “the water supply has its erratic little quirks and at times the authorities unexpectedly cut the electrical power, blaming the water supply when they do!”), a dressing room and a separate toilet. So far, so, regular.

Nonetheless the copious dotting of white porcelain and dark woods with bunches of orange-red frangipani, gardenia, birds of paradise and jasmine flowers over everything from the basket of face flannels to the Egyptian-cotton-lined, mosquito-netted four-poster bed,  makes it all so crisp and deliciously stylish. The dining table is bedecked with flowers in the evening and there is no getting away from their wondrous beauty. It could be New York overlooking Central Park; instead it’s a hideaway corner of Sri Lanka.

The absolute winner is the outside terrace, positioned as it is over the tea plantations. The lounger is made from local bleached wood and decked in light blue and oatmeal striped local linen from Seline (see shopping guide). Yet what is great about it is the trick of all well-constructed sofas, harking back to George’s real metier: interior design. Lie back, read, feast your eyes on the green beyond, listen to the peacocks, watch them in their scores as they fly from one try to the other and stare at the kingfishers. It is like being dropped in the middle of wonderful nature without getting bruised. The birdsong alone is worth the five hour trip it took me to get here from the Yala National Park; being able to watch the birds a kind of heaven.

Some time in the late afternoon, George’s words come to life as the monks across the plantation start to chant. It is fascinating, all-encompassing and all-pervasive. For ten minutes I sit transfixed in the terrace not daring to put those headphones on as if a vision in orange will descend and disapprove.

Then, as quickly as it started the chanting stops and the drums kick in for a few seconds. Then the chanting starts again and this goes on for more than an hour. You see why George could be Kenneth? Take the chanting out and slide in a few festas, the church bells or simply the horn-happy gas man of Malta.  Once it stops I pray (to a Christian god, rather than a Buddhist deity, in order not to make noise) that the silence will last, order supper (European, Thai or Sri Lankan), consider the exorbitant price of a massage ($110 for a Thai) and go back to listening to birdsong.

The colonialists really knew what they were doing when they ‘took’ Sri Lanka: it is heaven, with quirks. Kenneth would love it.