Einstein – or perhaps it was Sun Tzu – argued that the subtle is as subtle does. If they are correct, then the very existence of this podcast threatens the salient virtue of Sri Lanka’s most elusive animals with a terrible undoing. But it’s a risk worth taking.

Big, bold, and marvellous though so much of what is immediately encountered in Sri Lanka, more wonderful even than all you might ever encounter here, is everything that at first sight looks most ordinary.

Running alongside its elephants (the biggest in Aisa); its literature (Booker-winning); its literary (stratospheric); its politicians (megaphone-loving); its recorded history (2,500 years and counting); its leopards (larger than most); its spices (flawless), is a rare penchant for subtlety, the one virtue that – of course - dare not speak its name.

Such reticence is remarkable. Alarming, pleasing, it is also, as the Apostle Paul might have said, something that "passeth all understanding, an innate national delicacy wrenched from centuries of struggle, sympathy, fatalism, and plenty.

Wherever you look, you are likely to find a trove of detectably undetectable meanings which, however good or grim, are always so engrossing as to ensure that you need never run the risk of living a life so unexamined as to be barely worth living at all.

And so it is with skinks. They are the most model of model metaphors for the country; symbols for a nuanced elusiveness that is much more inspiring than anything instantly evident. So small as to be ignored; so little studied as to be mysterious; so numerous as to be everywhere, they live a life somewhere between heaven and hell, like semi-fallen angels, perfect for always being not what they seem. If that is, they are ever noticed at all. For Sri Lanka’s skinks have a degree of subtleness that propels that immaterial attribute into the outer galaxy.

Like the Mermaid in far-off Zennor, the island’s skinks live in plain sight, far beneath the radar. Never has there been a more perfect creature to win lasting acclaim as the country’s national animal than this, though the awarding of such an honour would, of course, destroy the very reason why skinks should be chosen to win it at all.

Despite owning 1700 different species around the world, skinks are almost as obscure as sea potatoes. More snake-like than lizards, but with legs that no snake owns, with the face of tiny dragons, the agility of squirrels, and the impish intelligence of chameleons, they live all around us, minuscule glittering version of Rudolph Vanentino: sleek, elegant, nimble, and stylish. They can be seen in trees, rocks, grassland, buildings, jungles, scrub, and on the coast. The very antithesis of McDonald’s and every other soulless global brand, of the 31 skinks that call Sri Lanka home, a colossal 85% are to be seen nowhere else but here.

But a word of warning – for the claim that the island is home to 31 different skink species is to court controversy. Modern science has done its level best to make skink counting almost impossible, given scientists' proclivity for reclassifying anything that ever once moved. Many claim there are 34 skinks here; others, far fewer. It all depends on which monograph or piece of field research can be said to have preceded all others. To make skink appreciation still more impenetrable, scientists have given these petite beasts the most wearisome of Latin names. It is as if some gargantuan global conspiracy born in the Ark itself has plotted to keep skinks out of sight and out of mind. This modest study of island skinks, elaborated here, seeks to repair some of the damage.

Indeed, some skinks do their utmost best to present a rather grungy face to the world, eager to extend and protect their social isolation. The Toeless Snake Skink is an excellent example of this. Despite being well distributed across Sri Lanka, especially in the high forested parts of Kandy, its rather drab black-bronze countenance and complete absence of legs ensure that it is forever overlooked. Taylor's Lanka Skink is no better. Tiny – 43 mm in length and a little more – is endemic and commonplace in areas such as Sinharaja, the Knuckles, Gampola, and Hantana; it is dull bronze with the merest hint of a 5 o’clock shadow down its length. It was named after an obscure Missouri zoologist, Edward Taylor, an honour it shares with nine other reptiles, eleven reptile subspecies, eight amphibians, and a milk snake once rumoured to suck cow’s udders.

Other island skinks, though, are more evidently in the catwalk category. The Common Dotted Garden Skink, happily widespread across Sri Lanka and the Indian subcontinent - even into Vietnam - proves that being common is no deterrent to being quite simply stunning. With its carrot-coloured tail and golden bronze body, it looks as if it has strolled out from the showrooms of Cartier or Bulgari. Indeed, any celebrity empathic enough to adopt one as a pet would have little compunction in not also taking it as a Plus-One to one of the better launch parties to which they are invited. Its striking appearance makes it relatively easy to spot, as does its uncommon size – varying from a tiny 34mm to a titanic 148mm.

Beddome's Skink is another knockout. One of the nicer, albeit unintended, consequences of Richard Beddome setting off for Madras in 1848 to join the East India Company was his discovery of many new species. He was to give his name to a bat, three lizards, a gecko, two skinks, five snakes, a toad, four frogs, five plants, two slugs and a blind worm before retiring to Wandsworth over forty years after he had first made his dreamy adolescent way out east. His collections can still be seen in museums in London, Calcutta and Scotland, the legacy of an admirable naturalist hiding under the cover of an army officer. One of his skinks, Beddome's Skink, is still most easily found right across India and Sri Lanka, a modest 55mm in size and joyfully untroubled by the excesses of the modern world. It has four legs, each with four toes. With the Breton stripe French naval uniform, popularised by Coco Chanel as its distinctive markings, it is well placed at the high-fashion end of skinkdom.

And here it can keep company with Dussumier's Litter Skink. Named for a 19th-century French zoologist, better known for his work on herrings, Jean-Jacques Dussumier’s skink, sometimes called the Litter Skink, is found not just in Sri Lanka but across southern India too, where it lives in most forest habitats below 500 metres. Somewhat solitary and unapologetically territorial, it is a thriving beast of no genuine conservation concern. About 50mm in length, it comes with the most fashionable of appearances. A tapering dark black stipe edges the sides of its body, which is otherwise a speckled bronze, and its tails fade from this into a brilliant tangerine.

Another proven pin-up is Haly's Tree Skink. First discovered in Sri Lanka back in 1887 by an intrepid zoological double act, Haly & Nevill, Haly's Tree Skink later became embroiled in impassioned taxological arguments sparked by sightings of what was thought to be endemic to the island but later found in various parts of India. For decades, the argument went back and forth: it was endemic. No, it wasn’t. Currently, the consensus seems to be that it is – the Sri Lankan variant being sufficiently different to its Indian cousin as to be considered a separate species. But the debate, rather like a grumpy politician in opposition, is bound to explode again, fed by thirsty new findings. Bearing four feet and four toes on each limb, at a colossal 80mm, i...