Ten Days in the Land of Bashu: Qingcheng, Mount Emei, Hongya Cave, Huanglongxi, Anju and Longxing Ancient Towns
In the early autumn season, the north was turning to summer while the south had just shed the tail end of humid heat. After the mask mandate was lifted, the whole family had never tested positive. The elderly were frail, like candles fearing the wind, and remained sheltered at home as before. Seeing that all was peaceful around, we took a trip to Bashu. After the long holiday, the number of tourists dropped sharply, and the scenic spots were not overcrowded.
We arrived at Chengdu Tianfu Airport, which is surprisingly far from the city center. Just as we were about to call a taxi, China Southern Airlines offered a free transfer to the city. However, due to many tasks and few staff, it was circuitous and time-consuming, but fortunately we were spared the trouble of carrying luggage up and down.
After checking into the hotel and unpacking, we headed straight to Jinli. The essence of Sichuan and Shu was all gathered here. Pavilions, terraces, and towers; wandering sandpipers soaring high; merchants lined up, visitors streaming like fish. Fragrant orchids surrounded the houses, sweet grass adorned the corners. Flowing streams connected, clouds sealed ancient trees. Adjacent to the Temple of Marquis Wu, ancient buildings crowded together unchanged, allowing modern people to wander as if in olden times.
The next morning, Taikoo Li was still not open for business, almost empty—just what we wanted. European fashion brands, the best in all of Shu, were here. Among the buildings, exotic flowers and rare plants were interspersed, along with chairs, umbrellas, and canopies. The store designs were simple and stylish, with pure colors, consistent style, and exquisite details. Using continuous open spaces to separate complexity and tradition, they fully showcased modern aesthetic concepts.
Green Goat Temple, a Taoist temple, is located in the city center. The sky was gloomy like ink. In front of the main hall stood a seated statue of Laozi on a pavilion-like multi-cornered structure, while the main hall was dedicated to the Three Pure Ones. Carved beams, white walls, green window lattices, and ornamented doors. Cypresses, locust trees, toons, and pines shaded the eaves; clustered bamboo and fragrant plants covered the steps. Worshippers came in small groups, never ceasing throughout the day.
Walking via Qin Tai Road to People's Park, at noon the commercial pedestrian street was resplendent, yet devoid of tourists or diners, like an empty city. People's Park is an authentic portrayal of daily life for Chengdu locals. Bamboo groves, old men like Ruan Ji—everyone seemed to have seen through the world of mortals and advocated pure conversation, their minds wandering beyond the mundane.
Locals call a state of contentment "an yi" (comfortable ease), implying that the greatest satisfaction is not achieving high honors but being undisturbed. This quite captures the essence of Taoist teachings. A contemporary philosophical school also considers idleness as the appearance of freedom—that freedom is freedom from responsibilities and obligations. This is the outward form; among the bamboo groves there are no shortage of Shan Tao types (those who ultimately chose officialdom), otherwise it would have long become a pure land with no one left. Unfortunately, it rained continuously that day, sending the tea drinkers away.
Kuanzhai Alley is a modern retro commercial street with ancient-style buildings skillfully imitating the old. Shop displays dazzled the eyes. Visitors were numerous, but only one in a hundred actually bought anything—prices were probably higher than in the surrounding areas. A local specialty, ear-cleaning, was done by operators who solicited customers with wandering eyes and exaggerated gestures, charging a hefty fee. We had dinner inside the scenic area at normal prices, and there was no noisy neighboring table.
We planned to rent a car the next morning for a five-day trip to Qingcheng Mountain and Mount Emei. The rental company was unwilling to deliver the car during morning rush hour, so it was delivered the night before. Worried about scratches, we were persuaded to buy 500 yuan worth of insurance.
The next morning we drove to the small town of Qingchengshan. The guesthouse was clean and spacious. Breakfast was healthy and hygienic.
In the afternoon, we visited Dujiangyan and the Erwang Temple on the mountain. The smooth-flowing torrent at the Bottleneck shot out violently, crashing against the rocks with a thrilling sound. The source of irrigation water for the plain began here. A millennium-old project, simple in design yet vast in function, still in use today—truly awe-inspiring. On the mountain, there were few tourists; the ancient buildings were old, tall trees provided thick shade, winding paths were lush, black clouds hung low, hiding the sky and the sun, evoking distant thoughts. Beside the South Bridge, the old town of Guanxian was bustling with commerce, shops crowded together, visitors jostling, lights blazing to the sky. A light drizzle fell, bringing coolness into our clothes, and the wet stone road reflected the light, adding a touch of melancholy to our feelings.
Early the next day, the innkeeper enthusiastically drove us to the shuttle bus stop. The cable car was located by a lake; there was a stone path to the opposite shore, but being physically weak from walking, we took a boat instead. The cable car went to the summit. Qingcheng, a mountain of immortals, truly lived up to its reputation—empty peaks harboring a hundred-zhang dragon and snake shadows, springs exuding a thousand-year amber fragrance. Misty rain veiled the scene for several days without clearing. The forest was somber and lush, dark clouds obscured the sun. At the summit, the Laojun Pavilion stood like a sword piercing the sky, its top touching the Milky Way, its roots embedded in the earth. Inside the pavilion, we felt wind under our armpits as if we could fly, lost in reverie, utterly quiet. Stone platforms rose high, ancient trees stood thick and orderly. Halfway up the mountain was the Hall of the Three Pure Ones: layered cliffs and ridges, steep and connected; deep streams and caves, winding and linked; tall forests and giant trees that hid the sun and moon; hanging vines and drooping creepers that wind and mist could pass through. The descending path wound and twisted, clouds and mist thick and heavy, everything dim nearby and far away, cool breezes rustling, dense fog spreading, silent and lonely, desolate and deep.
Qingcheng is known for its serenity. The fine rain felt like a dream—neither here nor gone, both real and illusory. Haze and mist filled the air, the mountain was still, occasional human voices quickly faded away, adding to the solitude. Escaping the mundane and entering a realm of pure spirit, it perfectly matched the Taoist state of wandering beyond the physical world.
Back in the town, we searched online for a small restaurant. The décor was neat and orderly. We ordered local specialties. Throughout the meal, no other customers came in—we wondered how the place could survive.
At dawn we drove to Leshan. When we tried to park, a villager led us to a private parking lot at the north entrance of the park, saving us walking and parking fees, but required we eat at his restaurant. We ordered the famous sweet duck. The Leshan Giant Buddha was under renovation, so we couldn't see it in full; the Dongpo Garden was also closed, yet the ticket price was not reduced. The back hill was cut off, the park split into two, and several Buddha statues charged extra, which dampened our interest.
We stayed overnight in Huangniwan town at the foot of Mount Emei. Many small buildings were built against the mountain, surrounded by green trees, bamboo, and water—yet nine out of ten were empty. Later, some enterprising people turned them into guesthouses. At night, most buildings were dark except for scattered streetlights; the air was fresh and clean, invigorating, cool and fragrant, unforgettable. The picture shows the local specialty "qiaojiao niurou" (tipped beef), but there was actually no beef in it.
Ascending Mount Emei required many steps: first a bus to Leigongping, then a shuttle for 18 km of mountain road, three more li on foot, and finally a cable car. Seeing a taxi soliciting passengers, we hired it to take us from Leigongping to the Wannian Temple village's private parking lot, bypassing the cable car, combining two trips into one, agreeing on 460 yuan. Though costly, it saved time. The mountain roads were steep and perilous, with sheer cliffs and deep valleys, but the small car climbed swiftly.
The summit was a thousand ren high, with steep ridges and endless curves. After huffing and puffing to the top, we saw the four-faced golden statue of Samantabhadra, shrouded in mist, so we couldn't see it clearly. Just as we were frustrated, golden light burst forth—heavenly auspiciousness, myriad rays of auspicious light, as if comforting the sincere. The golden elephant appeared majestic, the jade countenance awe-inspiring, light spreading over the temple, clouds piercing the clear sky. Looking up, the golden statue pierced the blue sky; above and below, light congealed the cosmos. Clouds opened and closed; among the sea of clouds, immortal mountains appeared and vanished in an instant. Looking down from the Golden Summit, lush vegetation, abrupt rocky cliffs with green moss, and high cliffs draped with emerald moss.
On Mount Emei's summit are the Golden and Silver Temples, and a newly added silver Avalokiteshvara temple. Golden towers and silver halls, jade flowers and rare plants. The golden building towered to the blue sky, the silver corridor stretched level to the jeweled courtyards. The treasure building was magnificent, the throne majestic. Inside the Golden Temple hung a luxurious giant crystal chandelier, each crystal fully reflecting everything in the hall, embodying the Avatamsaka Sutra's concept of light intertwining and interpenetrating, manifesting the majesty and splendor of the Dharma realm. But using a crystal chandelier as a concrete metaphor for the interpenetration of all realms seemed both appropriate and inappropriate. There is a hall in Iran with mirrors covering walls and ceiling, also conveying the idea of myriads of realms interpenetrating—with mirrors on walls and many statues and lights inside, it might be closer to the Buddhist intent.
On the way down, we visited Wannian Temple. The long corridor was quiet in daytime, the ancient hall free of incense smoke. We wandered around, seeing no one, only hearing the faint sounds of bells and wooden fish from beyond the clouds. The meditation hall was empty and still, the hidden chamber deep and secluded, fine trees flanked the windows, fragrant herbs lined the steps.
We had heard that the monkeys on Mount Emei are fierce and only afraid of sticks, so we carried sticks while climbing, but saw no monkeys. Some say that even a child's hat can scare them away; we don't know if that's true.
It was still early when we returned, so we drove to Emeishan city for dinner. The streets were clean and wide. We tried "Jiaosan Jiao," a famous local snack: tofu pudding with crispy fried dough twists and tasty pickled vegetables.
Leaving Emei and returning to Chengdu, we passed through Huanglongxi Ancient Town, the Lijiang of Sichuan. Because of its proximity to Chengdu, tourists are continuous and the place is thriving. A stream runs through the town, shops flank it like wings. Between the shops and water, many flowers and stones were arranged, the forest and spring were graceful, flowers dazzled the eyes. Gates and lanes were tidy, houses filled the streets. Green locust trees shaded the paths, green willows hung over the courtyards. White walls and red pillars wound gracefully, upturned eaves overlapping and intertwining. Water pathways crisscrossed, rippling waves, as if natural. I often pondered: what tourists yearn for is what they lack. The beauty of ancient towns lies in their self-sufficiency—an agricultural civilization where people rely on themselves, need not depend on others' whims, pray for good harvests that are largely predictable. In contrast, in a commercial society, everyone is a replaceable part of the social machine; even before getting old or worn out, people feel insecure. If they don't toil and scramble, they can't fill their bellies, and there seems to be no foundation for life.
We stayed overnight in Chengdu, then went to Chongqing the next day.
Huguang Guild Hall: black tiles, yellow walls, deep alleys, tall halls, contrasting with the adjacent high suspension bridge. Hongya Cave, Chongqing's number-one attraction—Chongqing's Jinli—is an ancient street with a new look, eleven stories high. The bottom floor near the river is a road; the eleventh floor is a street-facing level at the back. It's like walking on a giant's body: cars on top, pedestrians on the shoulders, tea drinkers on the instep. Its business is much weaker than Jinli in Chengdu: many empty shops, more unscrupulous vendors. I ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup; after three reminders, they brought a bowl of undercooked noodles, which they then reheated in noodle soup; the chicken soup was nowhere to be seen. At night, it was ablaze with lights like torches lighting the sky, but too many tourists made moving an inch difficult. Many people offered free photo services, but only one in a hundred actually bought anything. Swindlers wandered among the crowd.
Danzishi Old Street: equivalent to Chengdu's Kuanzhai Alley. The blocks are old, the shops trendy. It's laid out along the river in three dimensions; roads are wide, views diverse, many shops but few open, tourists sparse as morning stars.
Longmenhao Old Street: equivalent to Beijing's Dongjiaominxiang—the site of foreign legations during the War of Resistance, now converted into coffee shops.
Shancheng Lane: a cliffside walkway along the river, shops mainly selling arts and culture, the path narrow, the stores compact. The mountain city undulates; every inch of land is used in myriad ways, high and low, turning, cutting, spiraling—everything utilized. This astonishes people from the plains. Mechanics and artisanship: southerners are better than northerners. Cheerfulness and openness: northerners more than southerners.
Zhongshan Fourth Road: equivalent to Beijing's Tiananmen to Zhongnanhai—now the site of the Chongqing Municipal Party Committee and the former Red Revolution meeting sites.
Zhongshuge: an internet-famous spot, on the 6th and 7th floors of a commercial building. The floor plan was deep and winding; hundreds of shops, but only a few were operating—iron gates locked, torn curtains, tables stacked with dust, light streaming through broken windows, echoes in the empty building. Only one elevator was running, and the restroom was far and hard to find.
After dinner at a street stall, we took bus 820 across the city back to the hotel.
We arranged a two-day ancient town tour and rented a car.
Ciqikou Ancient Town: newly built facilities, detailed signs, but few tourists. The guidance on the ancient street was vague and brief, but the street was shoulder-to-shoulder. Many people came to check in, but few bought anything. Located in the city, it's similar to Beijing's Houhai. A few tea houses did brisk business.
Anju Ancient Town: not yet commercialized. The residents are simple, prices low, clean and tidy, tourists rare. The buildings are old, restored to their original state, deep and refined, honest and leisurely. Strolling there felt like walking into a painting. The outer streets have a Southeast Asian style; the modern buildings were probably built by overseas Chinese. On the way to Anju, we encountered road construction, adding two hours to the drive. On the way back, low tire pressure forced us to find a place to pump air, costing another nearly two hours.
The town was fully under renovation: iron scaffolding, plastic netting, piles of sand and dust, no original appearance visible, with only a few buildings occasionally revealed.
Laojun Pavilion: the parking lot is on the mountain, the road narrow yet two-way traffic—sharp turns, steep slopes, and elderly women carrying baskets on their backs. We often had to reverse while hugging the cliff to avoid oncoming cars, or stop mid-climb, seeing only clouds and treetops, unaware of the road ahead.
On the mountain, a blessed and beautiful scene like Penglai; a true cave dwelling formed by pure and turbid energies. Deep valleys and dense forests, sheer cliffs and precipices, hanging shade swaying, rich fragrance, with pilgrims coming year-round.
Shaping Seven-Color Lane: dilapidated walls and doors painted in colors, broken walls and ruined fences made into paintings, to attract photographers. Shaping Park, where Chongqing locals gather, showing authentic local life. Unfortunately, all parking lots inside the park were full, so we left disappointed.
Jiefangbei Pedestrian Street: modern high-rises stand unceasingly, but they are functional buildings that only satisfy needs and desires, unable to house the soul or guide ultimate pursuits. Far inferior to Taikoo Li. The entire block has almost no Western luxury brands, indicating that the West does not consider Chongqing to have aristocratic taste. So we hurried away.
Liziba Lightrail Through Building: land use calculated to the last inch, penny-pinching, became a spectacle, feeding people's fantasy of trains running through their living rooms. Tourists crowded in clusters.
Chengdu is comfortable with an antique charm. Chongqing's high-rises tower like scales on a fish, their number not inferior to Beijing, full of vitality. Comparing the two, Chongqing suits my mindset better.
The entire trip lasted eleven days, costing 13,000 yuan, with transportation and accommodation accounting for 70%.
