Holding Hands, Strolling Together: A Trip to Qingshan Lake with My Parents
Young people often don't understand why the elderly like to go out on holidays or weekends; it's really to feel the bustle and distract themselves from missing their children and grandchildren. So when my parents suddenly announced they wanted to go out on their own during National Day, I worried about the two of them traveling alone with all the traffic and crowds. I racked my brain for a place near mountains and water where we could stay together. My mother can't sit in a car for too long, and the highway jams over the holiday are unpredictable, so Qingshan Lake popped into my head first—just over an hour's drive, and if the highway is jammed we could take the expressway. Through connections, someone recommended the Zhigan Kongjian B&B.
The National Day price wasn't cheap, but within an acceptable range. What quickly won me over: first, it has an elevator, solving the problem of my mother wanting a higher floor but being unable to climb stairs; second, the spaces are large and the facilities new; third, it's not on a main street, with few rooms and very quiet; fourth, my parents prefer a homey B&B vibe over a hotel. Popular as it was, by the week before the long holiday there weren't many choices left. After checking Baidu Maps' street-level views and comparing floor plans on Ctrip, I picked two remaining rooms with balconies and king beds: "Autumn Rhyme" on the 4th floor and "Mediterranean" on the 3rd. "Autumn Rhyme" turned out to be a suite with a mahjong room—a bit wasted on us non-players—but the converted attic and terrace were wonderfully spacious. My old father wrote his manuscript on the mahjong table, I scribbled my travelogue, and my mother practiced the short-video editing she'd just learned at her senior university. Three cups of tea, two laptops, a few snacks—pure bliss. Although it was scorching outside, two air conditioners working together kept things cool. The Mediterranean room looked far more stylish in real life than in the online photos.
The shower enclosure's design always made me think I should put a few lizards in there, and I regretted not bringing Douya and Douhua, our two little turtles, to have a stay.
The road outside the B&B was lined with restaurants offering practically identical menus; the only differences were décor and how enthusiastic the waitstaff were. At noon we picked the nearest one, Huahua Restaurant. Ordering for three was a challenge—every dish came in huge portions, and you couldn't get a half-order. Four dishes left us stuffed well into the afternoon. That evening we planned to stroll by the lake, so we wanted an early dinner, but none of us was hungry. We dragged ourselves out listlessly, and the owner of Yuanweijia Restaurant came over to drum up business. At the roadside we asked, "Do you have noodles?" and amid a chorus of "Yes, yes, yes," we happily climbed the steps. We hesitated for two seconds over the elegant outdoor seats before surrendering to the air-conditioned coolness indoors. It was a bit noisy. We ordered vegetable noodles, sesame greens, and a recommended wild-vegetable spring roll. Thanks to a chef with a mind of his own, he substituted the greens with pickled mustard greens, which made the noodles even more delectable and, paired with the sesame greens, satisfied my mother's insistence on leafy greens at every meal. The lakeside breeze at night was delightfully cool, a crescent moon overhead and no stars in sight. One round-trip walk and we were drenched in sweat. The old saying is so true: you worry about your children even when they're a hundred. Though I'm a middle-aged woman nearly fifty, my mother insisted on staying with me because she was afraid I wouldn't be safe alone. I worried about my father staying solo in his room too, but there was no arguing with a mother, so I happily gave in.
In the early morning, opening the window brought a fresh breeze and a noseful of crisp air. The layered, ink-wash hills served as a backdrop for a charming jumble of little buildings with grey roofs and red walls, or red roofs and white walls—so full of life. The night before, we'd arranged to have breakfast at 7. The owner and her daughter rose early and bustled about. The breakfast spread was exquisite: the millet porridge was perfectly thick and smooth, there were milk and soy milk to choose from, meat buns just the right size, and delicious side dishes.
The next morning we headed to the lake. The dock started selling tickets at 8: a boat ride was 80 yuan, admission to the Water Forest Park was 40 (half-price for over-60s, free for over-70s), and there was a National Day combo ticket for 100 yuan. We were the first visitors. A notice said the boat wouldn't depart until there were 16 people, but the wait wouldn't exceed 30 minutes. By 8:30, a medium-sized boat with over 50 seats carried just the 13 of us out onto the water. We casually sat down on the left side, and once we'd set off the boatman told us to switch to the right, as those seats were shaded from the sun. No matter—there were so few of us, we could sit left or right as we pleased, and all of us got shaded seats with great views. The boat ride took just over ten minutes, a pleasant breeze the whole way.
The moment you enter the scenic area you see water cypresses of all sizes half-submerged in the water. A bird's-nest-shaped viewing platform was quite striking, and I couldn't stop taking photos of my parents—one here, another there. As we descended the steps and went deeper in, I realized I'd started snapping too soon. A wooden boardwalk over the water led us through constantly changing scenes: suddenly an open expanse of lake, or an unexpected man-made vignette. My whole impression of a water forest kept refreshing: here emerald duckweed against lush cypresses under a blue sky, there water cypresses hung with pink-green seed cones mirroring the water caltrops below. People in colorful life jackets paddled kayaks among the cypress trunks, animating the water's surface. Even my parents, usually highly critical of scenery, were full of praise.
The return boat was in a classic, old-fashioned style, and again not crowded. The outbound route circled a small island clockwise before bringing us back to shore. It was nearly 11 by the time we landed. We searched nearby and found a well-reviewed restaurant called Yuyuan by the dock, but when we arrived there was only one big table, and it needed to be reserved in advance. The chef and owner, true embodiments of gracious hospitality, explained apologetically that they couldn't offer stir-fry dishes, but very kindly asked if we'd be content with wontons or dumplings. Partly because my parents were a bit tired from walking, and partly drawn by the elegant surroundings, we ordered three bowls of wontons—38 yuan a bowl, stuffed with pork and scallion, mild at first bite with a wonderfully lingering aftertaste. Back in our room that afternoon, we rested and I wrote furiously (on my travelogue).
Dinner was just a task to tick off; we didn't head out until the first streetlights came on. Restaurants along the road flashed neon signs, beckoning the throngs of tourists. Many places didn't serve noodles, so we had a simple meal at Yuanweijia again. Afterward we strolled lazily, then sat for a while in the courtyard. The warm October night breeze made us drowsy, so we retired to our rooms.
On the third morning I got up early for a run. The lakeside greenway was bustling with cyclists, joggers, anglers, and photographers, all catching the fleeting beauty before heading home. The Qingshan Lake scenic area management even uses new technology for finding parking spots and managing public restrooms.
