A Seven-Day Self-Drive Journey to Lijiang and Dali
I have long admired the southern border city of Lijiang, where all four seasons are like spring. As spring deepens, the cloudy air warms; the land is remote, the moonlight shines brightly. This longing has lingered in my heart for a long time, a devout wish. When the spring breeze was gentle and all things revived, I took my wife to Lijiang. The ancient streets spread out, leisurely and serene, offering immersion in exotic cultures. Natural wonders like Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, Shangri-La, Lugu Lake, and Cangshan-Erhai Lake shimmer like drifting clouds and gathered shadows, but they were not the top priority; they were physically demanding and not on our itinerary. Ruili was in lockdown due to the pandemic, causing tourist numbers in Yunnan to plummet, while shops and mountain town scenery remained unchanged, making our trip relaxed and easy—like swimming in a river without crucian carp, exploring a forest of silent emptiness. However, from the start I developed mouth ulcers, so I couldn't taste food well, feasting more on scenery and missing out on delicacies.
When the plane landed, we first headed to Shuhe Ancient Town, chosen for its secluded tranquility and unspoiled ancient charm. At noon, accompanied by our innkeeper, we dined at a Dai cuisine restaurant near 'Flying Flowers Touching the Water'. Tall trees were covered in blossoms, their fragrance drifting everywhere. The meal came without knives or chopsticks; we ate meat, fish, grains, and tubers with our hands. A meal for two, costing 120 yuan, was generous enough to feed three.
Shuhe Ancient Town nestled in the mountains, with uneven flagstone paths, hardwood walls, and tiled roofs; the houses were scattered and irregular in form. Green trees and verdant vines intertwined. Secluded from distant visitors, only the water flowed endlessly through the streets. Doors were shaded by jade-green cypresses, houses close to green hills. Mountains and rivers scattered pure blossoms, courtyard trees bore crimson growth. Pines murmured in the woods, springs sang on rocks, misty light played over grass, and clouds reflected in the water's heart. Few tourists wandered, sunlight piercing through the shadows, birds chirping softly, the vegetation showing no sign of fading. The place seemed naturally humble, not competing with the world. Living here, one could till clouds and fish for the moon—a hermit's life to boast of. Staying long, one's quiet mood would be as deep as the sea, a hazy moon appearing on the window lattice. In the town center there was a pond, surrounded by pavilions and guesthouses, with catalpa trees and wisteria on both sides. Basking in the sun, looking at fish and birds, the water and trees were bright and serene, suddenly evoking the joy of watching fish from the bridge—a sense of harmony between self and surroundings.
The next day, renting a car cost about 200 yuan per day all-in. Our first stop was Wenhai, a mountain reservoir and local drinking water source, closed to the public. We took some photos from afar and left. On the way, we passed Fuguo Temple, a majestic Tibetan Buddhist temple. Vases held celestial flowers, brocade-like trees shimmering around the sacred hall; incense burned, fragrant clouds drifting through the clear sky.
The second stop was Baisha Ancient Town, the origin place of the Naxi people, with rows of dilapidated houses. Not yet heavily commercialized, the simplicity of farming life was evident. For example, at lunch, the shopkeeper was engrossed in their phone, or staring upward, answering only one out of three questions. I put on Naxi attire, amusing myself in disguise, swaggering through the streets, trying to blend in. Later, when I encountered police checking cars by the roadside and they saw my outfit, they waved me through. Whether I had successfully passed for a local chief or they had a keen eye and recognized me as a tourist in borrowed clothes, I'll never know. It reminded me of a time in an Arab country when I wore a headscarf, sunglasses, leather sandals, and a robe, only to be recognized, with people gathering around me, shouting and laughing—I never figured out what gave me away.
The third stop was Xuehao Village, recently renamed Yuhu Village—later I suspected they might be two places and visited again. The village was near the snow mountain, with cold wind sweeping over the ridge. The foot of the village was bustling, the upper part imposing. Village women persistently followed visitors, urging them to ride horses; when refused, they looked displeased and muttered under their breath. The houses were built from mountain stones, giving a desolate and quiet feel, with crumbling walls and a bleak atmosphere. The villagers seemed dazed and indifferent. Books speak of ancient recluses living in seclusion, singing with full bellies, but now I find it not so; having long settled into customs, they've become apathetic, like lumps of clay and wood.
Early next morning we drove to Shigu Town, home to the First Bend of the Yangtze River. The small town was vast like a valley, wild and endless. Several scenic spots were locked, requiring permits; a nearly deaf person demanded all sorts of checks and registrations, which was annoyingly tedious. We finally gave up and looked elsewhere. The First Bend of the Yangtze River had a gentle curve, looking plain and unremarkable.
On the way back to Lijiang, we chanced upon the Ancient Tea Horse Road, where three streams converged, locally called Maojin Land or Three-Valley Water. Entrance fee was 40 yuan, electric cart 50 yuan. Able-bodied visitors could walk on their own, no need for the cart. Winding down the mountain, there were few tourists. Clear springs flowed through winding ravines, ancient trees leaned against deep cliffs. The woods were lush, white ribbons of waterfalls cascading, a blue lake reflecting the scenery, mist and rosy clouds forming a world of their own. Water washed over rocks and ruined walls; tall trees on the shore pierced the sky, high branches bearing the sun. Spring water emerged to the right of a mountain hut. Visitors strolled around, evoking the hermit's joy of picking ferns on West Mountain.
We arrived at the Naxi Ethnic Culture Park, which was very large, but it was almost 3 p.m. and there wasn't enough time to explore, so we left without entering.
Passing Yufeng Temple, the main gate was closed, forcing us to take a detour through shops and a long walk. Hawkers kept pestering us. At the temple gate, a nun demanded an entrance fee of 17 yuan. We had no cash, and mobile payment required submitting ID for verification; otherwise, she refused entry with a wave of her hand. Enlightenment vanished, irritation flared, and we left in anger.
The next day we drove to Dali, passing first through Shaxi Ancient Town. The mountain road was steep and winding with nine turns. The ancient town huddled beneath towering rocky cliffs, with roads clinging to the mountain and a stream by the shore. Mountain woods, springs, and rocks, white clouds, and clear breeze. White houses and simple gates hid traces of secrets.
Next, we passed through Xizhou Ancient Town, close to Dali, bustling with people yet retaining its ancient charm. It clung to authenticity, clear and tolerant. Despite its prosperity, it remained serene and detached.
We arrived in Dali in the afternoon. Viewing Dali Ancient City from Lijiang's perspective, its architecture was uniform and stylistically consistent, emphasizing rules, order, and grandeur, but lacking freedom, vitality, and imagination. Compared to Han imperial cities, however, it was still delicate and beautiful, with crowds of people and dense floral shadows.
We stayed at a guesthouse with modern architecture, whitewashed walls and stone floors, lush with flowers and plants.
In the early morning before heading home, we visited the Three Pagodas of Chongsheng Temple. The temple was solemn and magnificent, with uneven pines and bamboos. Precious buildings stood majestic, thrones lofty. Buddha halls rose above the clouds, monks' quarters silent under the moon. Rose clouds swirled around towering pagodas, green trees shaded clear revolving sutra repositories. I wonder where Jin Yong found inspiration for the duel between the Duan clan monks and Jiumozhi.
On the way back we passed Shuanglang, an ancient town near Erhai Lake, where clouds rose over steep peaks, and blue water bore fairy traces. Houses old and new stood side by side, pleasing to the eye. At Gaozhuang's old residence, there were square ponds and round pools; spring water flowed like shattered jade, ground flowers piled like gold. Wind opened white plum blossoms, spring broke red crabapple buds. At noon we dined near Erhai Lake, sumptuous yet affordable.
In the evening we settled into Dayan Ancient City. For the remaining days, we returned the car and strolled around, resting our minds in Dayan. Dayan, the premier ancient town, had no equal. Within it was Mufu, built when the Naxi chieftain submitted to Han rule; descendants of the Qiang tribe, they also revered Confucianism. The palace opened with purple aura soaring high, wind blowing phoenix figures on the eaves up to the blue heaven.
In brighter spots within the mansion, when clouds cleared, one could gaze at snow mountains, high and cold, evoking the image of living in rocky caves and sleeping among snow and clouds. Precious flowers and trees, centuries old, their shadows clustered, blocking the sun and clouds. Davidia involucrata was in full bloom, white flowers like doves ready to fly. This garden was the farthest point reached by Xu Xiake; his funds exhausted, servants dispersed, penniless and destitute, he was given money by the Naxi chief to return home.
In the garden, rose bushes formed forests, covering treetops with fragrance everywhere, the paths intensely aromatic. Tamarisk trees bloomed, their flowers scattered like clusters of bells.
Outside Mufu, the ancient town had scattered woods and distant mountains, clear water winding through ravines in front of houses. Layered roofs with upturned eaves, flying eaves brushing clouds, painted with bright colors and plain details. Connected buildings rose at different heights, arranged neatly. The town had water running from north to south, with various pavilions and halls by the water's edge, flying bridges over the water, mixed trees casting shade on both sides. Flowing water surrounded the area, with high mountains on either side. Paths paved with colored stones, rare flowers growing along the edges; balustrades carved with railings, exotic plants sprouting beyond them. Trellises of roses reflected in the Peony Pavilion; platforms of hibiscus connected to the Peony Garden.
Markets and streets abounded with goods, thousands of households thriving in business. Outside doors, rare flowers spread brocade; by bridges, jade-like grass emitted fragrance, flowers competing in beauty, grass vying in fragrance. Lijiang, backed by steep mountains, with high roofs reaching into the sky and hanging eaves suspended in air, overlooked flat forests, smoke and haze below, land and water peaceful—a true refuge. At sunset, the Milky Way appeared, the jade-like sky spotless. As the sun sank behind the ridge, lights shone together. No trace of pure blossoms, evening glow hard to capture. Layer upon layer of splendor, intricately delicate. Dayan was noisy at night, taverns resounding with song and laughter, flower-decked buildings brimming with joy. Though the pandemic reduced crowds, prices dropped accordingly, yet the six streets still had songs and drums, a thousand doors reflecting the moon, ten thousand houses filled with fragrant breeze. This trip offered both spacious convenience and enchanting bustle, satisfying my heart; I returned home content and happy.
