Beijing’s Forbidden City: Where Emperors Walked.

Beijing’s Forbidden City: Where Emperors Walked.

April 2010.

Sorry to tear you away from Montenegro folks, but as I reach the halfway point of that series I figure it might be a good time to hit the pause button and return to my China (2009-2010) files.

Time flies, faster and faster as we get older, and somehow I see it’s been over seven months since I published my cross country travels in Tianjin and around the many cities, towns and villages of Shandong Province in the summer of 2009.

Between September 2009 and May 2010, I taught English at a private language school in Beijing. As some of you may recall, I chronicled those teaching experiences in my short story collection Challenged in China. Now it’s time to tackle the next piece of the puzzle: a cluster of location reports on my time exploring the Chinese capital.

It only feels right to kick off with what is arguably Beijing’s biggest draw. Indeed The Forbidden City offers visitors a rare and fascinating glimpse into the beauty and grandeur of imperial China. Once the exclusive domain of emperors and their chosen ones, its vast courtyards, ornate halls, and intricate carvings evoke centuries of dynastic power and ceremony.

Photo courtesy of Wikibphil.

Moreover, this is the world’s largest palace complex. It stands not only as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but also as a symbol of Chinese identity, tradition, and architectural mastery—making it a quintessential stop for anyone seeking to understand China’s history.

Beijing’s Forbidden City: Where Emperors Walked.

Photo courtesy of Haluk Comertel.

I’ll admit, there was a definite thrill in joining the long queue outside the main entrance—The Gate of Heavenly Peace. This, after all, is where Mao Zedong proclaimed the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949.

As if that moment in history didn’t carry enough weight, I could feel the eyes of Mao himself—looming from his iconic portrait—joined by a very real, very stern security guard. I figured I’d better be on my best behaviour.

I had no illusions about how intense visiting The Forbidden City would be. I knew the place is packed almost every day of the year, swarming with tourists. Most are Chinese, travelling from all corners of the country to experience what many see as the symbolic heart of their nation.

I’ve never done well in crowds, so I quickly set off in search of a quiet corner—somewhere I could soak up the history, observe the melee, and discreetly snap shots of my fellow visitors.

Built between 1406 and 1420, it was the Ming Dynasty era Yongle Emperor who announced the construction of the compound. According to historians, no less than one million workers helped build the palace.

Over the centuries, the city-within-a-city grew and grew as the lavish home of 24 emperors. The last of those, Puyi, abdicated in 1912 following the Xinhai Revolution.

The Yongle Emperor.

Upon completion, the emperor’s centrepiece structure was the dazzling Hall of Supreme Harmony. It was also the largest building in the compound, and remained so throughout history. Containing a large throne room, this is where Ming and Qing dynasty emperors performed the rituals of state. We’re talking coronations, birthday bashes, wedding announcements and Chinese New Year ceremonies. 

Let’s be clear, the Hall of Supreme Harmony was not a place of day-to-day governance. Rather, it served as a stage for power, designed to awe and inspire. And that is certainly the effect it had on many of the visitors that day as they pushed and scrapped for photo opportunities through several open doors.

Luckily, I managed to get a shot of my own. It took some nerve, plenty of patience and a bit of luck as suddenly some space cleared and I took my chance. It was cool to see the famous Dragon Throne where, emperors like Xuande, Zhengtong and Jingtai once ruled the roost.

Those last two emperors I mentioned were central players in one of the spiciest chapters of The Forbidden City’s history – a real dynastic soap opera. Let’s start with Emperor Zhengtong, who took the throne in 1435 aged… wait for it… 8 years old.  For the following decade he relied heavily on advisers, but was just starting to become his own man when, aged 22 in 1449, disaster struck.

Beijing’s Forbidden City: Where Emperors Walked.

This was when he led a failed military campaign against Mongol forces that resulted in him being captured at the Battle of Tumu. With the emperor taken hostage, the Ming court back in Beijing found itself thrown into chaos. Ministers panicked at the thought of the Mongols using the emperor as leverage to invade.

Eventually, they decided to simply depose Zhengtong and install his younger brother Jingtai in his place! So technically there were two emperors, what a hoot. Jingtai, who ruled for the next eight years, didn’t do too bad a job, showing strong civil governance and generally stabilising the Ming Dynasty.

However, in 1457 the Mongols released Zhengtong, who promptly staged a dramatic coup. With the help of loyalists, he slipped into the Forbidden City under cover of night, overthrew his brother Jingtai, and reclaimed the throne—this time under a new reign title: Tianshun. As for Jingtai, he died shortly after of a convenient “illness,” though most historians suspect foul play. Would make a great Netflix series.

Among today’s approximately 980 surviving buildings, the Palace of Heavenly Purity is another big draw. Originally used as the emperor’s living quarters, it later became a sort of day office or reception area during the Qing Dynasty years.

Palace of Heavenly Purity.

There is a dragon throne here too, though this one was more functional rather than ceremonial and therefore used for acts of official governance. The sign that hangs above it translates as upright and honest, or just and open, a reference to how the emperor should rule.

There’s more than a little irony behind this bold proclamation. Because just behind the plaque, a succession of Qing emperors hid a sealed box containing the name of their chosen heir.

The tradition was introduced by the Yongzheng Emperor in the early 1730s, part of a secretive protocol designed to prevent power struggles. One can’t help but smile at the thought of the empire’s most closely guarded secret tucked behind a declaration of transparency and honesty.

As I made my way between the various courtyards and halls that day, I witnessed the curious sight of locals reaching out to make contact with some of the many giant bronze water vats on display. These massive cauldrons were fire prevention vessels filled with water in order to extinguish any fires that might break out. Regarding the touching, many Chinese tourists believe physical contact with a vat can bring good luck and wealth.

Water Vat (水缸, shuǐgāng).

As impressive as the courtyards, halls, thrones and bronze vats were, my favourite moments came from simply admiring framed angles of the Forbidden City’s vermillion walls and golden-orange rooftops.

For that, we can again thank the Yongle Emperor, who envisioned the palace as a reflection of cosmic order—an earthly mirror of heaven that reinforced the emperor’s divine status as the son of heaven. The vivid red symbolises happiness, good fortune, and imperial authority, while the glazed yellow tiles represent the centre of the universe in traditional Chinese cosmology.

Finally, my wanderings took me into The Imperial Garden at the northernmost end of the city. Oh my god, if I had thought it was busy before, the garden served up some next level chaos that initially left me startled. Ironically, this would have been the emperor’s oasis of tranquility back when it opened in 1417.

Conceived as a symbolic microcosm of harmony between man and nature, I can’t help but conclude that the emperors would have been disgusted by the prospect of giant tour groups and their flag-waving, loudspeaker-wielding guides. 

Beijing’s Forbidden City: Where Emperors Walked.

Covering around 12,000 square metres, the garden is a carefully curated landscape of ancient cypress trees (some of them curiously deformed), ornamental rockeries, flowerbeds, and winding pebble pathways. Unfortunately, exploring it (and indeed appreciating it in any way) became an impossible task due to the noise and lack of space. A good time, I decided, to cut my losses and exit the compound in search of some dinner.

Like this? Check out more of my location reports from across Beijing.

To travel further afield, why not have a read of my travel articles from all around China.

I’ve also written a collection of short stories called Challenged in China.