Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

January 2010. May 2010. January 2015.

Cover photo courtesy of xiquinhosilva.

I’ll always look back on my two years in the Chinese capital as an unqualified privilege. Over time, I was able to peel back the city’s many layers—meeting its people, ticking off the major sights, unearthing hidden gems, and gorging on unforgettable food.

But I’m mindful that most visitors come for only a few days and with a shortlist of must-sees. If I had to recommend just two, I’d argue there’s a compelling case for putting the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace right at the top.

The Summer Palace’s story begins in 1750, nearly 350 years after the creation of The Forbidden City. Emperor Qianlong, the fifth big cheese of the Qing Dynasty, commissioned its construction as a birthday present for his mother, who was turning 60.

While the Forbidden City served as the emperor’s formal seat of power, Qianlong wanted his summer palace to be a place of leisure, reflection, and familial intimacy. A place to escape, if you will, from the suffocating protocols of court life.

Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

The site was originally known as the Garden of Clear Ripples. Though modest compared to the vast complex it would later become, the core design remains intact today.

At its heart lies Kunming Lake, shaped to evoke the famed West Lake in Hangzhou. Rising behind it, Longevity Hill was formed from the lake’s excavated earth, adhering to the feng shui ideal of water in front and mountain behind — a layout symbolising harmony and stability.

Photo courtesy of Bingar1234.

For 110 years the palace blossomed handsomely. Until, that is, Anglo-French forces looted and burned the compound during the Second Opium War. A period of stagnation followed, and it wasn’t until 1886 that Empress Dowager Cixi rebuilt the whole thing and renamed it Yíhéyuán (Summer Palace).

The project to revive the palace came with great controversy, due to the fact that the empress diverted a whopping 30 million silver taels from the Imperial Navy’s budget to bolster funds for her new luxurious complex.

Although she maintained her official residence in the Forbidden City, Empress Cixi spent long stretches of her later years at the Summer Palace, especially after her semi-retirement from formal politics. This was where she chose to host foreign dignitaries. Where she orchestrated court rituals and entertained herself with opera performances, boating excursions, and garden strolls.

Longevity Hill.

Photo courtesy of xiquinhosilva.

Following the fall of the Qing Dynasty, the Summer Palace opened to the public in 1924. Over the next decades—particularly throughout the 1950s to 1980s—a series of major restoration projects gradually revived its former splendour. In 1998, with much of its grandeur restored, UNESCO recognised the site’s cultural and historical significance by adding it to the prestigious World Heritage List. Hooray!

Photo courtesy of Hermann Luyken.

Curiously, my visit to the palace came on an icy day in January, deep in the dead of winter. With a free afternoon on my hands, I thought, why not? — time to see the old joint for myself.

Stepping into the grounds, I found several of the grand courtyards alive with local activity. Before long, I stumbled upon a group of residents enthusiastically practising Tai Chi, their movements slow, graceful, and utterly unfazed by the biting cold.

In the next courtyard, an impromptu concert stopped me in my tracks — a dozen seniors gathered in a loose semicircle, pouring their hearts into a rousing folk tune. There was no real audience, just me and a scattering of bundled-up grannies perched nearby, swaying gently to the rhythm.

Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

The music was unexpectedly lively: lutes twanged, violins sang, a lone saxophone cut through the winter air. Moreover, a woman at the back kept time with a soft thud of her bass drum.

It was an oddly moving scene — part performance, part ritual — and if any of the players noticed the wide-eyed foreigner lingering in the shadows, they gave no sign. The music wasn’t for applause; it was simply theirs, and I was lucky to catch it.

Reluctantly, I tore myself away to take a look at nearby Suzhou Market Street, which has -to put it mildly- a bizarre history. The street dates back to Emperor Qianlong’s days. During a visit to the city of Suzhou, the emperor had been so charmed by the canal-side storefronts and markets that he ordered a replica to be built within his imperial grounds.

Now, I’m not kidding when I say replica. You see, the market wasn’t a market at all, but rather an illusion designed for the emperor’s amusement. Indeed he would role-play browsing, bartering and buying goods from actors and servants who took on the roles of merchants, herbalists, teahouse owners and other vendors. All so that he could treat himself to a stylised version of “common life”.

Suzhou Market Street.

My original plan was simply to wander the garden paths and see where they led. But down by a pavilion on the edge of Kunming Lake, I spotted a line of locals scaling a precarious stretch of fence.

To my delight, I realised that the lake was frozen solid. I watched as they clambered over onto the ice, picking up a few useful techniques for hauling myself across—along with some unintentionally comic lessons in how not to do it.

Luckily, I managed my own scramble with dignity intact. And it was worth every bit of the effort. Stepping out onto the frozen lake, I breathed in the crisp January air and savoured the hush that blanketed everything.

Half-wondering just how safe it was to be out on the lake—and with Yoko Ono’s eerie Walking on Thin Ice playing in the back of my mind—I drifted casually toward a pair of men who’d come to do a spot of ice fishing.

I’d never seen ice fishing before, so I paused to watch for a while. The men seemed amused by my presence and even invited me to have a go. Sadly, the fish weren’t playing along—not so much as a nibble. We exchanged good-natured shrugs, and I carried on with my exploring.

Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

That afternoon, at the very zenith of the off-season, beautiful yellow and red dragon boats lined the shore. In the summer, they would run hordes of tourists around the lake. But now they were resting, recharging their batteries for the balmy summer days ahead. Among these vessels, I found the iconic (and peculiar) Marble Boat, also known as the Boat of Purity and Ease.

Built at Qianlong’s request in 1755, the Marble Boat was designed as a luxurious lakeside pavilion, styled after a traditional paddle steamer. Despite its name, it wasn’t made of marble at all, but of stone and wood, painted to give the impression of marble. Old Qianlong really did love his illusions.

The boat was badly damaged during the Second Opium War, but fear not, the ever-reliable Empress Dowager Cixi had it rebuilt in 1893. She added ornate European-style mirrors, giving it a flamboyant twist that made it stick out like a sore thumb among the traditional boats moored on the lake.

So… the boat that couldn’t float. According to some historians, its symbolism lies rooted in a Confucian saying: “The waters that float the boat can also sink it”. One might also see this as a warning to rulers about the power of the people and the decline of the Qing Dynasty.

The Marble Boat.

Despite the biting cold, I knew I had to climb Longevity Hill—to see its timeworn structures and claim the sweeping views over Kunming Lake. Rising 60 metres above the northern shore, I made the ascent, passing shuttered pavilions, silent halls, and locked-up temples, their doors sealed for winter.

At last, I paused for a well-earned breather at the Tower of Buddhist Incense, once the emperor’s ceremonial space of worship. Octagonal in design, it reflects the eightfold path of Tibetan-style Buddhism.

As striking as the structure is, I was more captivated by the views from the vast stone terrace beneath it. A low fog had crept in, softening the scene, though I could still make out scattered strings of visitors below, wrapped in January’s silence.

I didn’t get any further that day, but I knew I had to return—if only to see the place in full summer mode. As it happened, I came back on a warm afternoon in May, the sun blazing, the sky a lazy blue. Visually, the transformation was striking: hundreds of visitors wandering the garden trails, and boats bulging with tourists criss-crossing the lake.

Buzzing with excitement, I made straight for Longevity Hill to take in the view—the same sweeping vista once enjoyed by Qianlong and Cixi centuries ago. It didn’t disappoint. This time, Nanhu Island came into sharp focus: the man-made imperial playground where music, puppet shows, theatrical performances, painting contests, and lavish feasts once unfolded in full splendour.

Beijing’s Summer Palace: January Silence, May Heat.

The views stirred me into action—I headed back down to the lake, eager to get out on the water. Steering clear of the sardine-tin dragon boats, I managed to rent a small electric paddle boat for an hour.

It was a joy whizzing across the lake, viewing its iconic landmarks from the water. On foot, the shoreline trails stretch nearly seven kilometres, but by boat, I breezed through them with ease.

Gliding past the eastern shore, I slowed to admire the charming Kuoru Pavilion—a classic Qing creation with sweeping eaves and intricate latticework, its airy, open design welcoming the breeze.

Next, I cruised past the spectacular 150-metre Seventeen-Arch Bridge, the sole pedestrian link to Nanhu Island. With its seventeen arches (naturally) and 544 individually carved stone lions, it’s the palace’s longest—and most iconic—bridge. Come sunset, it’s swarmed with photographers, all vying for that perfect golden-hour shot.

The Seventeen-Arch Bridge.

Having experienced the Summer Palace in both January’s hush and May’s heat, I didn’t expect I’d ever return. But life has its twists, and in January 2015, I found myself once again living in the Chinese capital. When an old friend got in touch to say he’d be visiting, I knew exactly where to take him: back to the old girl.

On that occasion I really took my time—strolling the gardens at leisure, something I’d somehow overlooked on previous visits.

Just as it had been five years earlier, Kunming Lake lay frozen—transformed once more into a winter wonderland for those willing to brave the cold. Fathers and sons skidded across the ice on sledges, while grandparents looked on, sipping hot tea from metal flasks.

From our perch atop Longevity Hill, it was a magical sight. There we stood—two foreigners, quietly trying to make sense of our place in this fascinating, often bewildering country.

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.