Exploring Misty Yangshuo.

Exploring Misty Yangshuo, Guangxi Autonomous Province, China.

May 2010.

Cover photo courtesy of Chensiyuan.

As I arrived in Yangshuo—so often described as the most beautiful place in China—I carried a quiet caveat with me. It was something I’d read in a travel guide months earlier: this might be the most spectacular thing you see in the country… so long as the weather cooperates.

Ah, nuts.

The rain began halfway through the hour-and-a-half bus ride from Guilin. By the time I stepped off and tried to get my bearings, the streets were already partially flooded.

Luckily, my hotel was close. I took a shower, dried off and paused to rethink the day. The plan had been simple: hire a bike and head straight out into Yangshuo’s rural backroads. But the rain had other ideas—now falling hard and relentless.

There wasn’t much to do but shrug it off, keep disappointment at arm’s length, and wait for it to ease. Within the hour, it did, and I took my opportunity to take a stroll around town.

Yangshuo’s story stretches back over 1,400 years. Formally established as a county during the Sui Dynasty, when the region was drawn into China’s administrative system, for centuries it remained a drowsy backwater sustained by farming and river trade.

Exploring Misty Yangshuo.

Today Yangshuo is home to around eighty thousand people. Its modern identity as a tourist destination took shape in the 1980s, as travellers—both domestic and foreign—began drifting in, drawn by its surreal karst landscape and low cost of living.

Wherever I wandered that afternoon, those karsts were ever-present, rising above the town—including at the market, where vendors peddled souvenirs, handmade crafts and local snacks. Even here—low and close—the peaks loomed, half-lost in mist, setting the tone for the adventures that lay ahead.

As I made my way down West Street, a man passed with a bamboo yoke, a basket brimming with freshly picked produce. He glanced back once, then carried on—a charming reminder that Yangshuo is still a working town that holds on to some of its old ways.

It didn’t take long to make a full loop of the town. As pretty as Yangshuo is, there wasn’t much to it back then. When the rain returned, I ducked into a cosy café with a traditional wooden façade. Later, I wandered through a landscaped garden and along a quiet, water-facing street by the Li River.

Rain, Rain, Go Away…

Eventually, I found myself at a restaurant and cooking school called Cloud 9. A well-known local institution, often said to be the best in town for regional dishes, it didn’t take long to book a class with one of their chefs—Jane.

As Jane explained, Cloud 9 gives visitors the chance to prepare a traditional three-course meal. Presented with a range of options, I decided to try my hand at deep-fried stuffed eggplant with pork and stuffed green peppers with pork, before finishing with sizzling beef and mixed vegetables.

Before we began, Jane explained that we’d first head to the local farmers’ market to pick up the ingredients. It was vast—three covered halls housing more than two hundred vendors. She knew exactly where to go, guiding me efficiently from stall to stall as we picked out the freshest peppers and choice cuts of beef.

In truth, it wasn’t a pretty place. Along the way, I spotted plenty that did little to whet my appetite for the meal ahead. One stall specialised in pig’s ears—tray after tray of dark, rubbery slabs that turned my stomach.

Yangshuo Farmers’ Market.

On the way out, we passed a small, cramped side room packed with caged animals. I wish I hadn’t seen it. Rabbits, ducks, geese and chickens—piles of them. My heart sank when I caught sight of the dogs, and the images stayed with me long after we returned to Cloud 9.

Back at the restaurant, Jenny insisted I put on one of their branded aprons and a somewhat ridiculous chef’s hat. Then she guided me through each dish with patience, care, and good-natured humour at my shaky knife work.

I sliced carrots, chopped chives and diced onions, doing my best to cut the pork into fine strips—a point Jenny was particularly strict about. “Finer!” she insisted, again and again, as I flailed.

I cut the eggplant into open pouches and added teaspoons of salt, sugar, white pepper, cornflour, oyster sauce and the meat, before dipping them into Jenny’s pre-made batter and lowering everything into the hot oil of a waiting wok.

At long last I took my first bite—a satisfying reward for the effort.

Emboldened by my eggplant success, I muddled through the stuffed peppers and sizzling beef before retreating to the balcony to tackle it all as best I could. There was so much food I had no chance of finishing it all, though I certainly gave it my best shot.

Exploring Misty Yangshuo.

My second day in Yangshuo was also my last, so there were no excuses for avoiding the bike trails. It was now or never—even if Mother Nature chose to throw rain, snow, hail, thunder and lightning at me.

I woke early, grabbed a light breakfast, and headed to a bike hire shop to choose a trusty steed. Pedalling down West Street, I was struck by how quickly—within fifteen minutes—the town fell away, and I found myself deep in the rural heartland of Yangshuo County.

Misty, moody and with the rain just about holding off, I suppose I could consider myself lucky with how things turned out that day. The peaks, though partly shrouded, were breathtaking —sheer, green-cloaked towers pushing up from the earth at improbable angles.

Pausing occasionally to catch my breath and take photo after photo, I cycled onwards, passing narrow streams, wooden farmhouses and patchworks of rice fields. While I did not come upon one other cyclist, I did spot a number of farmers working the land.

Exploring Misty Yangshuo.

About an hour into my ride, I reached the tiny village of Xiatang—a farming community of little more than a dozen weathered homes set among rice paddies and vegetable plots. Beside a slow, meandering stretch of the Yulong River sat a cluster of bamboo raft stations. With no one else around, the dozen or so vendors quickly turned their attention to me.

I chose the least pushy of them—a quiet, smiley man with a gentle manner—who helped me and my bike aboard before easing us out into the murky green waters of the Yulong. Ahead, the misty karst peaks seemed to beckon.

As we floated lazily down the Yulong, I couldn’t stop grinning. The weather hadn’t quite turned out as I’d hoped, but this felt like one of those undeniably special travel moments. Here I was, in the middle of nowhere, suspended in a landscape so unique and serene it more than made up for those long, difficult months working in Beijing for Trudy.

Those towering karsts—positively Tolkien-esque—came and went as we drifted downstream. For the most part, we saw very few other rafts, though one passed by carrying a father and daughter. I managed to catch a sneaky shot of the girl gazing pensively into the distance.

On the Yulong.

I also got a huge kick out of a floating café and convenience stall, improbably moored in a quiet, hard-to-reach bend of the river. It felt almost absurdly isolated. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the woman running it, and wondered how many customers she saw in a day. In the end, I asked my captain to steer us over so I could at least buy a bottle of water.

Finally, my raftsman dropped me and my bike back in Xiatang, from where I cycled on to the nearby village of Yulong. The place was tiny—almost a replica of Xiatang, but without the raft stations. It did, however, have one landmark worth seeking out: the characterful, Ming-era Yulong Bridge.

Built from locally quarried stone, this single-arch structure has served locals for centuries as a crossing point between the Yulong’s many settlements. That afternoon, the bridge was busy, with locals flurrying to and fro. I settled into a quiet spot and watched them come and go, capturing a few sneaky shots.

Down by the Yulong, I happened upon a shack restaurant with a few plastic tables and chairs. The proprietors: mum, dad and daughter, were washing chicken carcasses in the water. It was hardly the most appetising scene and yet it did remind me how hungry I’d become.

Exploring Misty Yangshuo.

Against my better judgement, I decided to give the place a chance. Bolder still, I ordered a large bowl of what the English menu described as Rustic Chicken. It arrived chopped and bone-in, swimming in a dark, garlic-and-soy sauce with flashes of green pepper and spring onion. It was simple, indeed rustic, unmistakably local, and—most importantly—delicious—far better than my blurry photo suggests.

It took me just over two hours to get back to Yangshuo town. I dropped off the bike, grabbed a bite and a beer at Cloud 9, and enjoyed an early night at my hotel. The next day would bring a trip out to two of Guangxi’s most historic and culturally distinctive mountain towns—and the small matter of the iconic rice terraces that wrap around them.

Until then…

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