Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

May 2010.

I had high hopes for Hong Kong. Partly because—well, it’s Hong Kong. But also because I knew this would be the last hurrah of my 2009-2010 travels around China. Over the preceding year, I’d crisscrossed the country and battled my way through what can only be described as the mother of all culture shocks while living and teaching at a small English language school in Beijing.

This final stop—this vast city with a rich international history—would surely be a piece of cake to navigate compared to the isolated rural outposts I’d found myself in before. Convinced I would almost certainly never return to China (how little I knew), I arrived feeling positively giddy at the possibilities of the four days ahead.

Photo courtesy of Benh Lieu Song.

I’d secured digs at the somewhat surreal Hong Kong Hostel in the trendy Causeway Bay neighbourhood on the northern shore of Hong Kong Island. I say surreal because its dorms were spread across numerous floors of a gargantuan residential tower block.

My own tiny, cupboard-sized room sat next to an equally miniature studio apartment housing a family of four. Before long, I’d gotten used to exchanging morning greetings with the mum and kids as they headed out on the school run.

I knew something was off the moment I arrived. First, there were no signs whatsoever indicating that the hostel was even in the building. Then came the posters in the corridors, openly instructing guests to “please respectfully be quiet as you come and go—this is not a registered hostel!” Another warned that my stay was “at your own risk.”

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

The location, at least, was on the money. I found Causeway Bay to be a glitzy, central district packed with boutique stores, European-style cafes and a wide array of international restaurants. After my recent adventures in the farmlands of Guangxi, it was a treat having so much at my fingertips. 

On that first day I pounded the streets with no particular plan. At the southern edge of Causeway Bay, where it begins to blur into Wan Chai, I was surprised and delighted to stumble upon none other than Leighton Road. Needless to say, I felt compelled to immortalise this auspicious meeting of Leightons.

If that wasn’t enough, I soon realised the road formed part of an unofficial Leighton District, if you will. Next, I spotted a luxurious residential complex called Leighton Hill, set on an actual hill called—wait for it—Leighton Hill. Yes, really. As I passed, a gardener was out front, methodically trimming the hedges by the main entrance.

According to various records, the Leighton in question was a wealthy merchant of the 1840s. He must have been quite the figure in his day, as I also came upon a commercial building called the Lippo Leighton Tower.

Most interesting of all, however, was what I learned about Leighton Hill. During World War II, a number of air-raid shelters were constructed at the foot of the hill, and saw particular use during the Battle of Hong Kong.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

Leaving Leighton Hill behind, the tower blocks grew denser, less polished, and the traffic picked up considerably. Within minutes I was passing the immaculate greens of the Craigengower Cricket Club, where local seniors had gathered for a game of lawn bowls.

Bowls in Hong Kong is a curious legacy of the colonial era, introduced by the British in the late nineteenth century and long associated with the private members’ clubs of expats and wealthy locals.

A few minutes later I paused to take in Hong Kong Stadium, originally built in 1953 as a modest government facility. It underwent a major redevelopment in 1994 and is now a 40,000-seat venue that hosts matches for the Hong Kong national football team, known as Hong Kong, China. The city’s annual Hong Kong Sevens rugby competition takes place here too, along with plenty of concerts.

From the stadium I set off on a long, unhurried saunter to Sheung Wan, home to several sights I wanted to track down. It was quite the walk—around five kilometres—and at my leisurely pace it took a full hour. Halfway, I stopped to buy some fruit and nuts from a street vendor.

Eventually, I reached my first point of interest: the tiny but atmospheric Man Mo Temple on Hollywood Road. Dedicated to Man Cheong, the god of literature, and Mo Tai, the god of war, the temple was built in 1847 as both a place of worship and a community court where locals settled disputes and swore oaths before the gods.

Man Mo Temple.

Inside, it was smoky and dimly lit, the air thick with incense, freshly cut flowers, and overripe fruit. The incense drifted down from large spiral coils hanging from the ceiling, many of which burn slowly for days, if not weeks. A recording of murmured prayers filled the space. I was the only person in the hall.

While I didn’t know it at the time, there are a number of Man Mo temples scattered across Hong Kong, and this is the largest. Outside, in the courtyard, I discovered an arresting, mosaic-like wall of ancestral memorial tablets. Each bore a carved name, dates of birth and death, a short dedication, and a small black-and-white portrait. I took a moment to lose myself in the faces. Lives lived and all that.

A short distance away, I found myself quickly swallowed up in the teeming lanes of Graham Street Market. Dating back to the mid-19th century, it is—some say—Hong Kong’s oldest surviving street market. It grew alongside the city’s early colonial expansion, evolving into a lively wet market supplying fresh meat, fish, fruit, and vegetables to local residents.

Once home to the historic Bijou Theatre (now sadly closed), this is so much more than a street market. In fact, it is considered one of Hong Kong’s most treasured historic and cultural areas. Queen Elizabeth II paid a visit to chat with locals in 1975, and Jackie Chan shot a scene of Rush Hour 2 here in 2001. Terrible film, by the way.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

Set along the steep streets between Central and Sheung Wan, Graham Street Market still remains a fixture of everyday Cantonese life and is one of the city’s most popular lunch and dinner spots.

Having rapidly dispatched a delicious, steaming bowl of fried pork and mushroom dumplings, I realised I was standing beneath a section of the iconic Central–Mid-Levels Escalator. Stretching over 800 metres, it is the longest outdoor covered escalator system in the world.

Opened in 1993, it eased what had once been a steep climb between the main business district and the residential Mid-Levels above. Naturally, I decided to hop on and experience it for myself. As I ascended, there were glimpses of the lively market lanes below, alongside a steady run of advertisements from local businesses.

A little later, I joined the crowds on Nathan Road, Hong Kong’s frenetic shopping artery. Think London’s Oxford Street, and you’ll get the picture. I spent the rest of the day wandering its one-mile stretch, ducking in and out of stores and grabbing the occasional bite.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

Somewhere amid the chaos, a beaming groom-to-be stopped me with a cheerful, “Excuse me—good afternoon! Did you know I’m getting married today?” Dressed in a richly embroidered red jacket and gold waistcoat, he looked every bit the part. He was clutching a wedding book, which he asked me to sign, as a way of wishing him good luck.

An entourage hovered nearby, including a photographer capturing our exchange. It was an unexpectedly warming, if slightly bizarre, encounter—one to file under Only in Hong Kong, I figured.

As night fell, the street’s neon lights flickered to life, and it was easy to see how Nathan Road earned its nickname: the Golden Mile. Enjoying the vibe, I grabbed dinner at a noodle joint before heading back to my cupboard.

Photo courtesy of WiNG.

On day two the goal was to take in a few of Hong Kong’s loveliest green spaces. I began the day at Hong Kong Park, a green pocket carved into the city’s steep hillside.

Opened in 1991 on the former grounds of Victoria Barracks, the space blends colonial remnants with modern landscaping. I’m talking arched brick buildings and old military structures sitting among water features and dense tropical plants.

Photo courtesy of WiNG.

Meticulously kept, with neat lawns, trimmed hedges, and well-tended flower beds, I followed the park’s winding stone paths, passing sculptures, waterfalls, and koi-filled ponds. Its most surprising feature was the Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware—trust the British, eh?—unfortunately closed that day.

Hong Kong Park.

In the distance, the towering Lippo Centre rose seemingly out of the greenery. Completed in 1988 to a design by the American architect Paul Rudolph, locals call the corporate office complex the Koala Tree, due to its protruding, pod-like windows. Which, I suppose, brings to mind koalas clinging to a pair of twin trunks.

Photo courtesy of Craddocktm.

But my Hong Kong Park highlight was the magnificent Edward Youde Aviary. Opened in 1992, it is a vast, walk-through enclosure where birds move freely around and above you. Approximately 600 birdies from across 80 species live here, amid dense plant life, wooden walkways, and a suspended bridge that lifted me up to canopy level.

Sir Edward Youde was a British diplomat and Sinologist (expert on all things China) who served as the governor of Hong Kong between 1982 and 1986. Moreover, he was a keen bird watcher, hence the posthumous dedication.

Free to enter and wonderfully quiet, I stayed awhile to observe some of the most exotic birds I’d ever seen. Remarkably tame, they perched just a few metres away, completely unflustered by my presence.

The Edward Youde Aviary.

On the way out, I came upon a local pensioner asleep on a bench by the exit gate—a perfect snapshot of the park and its aviary.

The moment I arrived at Kowloon Park, I could tell the vibe was wholly different. There were people everywhere: picnicking families, joggers, dog walkers and old men playing chess, in addition to baseball-cap-clad teenagers skating by on all manner of contraptions.

The place positively bristled with energy; a sizeable group dance was even taking place across the main square, set to what I remember as Latino music.

Opened in 1970 on the site of another former British military post—this time Whitfield Barracks—the park has a network of landscaped gardens, tree-lined paths, and ornamental ponds, alongside a large swimming complex.

The biggest crowd in the park that day had gathered to watch a traditional Chinese Lion Dance performance. Accompanied by the steady pulse of drums and the sharp clash of cymbals, performers in bright uniforms moved through a series of choreographed routines, blending elements of dance and martial arts.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

The lion’s head—ornate, wide-eyed, and trimmed with fur—rested briefly between sequences before springing back to life, animated by the movements of the performers beneath. Interestingly, I read that such a performance had taken place on the day of the park’s opening, forty years earlier.

Before leaving, I spent some time photographing people, as clandestinely as I could. Sometimes with great success…

…other times far less incognito than I would have liked.

Day three took me to Victoria Harbour, one of the world’s great natural harbours—alive with ferries, cargo ships, and traditional junks. Framed by forested hills and a forest of glass towers, it played a central role in Hong Kong’s rise as a global trading hub under British rule.

It was here that I meandered along the curious Avenue of the Stars, Hong Kong’s answer to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. First opened in 2004 and revamped in 2019, it celebrates the city’s rich cinematic heritage, with handprints and tributes to its legendary figures.

Avenue of the Stars.

Admittedly, I couldn’t help but giggle at some of the names: Sir Run Run Shaw and Li Tit to name a few. Not being an expert on Hong Kong cinema, most of the names meant little to me, though I did get a kick (no pun intended) out of tracking down Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan.

That evening, I stepped out of my comfort zone for a night of horse racing at Happy Valley Racecourse. I had never seen live racing before, and while I wouldn’t call myself a fan of the sport, I was greatly into the British Grand National as a kid—so I thought, what the heck.

Dating back to 1846, this iconic venue sits tucked beneath a ring of towering high-rises in the Happy Valley neighbourhood, just inland from Causeway Bay. Unfortunately, the weather didn’t play ball—it was raining—though I did manage to acquire an umbrella from a friendly steward.

I placed bets on six races that night and watched each one with mounting anticipation. I had already resigned myself to losing, and that’s exactly how it played out—not so much as a second or third-place finish to celebrate. Still, I enjoyed the evening greatly, not least for the chance to observe the local punters.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

They were exclusively older men, rows and rows of them sat shoulder to shoulder, hunched over newspapers dense with form guides. They circled names and made notes, silently working through their calculations with an intensity that felt almost ritualistic. Nobody ever smiled, so it was hard to tell whether anyone had enjoyed a successful night.

I really went for it on my last day. Dragging myself out of bed just after sunrise, I set off for Lantau Island—a journey that took me by MTR and then on a thrilling 25-minute ride on the Ngong Ping 360 Cable Car.

It lifted me out of Hong Kong’s glass jungle, over the airport, and into the deep green folds of the island. From there, it was a mere ten-minute walk to the base of the staircase leading up to the Tian Tan Buddha.

The 268 steps took me to the humongous statue better known as The Big Buddha. Seated in calm permanence above the Ngong Ping plateau, it is one of the largest seated bronze Buddhas in the world. Its name, Tian Tan, refers to the Altar of Heaven in Beijing, while the design blends spiritual reverence, imperial symbolism, and a sense of cosmic order. Groovy.

The Buddha’s scale is undoubtedly impressive, but for me it was the sense of calm up on the viewing platform that appealed the most. Facing north, the Buddha seemingly sits watching over the mainland, his right hand raised in a gesture of reassurance: “It’s going to be ok, people.”

The Big Buddha.

Around him stand six smaller bronze devas—celestial beings drawn from both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. Furthermore, each presents an offering—flowers, incense, music, ointment, fruit, and a lamp—in quiet devotion to the Buddha. Together, the arrangement is known as The Offering of the Six Devas.

Beyond the devas, meanwhile, the view opens across lush green mountains, dominated by the towering form of Lantau Peak. At 934 metres, it is the island’s highest point—and just looking at it made me wish for one more day so that I could hike its slopes.

From there, I jumped on the number 21 bus, which wound its way down the western side of Lantau, hugging green slopes and treating me to occasional flashes of coastline. Along the way, the road twisted through drowsy communal pockets, before eventually descending into the fishing town of Tai O.

Often referred to as Hong Kong’s last traditional fishing outpost, Tai O is a place where daily life clings to the water. Here, stilt houses stretch across tidal flats, their weathered wooden frames at times looking as though they might topple altogether.

I took a walk down the so-called main street, which was little more than a collection of market stalls, a cafe and several restaurants.

Once Upon a Time in Hong Kong.

Most of the stalls specialised in dried seafood snacks: shrimp, squid, scallops, and starfish—stacked in trays and sealed into clear plastic bags. They were certainly odd-looking, their colours ranging from pale ivory to soft pink and deep amber. No, I didn’t feel particularly tempted.

I decided to stop into the cafe and rest for a bit. The air carried that unmistakably salty tang as I sat by the water with my coffee, watching fishermen’s boats coming in and out.

Back into the streets, my wanderings took me to a number of quiet residential lanes beyond the main stretch. They felt wonderfully authentic, with mums hanging up laundry and children playing with their toys in open doorways. In several yards, instead of laundry, fish had ben hung out to dry.

In another, a man sat patiently mending a section of his fishing net.

Before long, I came upon a sign advertising boat tours around the Pearl River Estuary. I did not hesitate in grabbing a ticket for the next cruise. What followed was a delightful forty-minute chug that took in the mountains, a fine view of the Big Buddha and, most delightful of all, a few fleeting glimpses of jumping dolphins.

Pearl River Estuary.

Back in Tai O, another bus—this time the No. 11—carried me to Cheung Sha Beach in a swift thirty minutes. The sands lay almost entirely deserted, and my long walk along its largely unspoilt stretch soon became the highlight of the day.

In fact, the experience was so perfect that I chose to walk all the way to the jetty town of Mui Wo, from where a ferry would carry me back to Hong Kong Island. It took around an hour and a half, and although I savoured every second, there was a quiet sense that the fading light was carrying my time in Hong Kong—and China as a whole—away with it.

It was dark by the time I reached Mui Wo. I had eaten little all day and was ravenous. So with an hour to spare before the next boat, I found a restaurant overlooking the water and settled in for a grand farewell dinner to China. The very next day I would be returning to Europe—to Amsterdam—where an entirely new chapter, both professionally and personally, lay in wait.

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