In Leshan, the Emei Mountain Wulan Resort Hotel is a must-visit to experience local culture

## Mountain Retreat Notes: Three Days at Emei Mountain Wulan Resort Hotel

I had always thought hotels were merely places to rest during travels—until I spent three days at Emei Mountain Wulan Resort Hotel and realized that even the concept of "staying" has its own levels of refinement.

I arrived in the evening. The car wound through countless mountain curves, and just as I began to suspect the driver had taken a wrong turn, a few lights flickered through a bamboo grove, revealing the hotel quietly nestled within. The architecture was unassuming, tiered along the mountain slope with black tiles and white walls, exuding the modest elegance of a hermit's retreat. Stone lanterns illuminated the entrance, casting slender pine shadows across the bluestone path.

The front desk was staffed by a clear-eyed young woman who handled check-in without unnecessary chatter, simply handing me a key card and a hand-drawn map detailing the hotel's facilities and nearby trails. Her quiet efficiency felt more welcoming than any overeager hospitality.

My room was at the far end of the top floor. Stepping inside, I paused in surprise—one entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window framing Emei Mountain at dusk like an ink-wash scroll, mist drifting across its slopes, occasionally revealing glimpses of emerald peaks. The room was sparsely furnished: a low tatami bed, a rustic wooden table and chairs, and an iron kettle with tea set in the corner. Instead of a TV, a thread-bound copy of *The Chronicles of Emei Mountain* lay by the pillow. The arrangement seemed designed to quiet the mind and invite communion with the mountain.

Rain fell lightly that night. Lying in bed, I listened to the rhythm of droplets tapping the tiles, now dense, now sparse—more soothing than any lullaby. Half-asleep, I thought I heard distant temple bells, though whether real or a mountain dream, I couldn’t say.

At dawn, birdsong woke me. Pushing open the window, I watched mist rise from the valley like morning smoke. Breakfast was simple: congee with pickles and local fermented tofu, the rice’s fragrance a nostalgic delight. The server, a woman in her fifties, noticed my empty bowl and wordlessly brought a plate of pickled bamboo shoots, smiling as she withdrew.

I spent the day hiking and returned at dusk to find the evening turndown service completed: a porcelain lamp glowed softly by the bed, beneath a note with the next day’s weather and sunrise time. Fresh towels in the bathroom held a small sachet of dried osmanthus flowers. These subtle touches felt deeply considerate without ostentation.

The highlight was the rooftop tea room. Glass walls offered panoramic mountain views. I arrived post-rain to see a sea of clouds churning below, the distant Golden Summit flickering in and out. The elderly tea master, noticing my solitude, joined me with stories of the mountain’s history, brewing a pot of Emei Snow Bud tea so skillfully it carried orchid notes. We sat in comfortable silence, watching clouds drift, for hours.

On my final morning, I rose early to walk the trail behind the hotel. Dew still clung to plants, their scent fresh in the air. Rounding a bend, I encountered monkeys perched roadside, unafraid, blinking curiously. It struck me then: the hotel’s true charm lay not in flaunting "luxury" or "service," but in blending seamlessly into the landscape, becoming part of the scenery itself.

At checkout, the front desk attendant asked only if I’d enjoyed my stay. When I nodded, she handed me a plain paper packet of wild chrysanthemum flowers for brewing on my journey. Looking back from afar, the hotel had vanished into morning mist, leaving only an outline.

On the road home, I reflected how modern "luxury" hotels compete with flashy amenities, yet few understand the art of restraint. Wulan’s brilliance was in knowing when to appear and when to recede—like a thoughtful friend, offering just enough care while leaving ample space for solitude.

Three days in the mountains washed away worldly cares. This, perhaps, is the finest stay one could hope for.