Hongcun is the model, Bishan is life: My favorite "last slow pace of Huizhou"

Compared to Hongcun’s ink-wash poetic scenes chased by cameras, Bishan feels more like a well-worn chronicle of Huizhou life—no crowds of sketch artists gathering by the Moon Pond, no trendy shops calling out along the streets, only moss growing between the bluestone slabs, old lanterns hanging on ancestral hall beams, and the scent of rice flowers trailing from villagers carrying hoes as they walk by.

This village hidden at the foot of Huangshan Mountain hides Huizhou’s “old” just perfectly. The ancient camphor tree at the village entrance has stood for hundreds of years, its branches shading the sky and ground. Beneath it, a few elderly cobblers sit chatting in the Huizhou dialect about the harvest, their voices softened by the wind. Further inside, Bishan Bookstore is a must-visit stop. It’s tucked inside a Qing Dynasty ancestral hall, with wooden bookshelves against mottled white walls. Old books glow warmly in the sunlight, and even the rustling sound of turning pages feels especially clear. There’s no staged photo-taking here, only the occasional bark of a dog and the slow, deliberate movements of the caretaker organizing books.

When tired, just wander into any alley and you might find a surprise. Perhaps an abandoned oil mill covered in green vines, the wood grain on the press polished shiny by time; or cured meats hanging glossy on bamboo poles outside villagers’ homes, carrying a faint smoky aroma; or a small farmhouse restaurant around the corner, where the owner picks fresh spring bamboo shoots from the backyard and stir-fries them into the most authentic Huizhou flavor. Here, meals aren’t rushed—the owner will smile and say, “Mountain dishes need to be slowly stewed.” You can sit at the stone table in the courtyard, watch the distant green hills, and wait as the scent of cured meat and bamboo shoots slowly fills the whole yard.

Afternoon time is best spent in the fields. Walking along the ridges outside the village, vast rice paddies stretch to the mountain base. When the wind blows, the rice waves roll like a green ocean. Villagers wearing straw hats plant rice seedlings skillfully, occasionally standing up to wipe sweat and greet you as you pass by. Without the guided commentary of Hongcun, the stories here are hidden in the soil of the ridges, in the sunburned cheeks of the villagers, and in the smoke rising from evening fires.

When the sunset dyes the distant mountains golden, Bishan becomes its gentlest self. Smoke drifts from the chimneys of stilted houses, mingling with the fresh scent of rice fields, filling the entire village. Sitting under the old camphor tree at the village entrance, watching birds return to their nests flying over rooftops, listening to the local opera playing on the village radio, you suddenly understand why some say “Bishan is Huizhou’s last slow pace”—it doesn’t try to please tourists, it just quietly lives its own life, hiding the truest Huizhou in every unintentional moment.

Post by Christopher Brown33 Contentment | Oct 19, 2025