It's a long way to Longji

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The low cloud is chased away, lingering wraiths in the gullies and ravines. There are advantages to the wet; waterfalls mist, trickle and cascade making Spring growth brighter, greener.



The traditional wooden stilt buildings perch over the river, their newly fir clad exteriors gleaming gold. The bamboo scaffolding nearly meets across the narrow road leading up to more villages.



At the base of Dhazai we change buses and master a muddy track slithering and sliding across the yellow ruts.



We arrive at another car park under construction. We make our way down a concrete road slick with running water down into a village. When they thought of this road did they think of the flooding it would cause in really heavy rains? Our hotel, Elegant Wind, is shrouded in mist, we could be anywhere.



Our fir-clad room leads out onto a balcony.



‘Glad we got a room with a view! Graeme says.



I am busying myself purloining another quilt from a nearby room to add some semblance of comfort to the customary hard bed.



I glance up.



‘Look!’ and we both race out cameras at the ready as the mist lifts and rolling rice terraces unfold before us. Slices of green to the left, in front and to the right where they emerge between the dark wooden houses.



Well, we’ve seen them. Now we can go! ‘ says Graeme.



We totter downstairs wrapped up in our Winter weather gear, coats, hats and gloves. A long-hoped for fire is unfortunately not on offer and we sit to gorge ourselves on two enormous bowls of egg and tomato soup, fried tofu and fresh mountain greens. Certainly fresh, we watch the son of the hotel who seems to be jack of all trades, carry a bunch through the dining room into the kitchen where he also cooks after having met us down the mountain and is interpreter as the rest of his Red Yao family do not speak any English.



We walk up the steps he has pointed out at the back of the hotel and have to give due respect to the diligence and determination to create ‘The Thousand Layers of Heaven’ or even ‘ Seven Stars chase the Moon’.



Standing on the newly constructed massive addition to Viewpoint 2 or walking further around the stone pathway atop a paddy wall, collapsed in places by a landslide or so much rain, casting your eye down the valley it is truly awesome in the true sense of the word.



We had been warned that March was not the month to come due to the heavy cloud covering the mountains but this afternoon in between rain showers we watch clouds scudding over Dazhai coming to rest amongst the fir-clad mountains in the distance, steaming and wreathing but not too high.



There are no other guests in the hotel. The dining room remains like an icebox. Mother takes the hint at dinner time and while we are waiting for our meal we are invited into the inner sanctum. A black, smoky area at the back of the kitchen with a burning brazier, grandma and father huddled around under hunks of smoked meat. I speak a few Chinese words to consolidate the family relationships as a nephew and uncle arrive and we laugh and eat a roasted sweet potato, smoky and caramelly as grandma cackles and smiles. The highlight of the trip so far!



Waking to the sound of heavy rain it is with a sense of despondency that I open the curtains to the view half an hour later. The ziggurat outline of the immediate paddy is all I see before once again it is shrouded. We may not be walking or riding the cable car today. Or we may.



We decide to brave it and set off from the hotel into Dazhai village and up the other side to the Golden Buddha Peak which stays tantalizingly out of view for most of the walk. We have no reward of a stunning view from the top and after a lukewarm cup of tea we use the cable car to return. The village is clear at least and we enjoy wandering around watching the collection of greens for dinner serenaded by the clicking of staple guns as hotels are recladded.



Promises are made that we will return by cable car to Golden Buddha Peak if it is clear the next morning but it isn’t and we return to Guilin knowing that March was possibly not the best month to see the amazing rice terraces constructed up to 1,000 years ago mainly unknown until a photographer moved here in the 1970s and the world took notice.

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