Sunday 3 June
We get up late,
about 9.00 am. We ordered full English breakfast last night (you get
a discount if you order the night before), but by the time we come to
have it, they've run out of bacon, much to Reg's disappointment.
He's given sausages instead, and I have ham. We talk to a young
Chinese woman who's graduating tomorrow, and to 2 English lads who
are on a month's tour of China, and are going home to Yorkshire next
week. We have 8 weeks of our trip left! I'm wondering if I'll still
find time to read novels when I get home – probably it'll be a 10
minute read in bed before I'm so tired I have to turn out the light –
that's how it was before the trip! It's been wonderful without
television, apart from the occasional sports highlights being
available.
The West Lake is
about 3 minutes walk from our hostel, through a shady, tree-lined
pathway. When we emerge from the path to the lakeside, we are
mesmerised. The huge lake is stunningly beautiful. Unlike the Great
Wall experience, which was nature in the raw, the boundaries of this
lake have been edged with pretty sculpted paths, little bridges,
greenery, trees (especially weeping willows) and flower-gardens, so
that the overall scene is similar to the one depicted on a
willow-patterned plate – absolutely enchanting. There's an air of
relaxation and calm here, despite the fact that the lake edges are
teeming with tourists (again, we are 2 of them), all sauntering
slowly along. The calm is frequently interrupted, we discover, by
the musical jingle of electric 12-seater tourist buggies, forcing us
to the sides of the lake path as they push their way through. You
couldn't let young children run around freely with those pesky
vehicles about.
It's a Sunday –
perhaps it wouldn't be as busy here on a weekday. Strangely the
proliferation of other tourists doesn't reduce our enjoyment of this
picturesque area. As last night when driving through tree-lined
streets, we are struck by the contrast between where we are now, and
Beijing.
There are fish in
the clear waters, and numerous small sampan type boats on the lake,
which you can hire; a boatman ferries you around at a very leisurely
pace, using one oar. There are also small motor boats you can drive
yourself.
After an icecream
and later a green tea, as we are slowly walking around the lake (only
covering a small section of its circumference, which Reg thinks is
about 10 kilometres in total) we hear what appears to be live music,
accompanied by someone singing in a rich, melodious voice, coming
from the raised parkland area behind the lake path. We decide to
investigate and in a small, round, open-sided pagoda, about 12 feet
(4 metres) in diameter and about 15 feet high, we find the source of
the beautiful music. There are 4 Chinese people about our age; one
man is expertly playing a harmonica, while the other man and one of
the women, sing a hauntingly emotional Chinese ballad (or so it
sounds to us). They are using microphones, plugged into an
amplifier, and the acoustics of the pagoda seem to enrich the sound.
We stand outside the small pagoda watching; the woman who is not
singing, smiles and invites us to come in and sit down on the bench
which encircles the inner walls of the pagoda.
There's no dish to
collect money, and a few other Chinese tourists have come to listen
too. It's obvious that the singers and harmonica-player are
thoroughly enjoying themselves. All the onlookers (including us)
applaud after each song; all three singers (the two women take turns
to sing) have wonderful voices. Reg and I sit listening for about ¾
of an hour; the singing and music reaches the soul. The singers try
to persuade Reg to get up and sing, but of course he won't!
Eventually we say we have to go, and thank the little band profusely,
shaking hands and sharing beaming smiles with them.
We
don't know why they were there, except to enjoy themselves, as there
was no request for money. I ask Reg if he thinks it is some sort of a
religious service, but Reg doesn't think so. I'm not so sure; ,
listening to that little band, in those lovely surroundings, it felt
like worship to me.
We decide to take
a trip to the largest of the lake's islands, called Three Pools
Mirroring the Moon, and take the
big tourist-filled ferry boat across to it. It's an island of
outstanding man-made beauty, with deep pools and a myriad of flowers.
We're enjoying the scenery, but so are hundreds of other people, and
it is crowded wherever we go. But it was definitely worth the ferry
ride over.
The ferry back takes us to a different place on the lake's shoreline,
even further away from our hostel. There are streets nearby and it's
now 5 pm, so we go in search of our evening meal. I'm ashamed to say
we end up in Pizza Hut, where Reg has spaghetti bolognese and I have
.. yes, pizza. We both have a glass of red wine, our first wine
since Kiev, in the Ukraine.
It's about a 2 mile walk back to the hostel, but the whole way is
along the edge of the lake; it's now dark and bats are flying
around; the lakeside and surrounding gardens are all transformed by
soft lighting into a fairyland walk, and we're glad we didn't miss
out on this evening stroll. The Chinese are skilled in
night-lighting; the Baochu Pagoda, standing 45 metres (148ft) tall on
a hill on the Northern side of the lake, its shape depicted by a
multi-coloured glow, is a magnificent tribute to this skill.
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