A short drive north of Dali brought me to Xizhou — and once again, it felt like stepping into a different world.

This is the heartland of the Bai people, one of China’s recognised ethnic minorities, with a culture, architecture, and identity distinct from the Han majority.

And you see that difference immediately as the architecture here is deeply rooted in tradition.

Many of the homes are constructed using a mixture of earth, straw, and other local materials — a form of rammed earth or adobe — designed to regulate temperature and withstand the elements. 

In one wall, you could clearly see fragments of old pottery embedded within it — broken pieces reused as part of the structure. Whether for reinforcement, drainage, or simply practicality, it gives the sense that nothing was wasted. Materials were recycled long before it became a modern concept.

Over the top of these walls sits the defining finish: a white lime or chalk wash. This isn’t just for appearance — it acts as a protective layer, helping to seal the surface and reflect heat, preserving the structure beneath.

The result is the signature look of Bai villages — clean white walls, often contrasted with darker timber frames and intricate decorative details.

The Bai are also known for their indigo-dyed textiles — a tradition that goes back centuries.

Historically, natural indigo dye was extracted from local plants and used to colour fabrics in deep, rich blues. Traditional techniques often included resist-dyeing methods — where parts of the fabric were bound, stitched, or pressed before dyeing to create patterns.

What we commonly see today as “tie-dye” is actually a continuation and evolution of these traditional resist-dyeing techniques. While modern versions may be adapted for tourism and contemporary tastes, the roots are very much authentic.

So yes — while the patterns you see today might feel stylised, the underlying method and cultural significance go back generations.

What made Xizhou stand out most was the atmosphere.

Compared to Dali’s ancient city, it was noticeably quieter. Fewer crowds, fewer distractions — just narrow laneways lined with whitewashed walls, leading past doorways and into glimpses of everyday life.

Looking into the courtyards, you could see the care people put into their homes. Plants, decorations, well-maintained spaces — a sense of pride that’s hard to fake.

Some of the houses were genuinely beautiful — not in a polished, tourist-ready way, but in a lived-in, authentic sense.

Woven through the village are small lakes and waterways, softened by lotus flowers and crossed by elegantly constructed stone bridges.

These aren’t grand landmarks — they’re subtle, almost quiet features that add to the overall feel of the place. Reflections in the water, soft movement, the contrast between stone, wood, and greenery — it all contributes to a sense of calm.

It’s the kind of place where you naturally slow your pace.

On the outskirts of the village, the picture becomes more complex.

Some homes have been restored — carefully maintained, structurally sound, and still in use. Others are in various stages of decay or renovation.

And in those buildings, you can see the layers.

Older construction methods exposed beneath newer repairs. Different materials from different periods. Evidence of change, adaptation, and survival.

Xizhou doesn’t overwhelm you with scale or spectacle.

It draws you in with detail.

With texture. With quiet moments. With the feeling that culture here isn’t something being displayed — it’s something still being lived.

And after the busier stops along the journey, that made it stand out all the more.

After Yangshuo, the pace picked up again.

It was an early start getting back to Guilin, but once on the high-speed train, everything settled into that now-familiar rhythm — smooth, fast, and effortless. Hours passed as we cut across vast stretches of countryside, through mountains and valleys, a reminder of just how much China has invested in connecting even its more remote regions.

Rail lines, motorways, tunnels carved through mountains — it’s impossible not to be impressed by the scale of it all.

And then, we arrived in Dali — a place that immediately felt different again.

Dali isn’t just another stop — it carries a history that sets it apart from much of China.

For several centuries, this region was the centre of the Kingdom of Dali, an independent state that ruled much of Yunnan. While much of China was governed by powerful dynasties like the Song, Dali remained culturally and politically distinct, influenced heavily by the Bai people and with strong Buddhist traditions.

Its relative isolation, surrounded by mountains and far from the imperial centres of power, allowed it to maintain that independence — at least until it was eventually absorbed into the Mongol Empire under Kublai Khan in the 13th century.

Even today, that sense of being slightly separate still lingers.

The Dali Ancient City is vast — far larger than expected — and remarkably intact.

The old city walls still stand, complete with imposing gates and watchtowers that once guarded the kingdom. Walking through them, you get a real sense of scale — this wasn’t just a town, it was a significant regional centre with both strategic and cultural importance.

Inside, the streets stretch out in a grid, lined with traditional Bai-style buildings, various shops, and a steady flow of visitors.

It’s busy — very much on the domestic tourist trail — but it doesn’t take much to step away from the main streets and find something quieter.

Turn a corner, wander down a side alley, and suddenly the noise fades. You’re back to slower moments — locals going about their day, small courtyards, glimpses of everyday life tucked just behind the busier facades.

Near the centre of the old town stands the Wuhua Tower.

At first glance, it feels like it should be part of the city’s defensive system — but it wasn’t.

Historically, Wuhua Tower dates back to the Nanzhao Kingdom (which preceded the Kingdom of Dali) and served more as a ceremonial and cultural structure than a military one. It was used as a place for gatherings, receptions, and entertainment — a symbol of prestige rather than protection.

What stands today is a reconstruction, but it still reflects that original purpose — positioned prominently, not for defence, but to be seen.

It’s a small detail, but it says a lot about the city: not everything here was built for war. Some of it was built simply for life, culture, and display.

Dali is full of contrasts.

Modern shops sit beside traditional homes. Tourist-heavy streets give way to quiet, almost untouched corners. Old stonework meets neon signs.

At times, it feels curated. At others, completely genuine.

But that blend is part of what makes it interesting.

It’s not frozen in time — it’s evolving — yet still holding onto enough of its past to remind you where it came from.

And like much of this journey, the more you wander, the more those layers begin to reveal themselves.

Leaving the intensity of Guangzhou behind, we boarded a high-speed train bound for Yangshuo — and in just a couple of hours, everything changed.

At times the train was pushing close to 300 km/h, yet inside it felt effortless. Smooth, quiet, almost disconnected from the speed. It was a fitting transition — from megacity to countryside in what felt like no time at all.

And the first thing we noticed stepping off the train? The air.

It was like perfume. The surrounding trees were in full bloom, and after the density of Guangzhou, it felt fresh, almost surreal — like we’d stepped into a completely different world.

Waiting for us in Yangshuo were familiar faces — Sacha, Mavis, and their daughter Sammi. From here on, the trip shifted. It wasn’t just the four of us navigating something new anymore.

Yangshuo is famous for its karst landscape — those dramatic limestone peaks that rise almost vertically from the ground, scattered across rice fields and rivers like something out of a painting.

The best way to experience it is simply to get out into it.

So that’s what we did.

Everyone grabbed bikes — except for Kim and me, who opted for an electric scooter (a wise decision, given the distances and the terrain). With Kim on the back, we set off, following winding roads out of town and into the countryside.

It didn’t take long before we got lost. But in Yangshuo, that’s kind of the point.

We drifted through small villages, along narrow paths, and eventually found ourselves surrounded by rice paddies and towering limestone stacks in every direction. The scenery didn’t feel real — it felt too perfectly composed, like a traditional Chinese landscape painting brought to life.

At one point, we hit complete gridlock in a village — cars, scooters, pedestrians, all tangled together in a standstill. What should have taken minutes stretched out endlessly as we tried to push through.

Thankfully, being on bikes worked in our favour. Slowly, carefully, we squeezed through gaps that cars simply couldn’t.

The kids handled it brilliantly. It was a long day, and at times the traffic got chaotic, but they rode with confidence — listening, adapting, and just getting on with it.

There was one moment of tension when Mavis was nudged over by a car in the congestion, but thankfully she came away shaken more than anything else.

Somewhere along the ride, as we moved between villages and open countryside, we passed something that made us slow down.

An elderly man — well into his eighties — sitting quietly outside his home, weaving hats by hand.

There was nothing staged about it. No performance, no attempt to attract attention. Just a simple, repetitive motion, practiced over decades. His hands moved with a rhythm that didn’t need thinking — strip by strip, shaping something both practical and beautiful.

We stopped for a while, watching.

In a place where so much is changing so quickly — high-speed trains, digital payments, modern cities rising almost overnight — this felt like a direct connection to something much older. A way of life that hasn’t entirely disappeared, but is slowly becoming harder to find.

There was a calmness to it.

No rush, no urgency — just time, skill, and patience. The kind of work that carries quiet pride, even if it goes largely unnoticed.

For us, it was a reminder that not everything moves at the same pace.

And in that brief stop, somewhere between getting lost and finding our way again, we found one of the most genuine moments of the journey.

Next day it was a short trip out to Xingping that brought one of the most recognisable scenes of the trip.

Just outside the town lies a bend in the Li River that’s instantly familiar — even if you don’t realise it at first. It’s the exact landscape printed on the back of the Chinese 20 Yuan note.

And once you see it, it clicks.

The same karst peaks, the same river curve — a view that’s been quietly circulating in millions of wallets for years.

What followed was a surprisingly fun challenge: trying to line up the real view with the image on the note.

There were people everywhere doing the same thing — holding up old 20 Yuan notes, adjusting angles, laughing as they tried to get the perfect match.

The irony wasn’t lost on us.

China today is almost entirely cashless. Paying with a phone is the norm, and physical money feels like a relic. We didn’t even have a note ourselves — we had to borrow one just to take part.

Also lined up along the river were rafts, cormorant birds and people dressed up with hired photographers to have their photo taken.

Down by the river, near one of the many low bridges crossing the water, we climbed onto a bamboo raft and set off along the Yulong River.

Although this would have been Yangshuo at its most peaceful, it was packed with other rafts, hot air balloons and motorised paragliders.

Once we got going the raft glided quietly upstream, the only sounds being the water and the occasional call from the riverbanks. Limestone peaks rose on either side, softened by mist and distance, while reflections shimmered gently below.

On the way back down, everything felt even more relaxed. No rush, no noise — just drifting through one of the most iconic landscapes in China.

As the sun dropped behind the karst peaks, we made our way back into town and joined the evening flow along West Street.

If the countryside had been calm and open, this was the opposite.

West Street comes alive at night. Lights spill out from shops and restaurants, music drifts through the air, and the narrow street fills with a mix of locals, travellers, and everything in between. It’s lively, a little chaotic, and full of energy.

We wandered without much of a plan — stopping to look at small food stalls, peeking into restaurants, watching musical performers, and just taking it all in. There’s a blend here that feels uniquely Yangshuo: traditional elements sitting right alongside modern tourism, local life mixing with visitors from all over.

For the kids, it was sensory overload in the best way — noise, lights, movement everywhere. For us, it was a chance to just observe. The rhythm of the place, the interactions, the small moments happening all around.

After a day of riding through villages and open landscapes, being back in the middle of it all felt almost surreal.

Yangshuo has that balance — peaceful by day, vibrant by night.

And West Street is where those two worlds meet.

  

But this place carries a complicated history. After the Opium Wars in the 19th century, this small island was carved out and divided between British and French control, becoming a foreign enclave in China.

What remains today is a fascinating blend of cultures — European architecture, Chinese life, and a sense of calm that feels almost surreal in a city like this.

For us, it was one of those rare travel moments where everything slows down. The boys could wander, Kim could soak in the atmosphere, and I found myself drawn to the history that I have read about in numerous books.

It’s easy to be distracted by Guangzhou’s scale — the towers, the traffic, the constant movement — but the real character of the city reveals itself when you step off the main roads and into the narrow alleyways.

These laneways are where life compresses.

The streets tighten, the noise softens into something more human, and suddenly you’re walking through someone’s everyday world. Open doorways reveal small kitchens in full swing, laundry hangs overhead like a patchwork sky, and scooters squeeze past with barely enough room to spare.

This is where Guangzhou slows down.

We wandered without much of a plan, turning corners simply because they looked interesting. The boys quickly realised this was a different kind of exploring — not landmarks, but observation. Small moments. A nod from a local, a curious glance, someone going about their day completely unfazed by four outsiders passing through.

For me, this was where the camera came alive. Not because of anything grand, but because of the texture — worn walls, layered history, faces that told stories without words.

Not far from the bustle of the city, we found ourselves wandering into the area around the Guangdong Cantonese Opera Museum — and it turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly fascinating parts of Guangzhou.

The museum itself is beautifully designed, built in the style of traditional Lingnan architecture, with ornate roofs, carved woodwork, and peaceful courtyards. But what really drew us in wasn’t just the building — it was what was happening around it.

Locals were gathering, dressed in elaborate Cantonese opera costumes — vibrant silks, intricate embroidery, and dramatic makeup. Some were performers, others simply enthusiasts, but all of them carried a quiet pride in what they were part of.

What made it so compelling was how natural it all felt.

People were chatting, adjusting costumes, helping each other prepare, and taking photos — not for tourists, but for themselves. It wasn’t staged or curated. It was a living tradition, still very much part of everyday culture.

Cantonese opera has deep roots in southern China, blending music, storytelling, martial arts, and symbolism into a highly stylised art form that dates back hundreds of years. And here, in this small pocket of Guangzhou, it wasn’t something preserved behind glass — it was still alive.

And then, almost quietly, you start to notice them — the bronze statues.

They’re scattered throughout the city, often without fanfare. A fisherman hauling in a net. A street vendor mid-sale. Children playing. Scenes from another time, frozen in metal but placed right in the middle of modern Guangzhou.

They’re easy to walk past if you’re not paying attention.

But once you notice them, they change the way you see the city.

These aren’t grand monuments to emperors or victories — they’re tributes to everyday life. They reflect the trading roots of Guangzhou, once one of China’s most important ports and the starting point of the Maritime Silk Road. For centuries, this was a city defined by commerce, movement, and connection to the outside world.

And those stories are still here — just told in quieter ways.

One evening in Guangzhou took a different turn.

Kim had arranged to meet an old colleague, and instead of the street-side eateries and small local restaurants we’d been exploring, we were taken somewhere altogether more elaborate.

From the outside, it didn’t immediately give much away. But once inside, the scale revealed itself.

The restaurant unfolded like a maze — long corridors branching into more corridors, each lined with private dining rooms hidden behind heavy doors. It felt less like a restaurant and more like a series of discreet, self-contained worlds. Every group tucked away in their own space, out of sight, out of earshot.

You couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of conversations these rooms had hosted over time. Business deals, family negotiations, celebrations, quiet discussions — the kind of interactions that are never meant to spill into the public space.

There’s a long tradition of private dining in China, especially in cities like Guangzhou where relationships — guanxi — are central to both business and social life. Meals aren’t just about food; they’re about trust, hierarchy, and connection. And spaces like this are designed for exactly that.

For us, it felt like stepping briefly into that world.

The food itself was exceptional — beautifully presented, carefully paced, and clearly designed to impress. But interestingly, it wasn’t the local Cantonese street-style cuisine we’d been expecting. This was something more refined, more international in influence, almost curated to suit a different kind of audience.

For the boys, the novelty was in the setting — their own private room, the formality of it all. For Kim, it was a chance to reconnect. And for me, it was the atmosphere that lingered — the sense that behind every closed door, a different story was unfolding.

It was a completely different side of Guangzhou.

Not the chaotic, open, street-level city we’d come to know — but something quieter, more controlled, and in its own way, just as revealing.

After dinner, we stepped back out into the night and made our way down to the river, drawn by the glow of the Canton Tower rising in the distance.

If the restaurant had felt enclosed and hidden, this was the complete opposite.

The Pearl River opens everything up. Wide promenades, open air, and a steady flow of people out enjoying the evening — families, couples, groups of friends, all moving at a slower, more relaxed pace than the daytime rush.

And then there’s the tower.

Up close, the Canton Tower doesn’t just dominate the skyline — it feels almost unreal. Its twisting structure is lit in shifting colours, constantly changing, reflecting off the river below. Boats drift past, their own lights adding to the scene, and the whole area takes on a slightly surreal, almost cinematic feel.

The boys were immediately drawn to the energy of it — the lights, the movement, the scale. For them, this was Guangzhou at its most exciting.

The Pearl River has been the lifeblood of Guangzhou for centuries — the reason the city became one of China’s most important trading ports, connecting it to the outside world long before the skyscrapers arrived.

Now, instead of trading ships, it’s light shows and river cruises.

Somewhere in the middle of Guangzhou’s busy streets, we stumbled across something completely unexpected — and for Lucas, it may well have been the highlight of the entire city.

A shop where everything looked like it belonged in a museum… but was made entirely of chocolate.

Not just small displays or decorative pieces, but full-scale creations. Life-sized animals stood frozen mid-step — elephants, giraffes, creatures you’d expect to find on the African savannah, not in a shop in southern China. Alongside them were intricate replicas of local architecture, temples and buildings recreated in astonishing detail, all in chocolate.

At first, it didn’t quite register. The level of craftsmanship made it hard to believe it wasn’t carved wood or painted resin. But the closer you looked, the more surreal it became — every surface, every texture, every tiny detail… chocolate.

Lucas was completely in his element.

You could see the internal conflict playing out — admiration versus appetite. Was this something to photograph, or something to eat? (The answer, unfortunately, was mostly the former.)

A short drive north of Dali brought me to Xizhou — and once again, it felt like stepping into a different world.

This is the heartland of the Bai people, one of China’s recognised ethnic minorities, with a culture, architecture, and identity distinct from the Han majority.

And you see that difference immediately as the architecture here is deeply rooted in tradition.

Many of the homes are constructed using a mixture of earth, straw, and other local materials — a form of rammed earth or adobe — designed to regulate temperature and withstand the elements. 

In one wall, you could clearly see fragments of old pottery embedded within it — broken pieces reused as part of the structure. Whether for reinforcement, drainage, or simply practicality, it gives the sense that nothing was wasted. Materials were recycled long before it became a modern concept.

Over the top of these walls sits the defining finish: a white lime or chalk wash. This isn’t just for appearance — it acts as a protective layer, helping to seal the surface and reflect heat, preserving the structure beneath.

The result is the signature look of Bai villages — clean white walls, often contrasted with darker timber frames and intricate decorative details.

The Bai are also known for their indigo-dyed textiles — a tradition that goes back centuries.

Historically, natural indigo dye was extracted from local plants and used to colour fabrics in deep, rich blues. Traditional techniques often included resist-dyeing methods — where parts of the fabric were bound, stitched, or pressed before dyeing to create patterns.

What we commonly see today as “tie-dye” is actually a continuation and evolution of these traditional resist-dyeing techniques. While modern versions may be adapted for tourism and contemporary tastes, the roots are very much authentic.

So yes — while the patterns you see today might feel stylised, the underlying method and cultural significance go back generations.

What made Xizhou stand out most was the atmosphere.

Compared to Dali’s ancient city, it was noticeably quieter. Fewer crowds, fewer distractions — just narrow laneways lined with whitewashed walls, leading past doorways and into glimpses of everyday life.

Looking into the courtyards, you could see the care people put into their homes. Plants, decorations, well-maintained spaces — a sense of pride that’s hard to fake.

Some of the houses were genuinely beautiful — not in a polished, tourist-ready way, but in a lived-in, authentic sense.

Woven through the village are small lakes and waterways, softened by lotus flowers and crossed by elegantly constructed stone bridges.

These aren’t grand landmarks — they’re subtle, almost quiet features that add to the overall feel of the place. Reflections in the water, soft movement, the contrast between stone, wood, and greenery — it all contributes to a sense of calm.

It’s the kind of place where you naturally slow your pace.

On the outskirts of the village, the picture becomes more complex.

Some homes have been restored — carefully maintained, structurally sound, and still in use. Others are in various stages of decay or renovation.

And in those buildings, you can see the layers.

Older construction methods exposed beneath newer repairs. Different materials from different periods. Evidence of change, adaptation, and survival.

Xizhou doesn’t overwhelm you with scale or spectacle.

It draws you in with detail.

With texture. With quiet moments. With the feeling that culture here isn’t something being displayed — it’s something still being lived.

And after the busier stops along the journey, that made it stand out all the more.

After Yangshuo, the pace picked up again.

It was an early start getting back to Guilin, but once on the high-speed train, everything settled into that now-familiar rhythm — smooth, fast, and effortless. Hours passed as we cut across vast stretches of countryside, through mountains and valleys, a reminder of just how much China has invested in connecting even its more remote regions.

Rail lines, motorways, tunnels carved through mountains — it’s impossible not to be impressed by the scale of it all.

And then, we arrived in Dali — a place that immediately felt different again.

Dali isn’t just another stop — it carries a history that sets it apart from much of China.

For several centuries, this region was the centre of the Kingdom of Dali, an independent state that ruled much of Yunnan. While much of China was governed by powerful dynasties like the Song, Dali remained culturally and politically distinct, influenced heavily by the Bai people and with strong Buddhist traditions.

Its relative isolation, surrounded by mountains and far from the imperial centres of power, allowed it to maintain that independence — at least until it was eventually absorbed into the Mongol Empire under Kublai Khan in the 13th century.

Even today, that sense of being slightly separate still lingers.

The Dali Ancient City is vast — far larger than expected — and remarkably intact.

The old city walls still stand, complete with imposing gates and watchtowers that once guarded the kingdom. Walking through them, you get a real sense of scale — this wasn’t just a town, it was a significant regional centre with both strategic and cultural importance.

Inside, the streets stretch out in a grid, lined with traditional Bai-style buildings, various shops, and a steady flow of visitors.

It’s busy — very much on the domestic tourist trail — but it doesn’t take much to step away from the main streets and find something quieter.

Turn a corner, wander down a side alley, and suddenly the noise fades. You’re back to slower moments — locals going about their day, small courtyards, glimpses of everyday life tucked just behind the busier facades.

Near the centre of the old town stands the Wuhua Tower.

At first glance, it feels like it should be part of the city’s defensive system — but it wasn’t.

Historically, Wuhua Tower dates back to the Nanzhao Kingdom (which preceded the Kingdom of Dali) and served more as a ceremonial and cultural structure than a military one. It was used as a place for gatherings, receptions, and entertainment — a symbol of prestige rather than protection.

What stands today is a reconstruction, but it still reflects that original purpose — positioned prominently, not for defence, but to be seen.

It’s a small detail, but it says a lot about the city: not everything here was built for war. Some of it was built simply for life, culture, and display.

Dali is full of contrasts.

Modern shops sit beside traditional homes. Tourist-heavy streets give way to quiet, almost untouched corners. Old stonework meets neon signs.

At times, it feels curated. At others, completely genuine.

But that blend is part of what makes it interesting.

It’s not frozen in time — it’s evolving — yet still holding onto enough of its past to remind you where it came from.

And like much of this journey, the more you wander, the more those layers begin to reveal themselves.

Leaving the intensity of Guangzhou behind, we boarded a high-speed train bound for Yangshuo — and in just a couple of hours, everything changed.

At times the train was pushing close to 300 km/h, yet inside it felt effortless. Smooth, quiet, almost disconnected from the speed. It was a fitting transition — from megacity to countryside in what felt like no time at all.

And the first thing we noticed stepping off the train? The air.

It was like perfume. The surrounding trees were in full bloom, and after the density of Guangzhou, it felt fresh, almost surreal — like we’d stepped into a completely different world.

Waiting for us in Yangshuo were familiar faces — Sacha, Mavis, and their daughter Sammi. From here on, the trip shifted. It wasn’t just the four of us navigating something new anymore.

Yangshuo is famous for its karst landscape — those dramatic limestone peaks that rise almost vertically from the ground, scattered across rice fields and rivers like something out of a painting.

The best way to experience it is simply to get out into it.

So that’s what we did.

Everyone grabbed bikes — except for Kim and me, who opted for an electric scooter (a wise decision, given the distances and the terrain). With Kim on the back, we set off, following winding roads out of town and into the countryside.

It didn’t take long before we got lost. But in Yangshuo, that’s kind of the point.

We drifted through small villages, along narrow paths, and eventually found ourselves surrounded by rice paddies and towering limestone stacks in every direction. The scenery didn’t feel real — it felt too perfectly composed, like a traditional Chinese landscape painting brought to life.

At one point, we hit complete gridlock in a village — cars, scooters, pedestrians, all tangled together in a standstill. What should have taken minutes stretched out endlessly as we tried to push through.

Thankfully, being on bikes worked in our favour. Slowly, carefully, we squeezed through gaps that cars simply couldn’t.

The kids handled it brilliantly. It was a long day, and at times the traffic got chaotic, but they rode with confidence — listening, adapting, and just getting on with it.

There was one moment of tension when Mavis was nudged over by a car in the congestion, but thankfully she came away shaken more than anything else.

Somewhere along the ride, as we moved between villages and open countryside, we passed something that made us slow down.

An elderly man — well into his eighties — sitting quietly outside his home, weaving hats by hand.

There was nothing staged about it. No performance, no attempt to attract attention. Just a simple, repetitive motion, practiced over decades. His hands moved with a rhythm that didn’t need thinking — strip by strip, shaping something both practical and beautiful.

We stopped for a while, watching.

In a place where so much is changing so quickly — high-speed trains, digital payments, modern cities rising almost overnight — this felt like a direct connection to something much older. A way of life that hasn’t entirely disappeared, but is slowly becoming harder to find.

There was a calmness to it.

No rush, no urgency — just time, skill, and patience. The kind of work that carries quiet pride, even if it goes largely unnoticed.

For us, it was a reminder that not everything moves at the same pace.

And in that brief stop, somewhere between getting lost and finding our way again, we found one of the most genuine moments of the journey.

Next day it was a short trip out to Xingping that brought one of the most recognisable scenes of the trip.

Just outside the town lies a bend in the Li River that’s instantly familiar — even if you don’t realise it at first. It’s the exact landscape printed on the back of the Chinese 20 Yuan note.

And once you see it, it clicks.

The same karst peaks, the same river curve — a view that’s been quietly circulating in millions of wallets for years.

What followed was a surprisingly fun challenge: trying to line up the real view with the image on the note.

There were people everywhere doing the same thing — holding up old 20 Yuan notes, adjusting angles, laughing as they tried to get the perfect match.

The irony wasn’t lost on us.

China today is almost entirely cashless. Paying with a phone is the norm, and physical money feels like a relic. We didn’t even have a note ourselves — we had to borrow one just to take part.

Also lined up along the river were rafts, cormorant birds and people dressed up with hired photographers to have their photo taken.

Down by the river, near one of the many low bridges crossing the water, we climbed onto a bamboo raft and set off along the Yulong River.

Although this would have been Yangshuo at its most peaceful, it was packed with other rafts, hot air balloons and motorised paragliders.

Once we got going the raft glided quietly upstream, the only sounds being the water and the occasional call from the riverbanks. Limestone peaks rose on either side, softened by mist and distance, while reflections shimmered gently below.

On the way back down, everything felt even more relaxed. No rush, no noise — just drifting through one of the most iconic landscapes in China.

As the sun dropped behind the karst peaks, we made our way back into town and joined the evening flow along West Street.

If the countryside had been calm and open, this was the opposite.

West Street comes alive at night. Lights spill out from shops and restaurants, music drifts through the air, and the narrow street fills with a mix of locals, travellers, and everything in between. It’s lively, a little chaotic, and full of energy.

We wandered without much of a plan — stopping to look at small food stalls, peeking into restaurants, watching musical performers, and just taking it all in. There’s a blend here that feels uniquely Yangshuo: traditional elements sitting right alongside modern tourism, local life mixing with visitors from all over.

For the kids, it was sensory overload in the best way — noise, lights, movement everywhere. For us, it was a chance to just observe. The rhythm of the place, the interactions, the small moments happening all around.

After a day of riding through villages and open landscapes, being back in the middle of it all felt almost surreal.

Yangshuo has that balance — peaceful by day, vibrant by night.

And West Street is where those two worlds meet.

  

But this place carries a complicated history. After the Opium Wars in the 19th century, this small island was carved out and divided between British and French control, becoming a foreign enclave in China.

What remains today is a fascinating blend of cultures — European architecture, Chinese life, and a sense of calm that feels almost surreal in a city like this.

For us, it was one of those rare travel moments where everything slows down. The boys could wander, Kim could soak in the atmosphere, and I found myself drawn to the history that I have read about in numerous books.

It’s easy to be distracted by Guangzhou’s scale — the towers, the traffic, the constant movement — but the real character of the city reveals itself when you step off the main roads and into the narrow alleyways.

These laneways are where life compresses.

The streets tighten, the noise softens into something more human, and suddenly you’re walking through someone’s everyday world. Open doorways reveal small kitchens in full swing, laundry hangs overhead like a patchwork sky, and scooters squeeze past with barely enough room to spare.

This is where Guangzhou slows down.

We wandered without much of a plan, turning corners simply because they looked interesting. The boys quickly realised this was a different kind of exploring — not landmarks, but observation. Small moments. A nod from a local, a curious glance, someone going about their day completely unfazed by four outsiders passing through.

For me, this was where the camera came alive. Not because of anything grand, but because of the texture — worn walls, layered history, faces that told stories without words.

Not far from the bustle of the city, we found ourselves wandering into the area around the Guangdong Cantonese Opera Museum — and it turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly fascinating parts of Guangzhou.

The museum itself is beautifully designed, built in the style of traditional Lingnan architecture, with ornate roofs, carved woodwork, and peaceful courtyards. But what really drew us in wasn’t just the building — it was what was happening around it.

Locals were gathering, dressed in elaborate Cantonese opera costumes — vibrant silks, intricate embroidery, and dramatic makeup. Some were performers, others simply enthusiasts, but all of them carried a quiet pride in what they were part of.

What made it so compelling was how natural it all felt.

People were chatting, adjusting costumes, helping each other prepare, and taking photos — not for tourists, but for themselves. It wasn’t staged or curated. It was a living tradition, still very much part of everyday culture.

Cantonese opera has deep roots in southern China, blending music, storytelling, martial arts, and symbolism into a highly stylised art form that dates back hundreds of years. And here, in this small pocket of Guangzhou, it wasn’t something preserved behind glass — it was still alive.

And then, almost quietly, you start to notice them — the bronze statues.

They’re scattered throughout the city, often without fanfare. A fisherman hauling in a net. A street vendor mid-sale. Children playing. Scenes from another time, frozen in metal but placed right in the middle of modern Guangzhou.

They’re easy to walk past if you’re not paying attention.

But once you notice them, they change the way you see the city.

These aren’t grand monuments to emperors or victories — they’re tributes to everyday life. They reflect the trading roots of Guangzhou, once one of China’s most important ports and the starting point of the Maritime Silk Road. For centuries, this was a city defined by commerce, movement, and connection to the outside world.

And those stories are still here — just told in quieter ways.

One evening in Guangzhou took a different turn.

Kim had arranged to meet an old colleague, and instead of the street-side eateries and small local restaurants we’d been exploring, we were taken somewhere altogether more elaborate.

From the outside, it didn’t immediately give much away. But once inside, the scale revealed itself.

The restaurant unfolded like a maze — long corridors branching into more corridors, each lined with private dining rooms hidden behind heavy doors. It felt less like a restaurant and more like a series of discreet, self-contained worlds. Every group tucked away in their own space, out of sight, out of earshot.

You couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of conversations these rooms had hosted over time. Business deals, family negotiations, celebrations, quiet discussions — the kind of interactions that are never meant to spill into the public space.

There’s a long tradition of private dining in China, especially in cities like Guangzhou where relationships — guanxi — are central to both business and social life. Meals aren’t just about food; they’re about trust, hierarchy, and connection. And spaces like this are designed for exactly that.

For us, it felt like stepping briefly into that world.

The food itself was exceptional — beautifully presented, carefully paced, and clearly designed to impress. But interestingly, it wasn’t the local Cantonese street-style cuisine we’d been expecting. This was something more refined, more international in influence, almost curated to suit a different kind of audience.

For the boys, the novelty was in the setting — their own private room, the formality of it all. For Kim, it was a chance to reconnect. And for me, it was the atmosphere that lingered — the sense that behind every closed door, a different story was unfolding.

It was a completely different side of Guangzhou.

Not the chaotic, open, street-level city we’d come to know — but something quieter, more controlled, and in its own way, just as revealing.

After dinner, we stepped back out into the night and made our way down to the river, drawn by the glow of the Canton Tower rising in the distance.

If the restaurant had felt enclosed and hidden, this was the complete opposite.

The Pearl River opens everything up. Wide promenades, open air, and a steady flow of people out enjoying the evening — families, couples, groups of friends, all moving at a slower, more relaxed pace than the daytime rush.

And then there’s the tower.

Up close, the Canton Tower doesn’t just dominate the skyline — it feels almost unreal. Its twisting structure is lit in shifting colours, constantly changing, reflecting off the river below. Boats drift past, their own lights adding to the scene, and the whole area takes on a slightly surreal, almost cinematic feel.

The boys were immediately drawn to the energy of it — the lights, the movement, the scale. For them, this was Guangzhou at its most exciting.

The Pearl River has been the lifeblood of Guangzhou for centuries — the reason the city became one of China’s most important trading ports, connecting it to the outside world long before the skyscrapers arrived.

Now, instead of trading ships, it’s light shows and river cruises.

Somewhere in the middle of Guangzhou’s busy streets, we stumbled across something completely unexpected — and for Lucas, it may well have been the highlight of the entire city.

A shop where everything looked like it belonged in a museum… but was made entirely of chocolate.

Not just small displays or decorative pieces, but full-scale creations. Life-sized animals stood frozen mid-step — elephants, giraffes, creatures you’d expect to find on the African savannah, not in a shop in southern China. Alongside them were intricate replicas of local architecture, temples and buildings recreated in astonishing detail, all in chocolate.

At first, it didn’t quite register. The level of craftsmanship made it hard to believe it wasn’t carved wood or painted resin. But the closer you looked, the more surreal it became — every surface, every texture, every tiny detail… chocolate.

Lucas was completely in his element.

You could see the internal conflict playing out — admiration versus appetite. Was this something to photograph, or something to eat? (The answer, unfortunately, was mostly the former.)