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.

In the evening at Yangshuo we went to a show called "Impression Sanjie Liu". We had heard a lot about this show, so the expectations were high.

This is an open air show where they have converted a section of the river and limestone towers into a stage with hundreds of actors. This includes lots of bamboo rafts, boats and fabric strung across the entirety of the river.

It started out beautifully and very impressive.

I do wish that the end of the show had matched the beginning of the show in wow factor. I don't know how, but I do think they could have put more lights on the river and the limestone cliffs as this would have added to the finale.

Also, during the show there is a scene with a girl dancing on a crescent moon along with other dancers along the river. From a distance it looks like they are not wearing much at all (if anything). In town we did see a poster for the show and this seemed to confirm this...but you tell me.

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.