Day 8 - Tuesday 10 April - Arriving in Yangshou

We pull into the port and make our way through the West Street “Hello” market a mesmerizing bazaar of colourful folk pushing their goods into or faces with a welcoming “hello”. Some of the more sophisticated traders could muster “vely good quality” and “vely cheap”. It wasn’t good quality, the starting prices certainly weren’t cheap and the incessant chirping of the traders rapidly became irritating after a very short distant.

To make light of the nuisance, we had some fun with them. One girl offered an English guide book. “Nich ser gutte”. Instantly, a German book was produced. “No comprendo” and naturally a third, Spanish translation was produced. “Ah, Non. Mon Dieu!”. This was quickly exchanged for a French book. Had she eaten books for breakfast! We stopped stared her in the eye and said “Go away, or be afraid, BE VERY AFRAID”. She hesitated, but nonetheless decided the English version was appropriate after all and worth a punt, repeated “Hello, vely cheap” and smiled.

Our hotel, the Magnolia Hotel in Yangshuo was a charming, boutique style hotel nestled at the foot of the beautiful karsts peaks that define Yangshuo's landscape. Modern Chinese wood inside and light and airy. This turned out to be an excellent location being just across the bridge from West Street, the lively centre of Yangshuo.

Jim advised us to be ready and waiting promptly at four o’clock – for dinner?

We dumped our bags and caught forty winks.

We did as instructed and presented ourselves in the dot at 4pm in the hotel reception. The MPV was waiting and we boarded it and watched with some disbelief as a passing stranger in works clothes got in next to us! Spotting our open mouths Jim explained that this was the boat driver. Ah so. (Our Chinese was getting better.) The afternoon sun was sliding towards the peaks of the hills as we took a boat ride along a remote section of the river, rarely touched by western travellers.

It was a forty minute glide down the delightful river at an enchanting time of the day. The sun became drowsy and settled down nestling on the pillows made by the curious hills. We had arrived at the pebbly port.

Strolling around the tiny farming village we collected an unofficial and very friendly guide. She pointed out tiny turtles basking on the water lilies, tried to have us task Pomolo from her store cupboard and tried to explain that the dogs were not so much pets but the next meal.

We said farewell as she steered us back to an ‘exclusive’ restaurant little local restaurant, the Pavillion, so called as the dining area is a balcony which overlooks the river bank providing a cameo of the comings and going of occasional fishing rafts weaving between ladies washing clothes at the water’s edge. We were served an array of home cooked dishes as good as any we had eaten so far.

This will be one of the indelible memories of our trip.

Our return journey was by road, well, we were glad we had the driver as it was not easy to distinguish the way from the fields. Potholes, earth mounds, crevices and large rocks, and we’d not left the parking area yet. But after thirty minutes of suspension punishing terrain which would put the Land Rover test tracks to shame, we’d made it back to Yangshou. The sleepy market town had been transformed into a garish, kitschy, dazzling cauldron of tatty discos and bars, images of which would not have been out of place on Gaudi pottery. The only thing missing was Brackpool Rock.

We had a quick coffee in a nearby bar, resisted the pied piper selling traditional flute and pipes, several times, and sent the Rolex watches man back to Geneva, more than several times. Echoes of the night life wafted across the cool night mist into our hotel room as we tried to settle down and wish ourselves back to our remote river village.