In Dali, the must-experience Muyun Flower House Homestay offers breathtaking views

## Three Days at Flower House: Dreaming of Life in Dali When the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, I was lounging in the rattan rocking chair of the "Cloud Nest" room on the second floor of Muyun Flower House. In the distance, the silhouette of Cangshan Mountain emerged faintly through the morning mist, while nearby, bougainvillea bloomed vibrantly in the courtyard, and unnamed birds flitted among the flowers. At that moment, I suddenly understood: the beauty of a homestay lies not in its star rating, but in its ability to make you forget you're just a passing traveler. Tucked away in a village outside Dali's ancient south gate, Muyun Flower House is a three-story Bai-style house draped in ivy. Pushing open the carved wooden door feels like stepping into another world—the front courtyard is paved with bluestone slabs, with a tea table made from an old loom in the corner; koi fish swim in the central courtyard's pond, their reflections mirroring the blue sky; the glass sunroom in the backyard is filled with succulents, sunlight streaming through the roof to paint shifting patterns on the ground. The owner, A-Jie, said every brick and tile here was designed by him and his wife Xiao Mu, and each seemingly casual decoration holds a story from their travels. My room was on the top floor, with sloping wooden beams preserving the original structure of the old house. The best part was the extended balcony, where I could see the entire Erhai Lake. In the evenings, A-Jie would bring hand-brewed coffee and homemade flower cakes, sharing his story of leaving a high-paying job in Beijing to open this homestay in Dali. "One night, working overtime until dawn, I stared at a screensaver of Erhai Lake and suddenly realized we were living like programmed robots," he said, swirling his coffee as the latte art dissolved into ripples. Conversations like these never happen in city hotels, but in a homestay's shared spaces, the barriers between strangers magically melt away. Time at Muyun Flower House felt soft and slow. Waking to birdsong in the morning, I’d join Xiao Mu to buy fresh milk fans at the village market; afternoons were spent flipping through old books in the tatami-floored study, with pear blossom petals occasionally drifting onto the pages; at night, guests often gathered in the courtyard to play guitar, while a Bai grandmother brought warm rose wine. The most unforgettable was a rainy evening when seven or eight strangers from all over crowded around the fireplace, listening to A-Jie recount the rainbow he saw while trekking Meili Snow Mountain. The firelight flickered on everyone’s faces, and in that moment, I truly understood the meaning of "where the heart finds peace, there is home." On the drizzly morning of my departure, Xiao Mu tucked a jar of homemade osmanthus honey into my luggage. Looking back at the flower house shrouded in mist, the tie-dyed fabrics drying on the balcony swayed gently in the wind, as if waving goodbye. Those three days felt like a carefully woven dream, convincing me that somewhere in this world, people really are living the life I yearn for. Perhaps the most precious gift a homestay offers is this fleeting yet genuine illusion—a chance for our city-tamed souls to reimagine another way of living. On the high-speed train back to the city, opening the osmanthus honey released its fragrance, and in an instant, Dali’s sunshine, Cangshan’s silhouette, and the laughter in the courtyard all came rushing back. A great homestay doesn’t just give you a bed—it hands you a key to another kind of life.