A Guide to Qinghai's Little Sanya and a Flower Appreciation Map

Though the spring breeze may blow them into snow, they surpass the dust crushed on southern paths. Spring arrives a bit later in Qinghai than elsewhere, but the flowers here possess a unique charm because of it. In Gabeile Village, by the banks of the Yellow River, I watched apricot blossoms dance in a sudden rain, falling like snow, brewing a deeper fragrance before turning to mud, like drinking a pot of wine aged by time. Deep within the apricot grove, the wings of three birds sliced through frozen time, their silhouettes piercing the grayish-purple mountain mist, sketching a flowing musical staff against the dark blue sky. The ripples from their wings awakened the sleeping flower mist, and rustling petals chased the rising birdsong. As the wind from the Yellow River swept through the treetops, the spring scroll slowly unfolded, each frame a letter written by time to spring. In April in Qinghai, I followed the wind to Gulangdi Village, where the mottled traces of time flowed between mountain ridges, and a cluster of pinkish-purple suddenly unfolded from the Tibetan blue folds. It was the peach blossoms, splashed like ink along the mountain slopes, as if dyeing a long-dormant dream into breathing brocade. Tibetan-style wooden houses scattered like bodhi seeds, waiting for the flowers to bloom in the mountain valley. Each carved wooden window held a tree of clouds and rosy dawn, petals climbing up the ochre-red earth walls, rustling and falling within the arc of fluttering prayer flags. Turning a corner, I met local villagers carrying bamboo baskets, the tassels of their yak wool scarves brushing against the purple jasmine on the wall. The stone slabs underfoot gleamed with a patina, and Gesang flowers sprouting from the cracks whispered with peach petals in the light and shadow. The aroma of butter tea drifted from afar, mingled with the fragrance of flowers, intoxicating the barley ears drying on the low walls, dozing against the mottled earth walls. At this moment, Gulangdi Village seemed like a rouge box left behind by the gods, every inch of time steeped in the intoxication of peach blossoms. Milky white ropes hung down like strings, wooden swings suspended between the turquoise water and brown mountains, like sighs frozen by the wind. When the wind blew, the fine sand beach flowed beneath my feet like liquid sunlight, gold-leaf-like particles clinging to the corners of my clothes. When I saw the inscription "The Yellow River's Beauty in Jianzha," I arrived at Deji Village, known as Qinghai's Little Sanya. I never imagined the Yellow River could be so clear, so playful, with a sandy beach, before coming here. When I first heard the locals call it "Qinghai's Sanya," I suspected the spring breeze had hidden too many secrets here. When I saw the swaying swings, the colorful prayer flags, and the gilded beach, all narrating the romance brewed by the plateau and the flowing water, I began to enjoy this comfort. There's no urban hustle and bustle here, only the whispers of wind and water. As the Tibetans say, "Deji's happiness is the barley wine brewed by the Yellow River over thousands of years, intoxicating visitors, but awakening spring."