Anchang: A Jiangnan Water Town Forgotten by Time

Anchang: A Jiangnan Water Town Forgotten by Time The morning mist had not yet lifted when I stepped onto the stone-paved road of Anchang Ancient Town. The moment my shoe sole touched the bluestone, it felt like opening a door to the past. This millennium-old town, located in the northwest corner of Shaoxing, is like a recluse quietly waiting in the embrace of the East Zhejiang Canal. Unlike the bustling crowds of Wuzhen or the commercial clamor of Zhouzhuang, Anchang stubbornly preserves the most authentic appearance of a Jiangnan water town. The riverside corridors are Anchang’s most captivating scenery. These eaves, built during the Ming and Qing dynasties, are supported by weathered wooden pillars, providing three kilometers of shade and shelter from rain. Sitting on a bamboo chair under the corridor, I watched sunlight filter through the wooden lattice windows, casting scattered light spots on the bluestone slabs. An elderly woman wearing a blue cloth headscarf walked slowly by, carrying a bamboo basket filled with freshly picked greens, vibrant and dripping with freshness. She blended into the corridor scene, forming a living folk painting. These corridors are not just architecture but the stage of life for Anchang’s people—children play here, elders chat, merchants trade, enduring wind and rain for centuries. Turning the corner, a rich aroma of soy sauce greeted me. Anchang’s soy sauce gardens are time’s cellar; the soy sauce here undergoes at least three years of sun and dew exposure. At the "Renchang Soy Sauce Garden" drying yard, I saw hundreds of soy sauce vats neatly arranged like soldiers awaiting inspection. A master craftsman stirred the dark brown mash in the vats with a wooden rake, a motion he has repeated for half a century. "Young people nowadays find this work dirty and tiring," he wiped his sweat, "but without these three years of waiting, where would this rich flavor on the tongue come from?" I tasted the freshly drawn soy sauce; its salty freshness with a hint of sweetness is a flavor that industrial assembly lines can never replicate. Anchang is most charming in the twelfth lunar month. Sausages, soy sauce ducks, and dried fish hang under the eaves along the street, glistening with oil in the winter sun. These preserved flavors are not performances for tourists but survival wisdom passed down through generations of Anchang people. In the workshop of the intangible cultural heritage inheritor of "Anchang Preserved Flavors," I witnessed the traditional production process: selecting local lean pork, marinating it with ancient recipe seasonings, then slowly smoking it over pinewood fire. The owner handed me a freshly sliced sausage; the amber-colored fat marbling was as beautiful as marble, and the rich aroma upon tasting evoked the festive flavors of my childhood grandmother’s home. In the town center, the Chenghuang Temple opera stage hides exquisite wood carvings under its flying eaves and upturned corners. Every Wednesday morning, Shaoxing Lotus Flower Opera is still performed here. I squeezed among the elderly, listening to the performers sing "The Legend of the White Snake" in dialect. Though I couldn’t understand the lyrics, the melodious tunes and the knowing laughter of the audience made me feel the resilient vitality of traditional culture among the people. A maltose candy vendor under the stage told me, "My grandfather’s generation listened to opera here, and now it’s our turn to bring our grandchildren." At the end of Sanli Street lies a stone arch bridge quietly resting over the river. This is the Ankang Bridge, built in the Southern Song Dynasty, its body covered with green vines and a few stubborn wild grasses growing in the stone crevices. Standing atop the bridge, I looked out at white walls and black tiles lining the river, with several black-canopied boats moored at the stone wharf, gently rocking with the water’s waves. No tour guide flags, no commercial hawking, only the sound of women pounding clothes echoing through the alleys. This tranquility reminded me of the "slow past" described by Mu Xin. At the old site of "Suikang Money Shop," I touched the deep dents on the Qing Dynasty money chest, marks left by countless rubbing copper coins. This is the most well-preserved ancient money shop in Jiangnan, witnessing Anchang’s glory as a commercial hub. Today, the abacus behind the counter still shines but no one moves the beads anymore. The old shopkeeper in the neighboring tea house told me, "At its peak, Anchang had seventy-two pawnshops; now..." He smiled and refilled my tea, "We keep our ancestors’ things and live comfortably." At dusk, I climbed Fushou Bridge. The setting sun draped the ancient town in golden silk, and smoke curled gently from behind the horse-head walls. On the river, a boatman pushed a long pole, stirring the pool of rosy light. At this moment, Anchang’s beauty took my breath away—not the carefully polished beauty of a scenic spot, but the poetry naturally flowing from life itself. Here, there is no "antique charm" decorated to please tourists; every brick and tile carries real historical memory. When leaving, I bought a string of sausages and a bottle of soy sauce on the old street. These flavors will become the bond connecting me to Anchang. In this rapidly changing era, Anchang Ancient Town is like an island, stubbornly guarding the last purity of the Jiangnan water town. It reminds us: some slowness is worth waiting for; some traditions must be passed on; some places are destined to be gently treated by time.