The Most Beautiful Homestay in the Most Beautiful Village—Huazhu Laiyantang in Hongcun
Seventy-Two Hours Symbiotic with Huazhu Laiyantang
Pushing open the heavy wooden door of Huazhu Laiyantang in Hongcun is like flipping through the pages of a long-sealed old book. The subtle scent of time lingering between the wooden beams and pillars greets you, stirring a faint tremor in your heart, as if gently brushed by the fingers of history.
This Qing-dynasty official residence is a living fossil of Huizhou architectural artistry. Everywhere the eye falls, there are intricate carvings that tell stories: the magpie-and-plum-blossom motif on the gate tower, its wings rendered with such delicacy they seem ready to flutter free from the frozen wood; the flowing vine-and-lotus patterns along the beams, silently brimming with vitality and blessings; and the latticed windows, their geometric designs overlapping layer upon layer, casting puzzles woven from past and present as light filters through, blurring the boundaries of time without a sound.
The courtyard is the heart and stage of this ancient house. At dawn, sunlight creeps up the carved window lattices like a shy visitor, illuminating the wooden beams with ever-deepening clarity. After a sudden rain, droplets from the eaves fall like scattered pearls, chiming rhythmically against the bluestone slabs, as if a clock of time were ticking softly in the depths of the old house. At night, the small patch of sky framed by the courtyard spills starlight onto my quietly seated figure, and for a moment, it feels as though I can hear the faint footsteps of time pacing silently through the wood grain.
Huazhu Laiyantang has quietly shed its official solemnity to become a homestay where one can both live and wander. The newly added modern comforts blend seamlessly with the old bones of the house. The occasional footsteps on the wooden stairs, the faint aroma of meals wafting from the kitchen—these small traces of human life do not disturb the ancient house’s spirit. Instead, they are like a gentle breath, allowing the old structure to stretch and revive in the present, radiating a unique vitality. The house’s modern life, it turns out, is a quiet continuation amid the warmth of everyday existence.
One afternoon, as I adjusted my camera in a dappled corner, I noticed a painter setting up his easel, intently sketching a section of the old house. In conversation, I learned he visits for a few days each year, using his brush to record the subtle changes time etches into the building’s fabric. “An old house needs new eyes, new stories,” he said, “or it risks truly dying.” As he spoke, his brush whispered across the paper, a silent dialogue between the ancient house and the present. In that moment, I understood: this old house is not merely a relic to be admired from afar. It still breathes, listens, and embraces the whispered confessions of each generation’s passing travelers.
As I prepared to leave, my gaze drifted to the eaves—where, to my surprise, a small swallow’s nest sat, delicate yet secure. Year after year, the swallows return, just like us transient visitors. These new lives and memories, like swallows carrying mud, gradually fill the gaps in the house’s timeline, granting it a resilience that refuses to be buried by dust.
In the end, we are but brief punctuation marks in the long life of this ancient house. Yet, as my footsteps lightly overlay those of past inhabitants, as my eyes trace the wood grain steeped in time, a peculiar connection forms in silence: my fleeting existence has merged into the centuries-spanning breath of this structure. The house’s silence is not rejection; it has always been waiting—waiting for every pair of ears willing to listen to the flow of time.
The wood grain, deeply saturated with time, grows even clearer in the twilight, as if carved with time’s own hieroglyphs, silently speaking of eternity.