Tea Culture Homestay on the Southern Anhui Sichuan-Tibetan Route

## Travel Notes of a Parent-Child Journey at HuaZhu Jingxian Yishu Tea Garden As the morning mist lingered, our car wound through the emerald layers of Caicun Village. Distant mountains stood like ink washes, the murmur of a stream faintly audible, while bamboo groves in Moon Bay swayed gently in the haze. Stepping into Yishu Tea Garden's ancient courtyard, bamboo-scented breezes swept through the hall as tea steam began to rise. Morning dew on the stone path dampened our shoes, yet the children noticed nothing, their bright eyes fixed on the lanterns bearing the character "tea" hanging from the eaves—their gazes alight with discovery. Thus began a journey to meet the soul of tea. --- ### Between Bud and Leaf: First Steps in the Tea Mountains Following our guide into the hillside tea fields, waves of green rolled toward us. The children tied on canvas aprons and grasped bamboo baskets, instantly transforming into "little tea farmers." When my daughter's fingers first touched the tender, curled buds, she held her breath: "Mom, the tea leaves are breathing!" The guide bent down and whispered, "Each bud and leaf is a life." The children nodded with partial understanding, their small hands already learning to move gently among the stems, plucking only the freshest tips. The dew was cool, the earth soft, and sweat trickled unnoticed from their brows as the tea leaves in their baskets responded to this earnest, if clumsy, labor with their delicate fragrance. --- ### Tempered by Fire: From Leaf to Cup Returning with our harvest, the iron wok in the tea garden stood ready. The guide demonstrated the "kill-green" technique, and the children gathered on tiptoe, watching the leaves dance and curl in the heat, their aroma filling the room. My son was allowed to stir a handful under the guide's guidance, exclaiming, "It's like tickling the tea!" After the leaves rested on bamboo trays, the children sat cross-legged to learn the ancient art of rolling—tea juice staining their fingers, the scent seeping into their clothes. Finally, when the tea they had picked and processed unfurled in their cups, my daughter held hers to my lips: "Mom, smell this—it's Moon Bay in spring." In that clear infusion lay mountain breezes, morning mist, and the eager warmth of childhood. --- ### Ancient Rituals, New Lessons: Quiet Growth at the Tea Table The tearoom was serene, the long table dark as ink. As the guide poured water with cloudlike grace, the children mimicked warming cups, measuring leaves, and raising the pot high—their expressions uncharacteristically solemn. "Courtesy, discipline, calmness, clarity"—the guide distilled the eight tenets of tea ceremony into childlike terms: offering a cup with both hands at eyebrow level was "respect"; sipping in silence was "stillness"; savoring the aftertaste like a forest on the tongue was "purity." When my son presented his first brew to me, his small hands trembled, but his gaze was steady. Outside, bamboo shadows swayed; inside, steam swirled. The cups reflected both centuries of tea tradition and the young faces before us—and I realized with a start that **the seeds of tea ceremony had taken root in their hearts with the sound of pouring water**. --- ### Lingering Notes: Growth Forged by Culture As we departed, the children clutched handmade tea sachets and leaf rubbings, their bags heavy with gifts from the landscape. On the road home, my daughter suddenly asked, "Will the tea plants remember we picked their leaves next year?" I smiled—this question was the trip's most precious echo. Jingxian had used tea as a vessel to carry the children upstream through culture: teaching reverence for nature during harvesting, patience and craft in processing, and the dignity of ritual when serving. True study, it seemed, wasn't about imparting knowledge but awakening cultural memory through bamboo baskets, warm woks, and the traces left in clay cups. --- At dusk, as the tea garden's walls glowed pink, we bid farewell. Looking back, Yishu's lanterns flickered to life like warm stars against the dark mountains. That night, the children murmured "bud and leaf" in their sleep, while I traced the clumsy veins on their leaf rubbings—reminded that **tradition is simply letting ancient tea souls anchor in childish palms**, then seeing the world's green depths anew through their eyes. Jingxian's tea fragrance may fade with the wind, but the quiet cultivated at that table will flow on like Moon Bay's stream, forever echoing in the heart's valley.