Tongxi Travelogue: The Night and Dawn of Taoxichuan

In the heart of Jingdezhen, Taoxichuan has revived its former glory on the foundation of an old porcelain factory. At dusk, the sagger walls in the square stand silent and solemn, like remnants of ancient kilns, with tiny plants embedded in the broken saggers swaying gently in the wind. Crowds gradually gather as lanterns light up the market one by one, the glow of porcelain flowing through the twilight, with shadows of lights and people lingering among the ceramics. The stall owners, all young faces, hold dreams of pottery in their hands, quietly awaiting kindred spirits amidst the bustle. I pause at one stall, touching a small celadon-glazed cup—its surface as smooth as jade, reflecting the lamplight, as if the light ripples faintly deep within the glaze. The clamor of the day recedes like the tide, and Taoxichuan’s late-night scene is a different world. I step into a brightly lit pottery studio, where a few figures are still busy. An elderly man bends over his wheel, focused as the clay obediently spins, rises, and takes shape under his hands, like a mysterious ritual of growth. Holding my breath, I watch the lump of clay transform into a plain vessel in his palms, its curve gentle, as if a drop of water had been frozen in time. Flecks of clay splash onto his clothes unnoticed. Only when the vessel takes form does he look up, his eyes softened and serene with the touch of earth. I quietly step back, leaving behind only the even hum of the spinning wheel, lingering in the silence of the night. The next morning, waking at Tongxi Homestay, the dawn light spills over the windowsill, gently rousing me from sleep. Pushing open the window, the Chang River unfolds before me, with distant mountains like ink washes, a faint blue hue softly spreading. Below, the narrow bluestone alley remains untouched by tourists’ footsteps, bathed only in the tender morning light. Descending the stairs, I find tea sets arranged on a wooden table in the homestay’s courtyard, the aroma of tea rising and quietly filling the air. The hostess sits with a smile, the stove fire glowing red as steam swirls. She pours water for our tea with unhurried grace. The tea is clear, and as I lift the cup to sip, its crisp sweetness glides over my lips, the warmth flowing down like a hot spring, soothing my entire body. In the morning light, the rim of the cup glimmers faintly, steam drifting, the scent of tea intertwining with the earthy simplicity of clay, weaving a quiet serenity in this small space. Standing in Tongxi’s courtyard and looking back, the lanterns of Taoxichuan and the dawn light of Tongxi seem like two different glazes fired in the same kiln. The young dreams at the market shine under the lights, while the clay in the old man’s hands bears the warmth of time. The waters of the Chang River and the tea in the cup flow wordlessly. The true marks of travel may not lie in every inch of ground our feet tread, but in the moments when our souls are quietly touched—when the residual warmth of ancient kilns seeps into today’s lights, when the simplicity of clay lingers in the tea’s mist, we realize that this city’s deepest essence is a fairy tale woven from the breath of earth and the dance of flames. In this fairy tale, we are all passersby, yet always allowed to carry away a little of the earth’s warmth and the fire’s glow.