The moment you step into Zhengying Village, time seems to fold

The bluestone path glistens with moisture, old houses from the Ming and Qing dynasties stand quietly on both sides, and occasionally a figure walks slowly behind wooden carved window lattices. Here, you won’t hear hawking calls, only the soft sound of wind blowing past the eaves and the occasional aroma of roasting tofu from a distant tofu workshop. Many people don’t know that this small village hidden in Shiping, Yunnan, has quietly passed through six hundred years. Every carved mark on the beams and pillars of the Chen Clan Ancestral Hall tells a story. At four in the afternoon, sunlight slants into the porch, illuminating the intricately carved window patterns—qilin stepping on clouds, lotus flowers blooming—the wood polished to a warm texture by the passage of time. An elderly person sits by the doorstep weaving bamboo baskets, fingers skillfully threading, as if weaving not only bamboo strips but also flowing years. Walking slowly along the main street, you might unexpectedly come across an ancient well or a tea shop with its door half ajar. Shiping tofu is the symbol of the local atmosphere, charcoal-grilled until the surface is slightly charred, but biting into it reveals a mouthful of bean fragrance. You can follow the locals by dipping it in some chili powder and pairing it with two fresh mint leaves, the flavors layering and melting on your tongue. If you happen upon a family making soy milk glutinous rice cakes, don’t hesitate to stop; the simple sweetness of glutinous rice wrapped in freshly ground bean powder is a warmth that mechanical production cannot replicate. The morning mist over Yilong Lake is worth waking up early for. The village appears faintly in the pale mist, the outlines of blue tiles gradually becoming clear, like a slowly emerging ink painting. If you visit during the rainy season, you might see the entire village floating in the clouds, like a dream. After night falls, lanterns light up one after another. Moonlight spills onto the bluestone path, carrying paper lanterns through the alleys, footsteps echoing in the silence. The words “Farming and Studying Passed Down the Family” on the door lintels remain clearly visible under the dim light. Staying in a guesthouse renovated from an old house, shadows of trees sway outside the wooden window lattices, as if you can hear history breathing. There are always some places that are not eager to be seen but exist calmly and steadily. Zhengying Village is just like that—it is not noisy, yet those who have been here remember the warmth of the bluestone, the aroma of tofu, and the faces that calmly face time. Here, travel is no longer a hurried passage but a quiet conversation, with the years and with yourself.