Travel diary of China

When the taxi wound up the mountain road and Wangxian Valley finally peeked into view, I gasped—wooden cottages clung to the sheer rock face like a cluster of nest boxes, connected by zigzagging staircases strung with paper lanterns. It was dusk, and the sky blushed pink-purple above the peaks, while warm light seeped from cottage windows, turning the cliff into a glowing, vertical village.

I checked into a cliffside room first: stepping onto its wooden balcony, I could almost touch the damp rock wall beside me, and the valley wind carried the scent of pine. After dropping my bag, I followed the staircases upward—each turn revealed a new surprise: a tiny tea house tucked into a rock crevice, a vendor selling sweet rice cakes, or a group of travelers laughing as they leaned over railings to snap photos of the valley below.

By nightfall, the lanterns along the stairs lit up, and the whole cliff glowed like a scene from a fantasy novel. I sat on a stone bench outside a cottage, sipping local wild tea, and watched fireflies flicker between the wooden beams. A local elder told me the valley was once a hermit’s retreat; now, these cliff cottages let visitors “live like immortals” (wangxian, after all, means “gazing at immortals”).

The next morning, I woke to birdcalls and mist curling around the cliffs. From my balcony, the valley below was wrapped in soft white fog, and the cottages looked like they were floating. As I descended the stairs to leave, I turned back one last time—those glowing wooden homes, clinging to the rock, felt less like a resort and more like a secret the mountains had shared just with us.