Wandering Through the Wild, Abandoned Gardens at the Foot of West Hill

During the National Day holiday, everywhere is crowded. The country park I often visit has also been packed these past days. As someone who loves quiet, I dislike joining the crowds, so I rode my bicycle to seek out the neglected wild gardens at the foot of West Hill. Haidian is beautifully greened; even around the famous Summer Palace there are several patches of such wild, abandoned gardens.

Most of these wild gardens have neither names nor proper paths. Some have dirt roads, some gravel paths, and some even concrete roads that dead-end, so few visitors enter them. The reed marshes and woods have long been untended, retaining a wild, pristine charm. The reeds are dense with sparrows; when a person approaches, flocks of small finches whir deeper into the grass. This kind of beauty suits a country person like me, so I wandered through one after another, stepping uninvited into any dense woods where few people passed.

At the foot of West Hill there is also a row of demolished dwellings. Finding my way in, I saw nothing but broken walls and crumbling ruins, with wild grass growing thick on both sides of the paths and around the collapsed old houses. A few old trees stood among the weeds, looking rather distinctive. Most amusingly, we found two jujube trees by the road laden with ripe fruit; I unabashedly picked a few and ate them. These jujubes were not as sweet as the winter dates bought at the market, but my wife and I enjoyed them all the same.

After people moved out of these villages, nature displayed its miraculous power: in just a few years the place had become lush wilderness. Unexpectedly, I discovered someone had opened a vegetable garden among the broken walls. The gardener must share my tastes and interests; it is a pity we never met—had we, I would have enjoyed a casual chat with him.

The bicycle is one of humankind's greatest inventions. This vehicle is truly convenient: it can be ridden, pushed, or carried; light and nimble, it is the best way to explore wild gardens with poor roads. Without a bicycle, I think I might have ridden a horse through these wild gardens. On the bike, I sometimes imagine myself riding a horse, leisurely roaming here! I even composed a poem: "Autumn reaches West Hill, leaves turning red; I spur my horse through the deserted village, seeking a wild stream. White clouds on the ridge, stones beneath the pines; bright moon through the woods, lighting my way home."

Beijing's autumn is beautiful indeed; Yu Dafu wrote "Autumn in the Former Capital" to praise it. He said: "Autumn, wherever autumn may be, is always lovely. Yet the autumn of the North comes with a peculiar clarity, a peculiar stillness, a peculiar melancholy." I do not much like using the word "melancholy" to describe Beijing's autumn hues, but I deeply agree with Yu Dafu's description. To me, Beijing's autumn feels vast and remote, rendered by nature in infinite splendor stretching to the horizon.

Beijing's autumn sets the forests ablaze: golden pagoda tree and ginkgo leaves fill the city, and the red leaves of West Hill and Fragrant Hills cover the mountainside—all announcing that autumn has truly arrived. This atmosphere cannot be felt in the South. I love the South's evergreen greenery, and I also love Beijing's four distinct seasons. In autumn Beijing, beneath an endless blue sky, the colorful mountains and the golden ginkgo and pagoda-tree avenues lift the spirits. In recent years, many London plane trees have also been planted in Beijing; in autumn, their broad crowns rustle in the wind, a lovely sound.

Of course, in my view, the most beautiful autumn colors are those wild gardens left to nature. In these rarely visited places, where wild grasses are lush and reeds form groves, nature wields its great brush, coloring at will without a trace. Such autumn is truly "natural, unadorned."

When one dwells in such an environment—away from tidy, mechanical urban civilization, away from hurrying crowds, away from the rigid nine-to-five life, away from endless meetings and endless nonsense, away from all kinds of cheap jokes—one naturally feels the joy of life itself.