Tracing the legacy of King Yu, seeking the Southern Song stone bridge by Xiaoxia Bay

The mist on Xishan Island in late autumn always carries a hint of historical richness. I avoided the crowded main path and turned into the narrow trail of Xiaoxia Bay. The ginkgo leaves were bidding farewell to the branches in the most leisurely manner, laying out a carpet of scattered gold leading deep into time. The flying eaves of the Yu King Temple appeared and disappeared among the shadows of the trees, and the pair of stone lions at the gate had been worn smooth by the years, seeming no longer like stern guards but thoughtful sages. Walking along the lake, the water gently lapped at the base of the Song Dynasty stone bridge. This forgotten ancient bridge had no name; its body was covered with creeping vines, and a few stubborn wild chrysanthemums sprouted from the stone crevices. Sitting on the bridge railing, I could see the water plants swaying underwater, like cursive writing written on the water. The muffled sound of fishing boats' engines in the distance only made this place feel even more tranquil. An old fisherman was mending his nets by the shore, his movements as slow as a slow-motion scene in a movie. When I asked him the age of the bridge, he just smiled: "It was here when my grandfather’s grandfather was a child." Turning into the ancient village, the Ming Dynasty stone slabs were polished shiny by footsteps, reflecting the sky. In the farmhouse courtyard, persimmons hung from the branches like little red lanterns. The host picked a few and handed them over; the flesh was honey-sweet, carrying the coolness after the frost. Sitting under the thousand-year-old camphor tree drinking tea, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves and paint light and shadow on the mossy brick wall. At this moment, I suddenly understood why the ancients chose to retire here—not to escape, but to make peace with time. As the sunset dyed the lake surface a bronze color, the entire island sank into an ancient tranquility.