The autumn light and old tiles of Camel Bay

As the car rounds the mountain bend, the autumn colors cascade down in a flurry. This is not the kind of autumn that requires you to strain your neck to look up. Here in the Taihang Mountains, the landscape unfolds like a broad-shouldered elder, spreading out his years of treasured keepsakes. The sunlight is heavy and rich, carrying the texture of aged honey, flowing over the layers of rooftops in Camel Bay village. Those tiles are not the blue-black of Jiangnan, but the northern kind, mixed with a bit of gray-brown. After years of wind and frost, they have absorbed the essence of sun and moon, and now, under the autumn sun, they emit a warm glow reminiscent of old rice paper. The village road is clean, winding upward with a gentle slope. Your steps naturally slow down. The pear trees by the roadside have lost most of their leaves, with only a few golden ones stubbornly clinging to the sturdy branches, like the last verses written to the sky. Below the trees, the low stone courtyard walls have gaps where unknown grasses peek out, their tips tinged with autumn frost, bending slightly, forming their own kind of spirit. Pushing open a slightly ajar wooden door with a creak feels like opening a piece of old time. Inside the courtyard, corn is drying, spreading a golden carpet on the ground. This is not a still life from a picture book, but a living, breathing abundance filled with the scent of everyday life. An old man sits on the doorstep weaving a basket, his fingers flying without looking up. That tranquility blends seamlessly with the village and this autumn day. Suddenly, I feel that the autumn of Camel Bay is not about seeing, but about "immersing." It does not offer you a visual spectacle, nor that overwhelming brilliance. Its beauty is immersive. You soak in this rich scene composed of mountains, stones, old houses, and sunlight, and the wrinkles in your heart gradually smooth out. This autumn light is soul-cleansing.