"Autumn in Gongcheng: A Slow Life of Red Persimmons and Tea Fragrance"

The morning mist of late autumn has not yet dissipated, and the wheels are already rolling on the unique Danxia gravel road in northern Guangxi, heading towards Hongyan Village, which is known as the "secret place for drying autumn" by the Yao people. As soon as the car window is rolled down, the orange-red waves pouring out of the mountain valley crash into the eyes unexpectedly - the whole hill seems to be a palette overturned by a child, with tens of thousands of persimmon trees holding branches full of fruits, shaking golden bells in the mist. Walking into the persimmon forest on the ginkgo leaves, it feels like stepping into an amber maze. On the gnarled branches of the old persimmon trees, the ripe fruits are like glazed lamps carefully made by palace lamp craftsmen, with the honey-like texture visible under the translucent skin. An old Yao woman with a bamboo basket squats by the stone steps, skillfully twisting the persimmon stems with her calloused hands, and the orange-red waterfall pours into the bamboo sieve from her fingers. The persimmon cakes spread on the drying rack gradually exude sugar frost in the morning light, and the sweet fragrance floating in the air blends wonderfully with the tea seed aroma from the distant oil mill. At noon, following the tea fragrance, the blue printed cloth curtain under the wooden eaves of the Banyu Restaurant at the foot of Phoenix Mountain is lifted by the mountain wind. The copper pot of oil tea brought by the shop owner is still steaming, with fried rice, chopped green onions, and cilantro lined up in the blue and white porcelain dish, waiting for orders. Watching her swing the wooden pestle to pound the old ginger and tea leaves into juice, the moment the boiling broth is poured into the pottery mortar, the rich spicy aroma mixed with the mountain flavor explodes in the nostrils. Sipping it with freshly fried mugwort cake, the initial bitterness quickly turns into a sweet aftertaste, and the warmth spreads from the throat to the limbs, making the sound of the stream outside the window become soft. When dusk climbs onto the persimmon drying rack, holding a warm bowl of oil tea and looking into the distance, the sunset is gilding the persimmon forest with golden edges. Suddenly, I understand what the Yao people mean by "tea nourishes the spirit, persimmons nourish the stomach" - while modern people are still debating how many recipes there are for a slow life, the autumn of this small city has already hidden the answer in the annual rings of the persimmon trees, and dissolved it into the mist of steaming oil tea.