Wengji Leisurely Story: Slow Time Under the Ancient Tea Tree

Driving from Menghai to Wengji, the road becomes more winding, and when you see a stretch of old tea trees spreading down the mountainside, you know you’ve found the right place — this village is hidden in the mist, and even the air carries the scent of tea. On the first day entering the village, I was amazed by the 800-year-old ancient tea tree at the village entrance. The trunk is so thick that it takes three people to wrap their arms around it, the branches stretch up to the sky, the leaves shine bright green, and under the tree lies a green stone slab engraved with “Millennium Tea Soul.” An elderly Dai woman guarding the tree said that during spring tea picking, you need to climb a wooden ladder to reach the leaves. Walking along the stone path into the village, old Dai houses line both sides, with neatly thatched roofs and rammed earth walls that feel rough to the touch but exude a solid strength. At noon, I had a meal at a villager’s home. The elderly woman served roasted tea in a coarse pottery cup; the tea soup was amber-colored. Taking a sip, the roasted aroma mixed with the tea fragrance, and after swallowing, a sweet aftertaste lingered in the throat. The dishes were simple farmhouse fare: stir-fried tea leaf eggs, cold mixed tea buds, and baked fish raised in mountain spring water, fresh enough to need little seasoning. At the table, the elderly woman said almost every family in the village grows tea, and the oldest tea tree is older than great-grandpa’s grandfather. On the second day, I followed the elderly woman to pick tea. We got up at 5 a.m., with mist still drifting in the mountains, stepping on dew as we walked to the tea fields. She taught me to pinch the tea buds and lift them up gently, not to use fingernails to pinch or it would leave marks. After half an hour of picking, I only gathered a small handful in my palm, while she had already filled a bamboo basket, laughing and saying I was “slower than the tea buds.” In the morning, at the tea workshop, I watched tea roasting. The iron wok was heated until scorching, fresh leaves were poured in, and with a “sizzle,” white smoke rose. The master quickly stirred with his hands, and the tea fragrance instantly filled the room, more pleasant than perfume. On the last day, with no schedule to rush, I just sat under the old banyan tree at the village entrance, leisurely watching villagers carry bamboo baskets to feed chickens, children chasing butterflies on the stone path (though I only watched from afar), and the mist slowly drifting down from the mountaintop, casting the ancient tea tree as just a shadow. At dusk, as I was leaving, the elderly woman handed me a small pack of ancient tree tea, saying, “Next time you come, the tea will be budding again.” Driving away, Wengji grew smaller in the rearview mirror, and the scent of tea still lingered on my nose. This trip didn’t visit any “scenic spots,” just followed the village’s rhythm to slowly wander, and it felt more comfortable than anywhere else — it turns out the best travel is living life with the flavor of tea, slower and slower.