Autumn arrives in Lingnan, and in Shaoguan, I encounter a thousand-year-old ginkgo and the Zen spirit of the world

Deep in autumn in Lingnan, I meet a thousand-year-old ginkgo and the Zen spirit of the world in Shaoguan. When the autumn wind blows, Lingnan gains its colors. It’s not the golden carpet of the north, but a small city hidden in the folds of the Nanling Mountains, lightly wrapped in morning mist—Shaoguan. This late autumn, I set off alone from Guangzhou, and in 40 minutes by high-speed train, I stepped into an autumn forgotten by time. Here there is no noisy crowd, only the red layers of Danxia Mountain, the distant bell tolls of Nanhua Temple, and the ginkgo trees that have lived from the Tang Dynasty to today, gently swaying in the soft light like a silent confession lasting a thousand years. At six in the morning, the thin mist is like gauze, and the “Elder Peak” of Danxia Mountain is already bathed in pale golden light. I step on the dewy stairs, beneath me lies red sandstone deposited over hundreds of millions of years, and above me the sky gradually brightens. Suddenly, a maple leaf falls on my shoulder—so here, autumn begins with a drop of red. Climbing to the Sun Viewing Pavilion, the entire Danxia landscape unfolds before my eyes: red cliffs like flames, ravines like knives, and at the foot of the mountain, village smoke curls upward. A few yellow leaves dot the scene, which doesn’t feel desolate but rather brings a touch of warmth. After descending, I went to see the legendary “Jinjiang Gallery.” Renting a bicycle, I rode along the river, with Danxia reflected on both banks. Occasionally, a fisherman paddled a bamboo raft slowly by, startling two or three egrets. At that moment, I suddenly understood: autumn in Lingnan is not about falling leaves, but where mountains and waters meet. In the evening, I stayed at a guesthouse at the foot of the mountain. The landlady brought a steaming bowl of stir-fried mountain snails, paired with a plate of preserved meat claypot rice. Outside the window were silhouettes of distant mountains, and inside the room, the aroma of tea lingered. She said, “Our autumn here is very slow, enough for you to forget all your worries.” The second stop was straight to Nanhua Temple—the place where the Sixth Patriarch of Zen, Huineng, spread the Dharma. Even before entering the mountain gate, I saw ancient ginkgo trees towering into the clouds, their leaves golden as if Buddha’s light was shining down on the world. In the afternoon, sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting mottled shadows on the bluestone slabs. An old monk silently swept leaves; the broom lightly brushed, and golden leaves fell like rain. I stood before the Sixth Patriarch’s True Body Hall, listening to pilgrims quietly chanting sutras, suddenly feeling all sounds cease. In the temple stands the “Sixth Patriarch’s Washing Bowl Tree,” said to have been planted by Huineng himself. Now it is a tree that three people can embrace. When the autumn wind rises, yellow leaves flutter down. Someone reached out to catch a leaf and smiled, saying, “This is a letter sent by Zen.” I sat quietly in the temple for half a day, drank a cup of vegetarian tea, and wrote a sentence: “People are busy chasing falling leaves, forgetting that the tree is still growing.” Before leaving, I picked a complete ginkgo leaf and slipped it into my notebook. It won’t stay golden forever, but the peace of that moment is etched in my heart. The last stop was the Maozi Peak Forest Farm, hidden at the Guangdong-Jiangxi border. It is called the “Kyoto of Guangdong,” and every late November, the entire forest farm looks like a golden kingdom descending. At eight in the morning, I walked into the “Golden Avenue,” flanked by towering ginkgo trees, their fallen leaves thick on the ground, rustling underfoot. Girls in Hanfu carried lanterns slowly walking, photographers crouched waiting for the light and shadow, and I just stood still, letting the wind blow a shoulder full of gold. Deep in the forest farm is an old supply and marketing cooperative, now turned into a café. I ordered a hand-poured coffee and sat by the window, watching yellow leaves dance in the wind like time itself was dancing. A local elder told me, “These trees were planted by our fathers. They said planting trees is not for the present, but so future generations can have a good autumn.” I was stunned for a long time. It turns out the most beautiful scenery has always been trees planted by predecessors, and shade enjoyed by descendants. On the return high-speed train, I opened my notebook, and the ginkgo leaf lay quietly inside. Autumn in Shaoguan does not shout, it only whispers; It does not claim beauty, yet it makes the heart tremble. If you also want to find a place to listen to the voice of the mountains and see the faith of the trees, why not take a trip to Shaoguan? Autumn here is short, but enough to leave a lasting memory. 🌿 Shaoguan is not just Danxia, but also that touch of golden deep in the years.