Yangzhou Puyuan: A Quiet Moment to Oneself

Puyuan lies in the eastern part of Yangzhou city—neither particularly large nor famous. I visited solely because a friend mentioned "it's tranquil there," which piqued my interest. Upon entering, a pond greets you. The water isn't crystal clear, but it reflects the sky and clouds well enough. A few aged willows stand by the pond, their branches dipping into the water, tracing delicate ripples when a breeze passes. Stone benches scatter under the trees, presumably for rest, but now sit empty. The garden sees few visitors, mostly elderly locals strolling in twos and threes. They amble leisurely, pausing occasionally to admire the flowers before moving on, exuding a serene detachment from the world. Young people rarely come—the garden lacks thrilling rides or Instagram-worthy spots, holding little appeal for them. I meander along a gravel path flanked by ordinary plants, nothing exotic, yet charming in their simplicity. An old plum tree leans over the path, its gnarled branches like iron, hinting at its age. A small, weathered stele stands beneath it, its inscription too faint to decipher, guarding some forgotten story from years past. Rounding a rockery, I spot a pavilion labeled "Listening to Rain." Inside, an old man sits alone with an open book, though he isn't reading—just gazing into the distance. I tread softly, not wanting to disturb his reverie. Puyuan, it seems, is woven from such unnoticed moments of quiet. To the west, a half-open gate reveals a small courtyard where a woman waters flowers. Her movements are slow, as if each plant were an old friend requiring careful greeting. Noticing me peeking in, she merely smiles before resuming her task. The courtyard, likely a private residence, blends seamlessly with the public garden—an unusual touch. As the afternoon sun grows stronger, I settle in the shade of an ancient locust tree. A cool breeze lulls me into drowsiness. Half-asleep, I catch the strains of an erhu playing "Moon Reflected in Second Spring." The playing isn’t masterful, but it suits the mood perfectly. I wake to find the sun low in the sky, the garden even quieter. Brushing off my clothes, I prepare to leave. Passing the pond, I see the old man still in the pavilion, now writing something. Sunlight filters through willow branches, casting dappled shadows over him. At the exit, I glance back. The characters "Puyuan" on the gate appear strikingly plain. True to its name, the garden shuns extravagance and fame, simply existing in quiet readiness for chance visitors. The world has no shortage of famed sights—grand, spectacular, teeming with crowds. Yet places like Puyuan, unassuming as they are, hold their own charm. They neither reject nor cling; whether you come or go, they remain. Just beyond the garden lies the bustling city, its noise swallowing Puyuan’s silence in an instant.