After three nights at Tongguan Mountain, I finally understood the joy of "sleeping with the mountains as my pillow."

As the car rounded the last ridge, my phone signal suddenly faded, replaced by the rustling of bamboo waves across the hills—Jiangzuo Phoenix Homestay was hidden in this sea of green, like an uncut jade gently cradled in the palm of the mountains. Pushing open the creaky wooden door, the first thing that greeted me was the fresh, earthy scent of plants. The hostess was crouched in the courtyard picking vegetables, the cherry tomatoes in her bamboo basket gleaming red. She stood up with a smile: "Just picked from the back mountain, washed and ready to try." On the stone table were rustic clay teapots, steeping this year's freshly harvested Yangxian Snow Buds—the pale green tea was slightly bitter at first sip, but a subtle sweetness lingered, as if holding the essence of spring from the entire mountain on my tongue. The guest room was cozier than expected. No flashy decorations, just a solid wooden bed crafted by an old carpenter, dressed in sun-bleached linen sheets that carried the scent of sunshine. The best part was the floor-to-ceiling window facing terraced tea fields. Drawing the curtains at dawn, I’d see tea pickers in bamboo hats moving through the rows, their baskets brimming with vibrant leaves. By dusk, the sunset painted the distant peaks tangerine, while mountain breezes rustled through the bamboo groves, a lullaby more soothing than any white noise. After dinner, sitting on bamboo chairs in the courtyard, watching fireflies drift over from the tea fields like tiny lanterns, the hostess would bring a stool and share stories of Tongguan Mountain, moonlight glinting softly on her silver hair, gentle as a painting. A 15-minute bike ride to the mountaintop for sea of clouds, 20 minutes to an ancient temple for bell chimes—when tired, I’d return to the tearoom to write, read, or simply doze off at the square table. Waking to sunlight filtering through wooden lattices, casting dappled patterns on the floor, while tea pickers’ songs floated up from the valley, mingling with the sound of dew-kissed tea leaves. Suddenly, it became clear: the best journeys aren’t about ticking off sights, but about turning days into quiet poetry in places like this.