It’s dawn in Beijing, and the scurry of people has already begun. Over the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square kite sellers are reeling out their day’s wares on the early morning breeze, whilst guards have decamped to their position on the main steps.

For most travellers, this is a classic scene. Most arrive in the major cities of Beijing or Shanghai, trawl the shopping malls, and perhaps manage to add a few iconic sights to the itinerary before flying out again. But China is a vast country, the majority of which is to be found far away from the urban metropolises. And whilst the nation’s industrial cities are undoubtedly growing at an unprecedented rate, there’s plenty of rural life still worth visiting.

The problem for most hoping to get into the countryside is that China can be an intimidating destination to travel around. Getting away from the urban trail involves taking at least one train or bus and probably a mixture of the two, and in a country where English is not widely spoken or written, navigation can rapidly become difficult.

When I first stepped into Beijing’s central rail station I immediately realised that an hour’s leeway to catch my train may not be enough. The vast entrance hall was gated by airport-style metal detectors and luggage screens, slowing the hoards of arrivals to a slow trickle through the entrance. And whilst the city’s enormous and confusing timetable did offer some English translation, this was to be the exception rather than the rule in China. Stations away from the main city offered only Chinese characters, to be painstakingly matched with those found on the ticket.

Country life
I was heading to Chengdu, city of giant pandas and Sichuan chilli, from which I was only a long bus ride away from Songpan, a trekking village on the Tibetan border. Early morning in the bus station saw a variety of Tibetan and Chinese weighed down with bedraggled luggage, clearly heading back to country life after an exhausting stint in the city.

Whilst waiting for the bus I filled up from a small canteen serving hot dumplings, steaming bowls of soup and the ubiquitous Chinese ‘oily stick’. Breakfast in China is a hearty affair, and the oily stick is like a fat savoury doughnut, perfect for a challenging day ahead. And with a lengthy trip to contend with, there was every likelihood that the day would indeed be a long one.

Rural bus routes are not often the most reliable, and depending on who needs to be dropped off and picked up where, journey times can spiral on almost indefinitely. Although timings are helped by a Chinese notion of road safety in which one drives at speeds too fast for the narrow roads and sounds the horn constantly to compensate.

The views from the window, however, more than made up for the bumpy ride. Heading into the heights of Songpan was a journey that cut through emerald green mountain valleys, toured into misty cloud forests, and rattled past rustic smallholdings where children waved excitedly. At one point we dipped into a valley which was holding a yak contest between the local farmers and were treated to the rare site of these strange looking animals groomed to within an inch of their lives and trussed in ribbons and bells. Yaks are endemic to the mountain areas of rural China and are vital to the way of life here. The animals provide wool, leather, meat, and are sturdy and reliable plough-pullers. Odd looking they may be, but their hardiness and slow gait is so perfectly suited to the harsh mountains.

Songpan
Night had fallen by the time we rolled into Songpan and the temperature had dropped to below freezing. Finding somewhere to stay in outback China with adequate heating can be a tough business. Whilst the gale blows and the snow falls, most have no heating at all save electric blankets, and even the town’s handful of restaurants and bars offered only food and drink to keep guests warm.

The next morning, however the bright sunshine is powerful enough to burn, despite the chill temperatures, and as I’m introduced to my mountain guide, Sangye, he urges sunblock.

Heading into the hills on horseback is a stumbling process. It’s a commonly held myth than horses are well suited to mountain terrain. And despite the best efforts of my industrious steed, the four cloven feet slip and slide over the steep rocks. Eventually the ascent ends, and we break onto the endless peak of the mountain range. A worn pathway snakes away ahead, mapping the route of countless nomadic caravans before us.

This mountain-pass route marks the journey from Chinese territory to the Tibetan homeland, and is still a popular route for natives to traverse. My horse comes to a sudden standstill as if similarly awestruck by the scenery. The tethering rope jerks tight, pulling the elderly guide at the other end into an athletic backwards somersault from his horse. He lands squarely on the thinly grass pathway, makes a strange Tibetan sound of crooning annoyance to the guilty animal, remounts. And so we trot off in tandem, each turn revealing an ever-more-stunning mountain panoramic.

The warm temperature of the valleys has dropped away with the altitude and despite the warmth from the horses the cold soon turns bitter. After a few hours trekking, limbs and fingers are frozen, and by nightfall the cold has crept into our bones. A light appears on the horizon. And as we » approach Sangye points enthusiastically to an ancient weathered hut, framed by the soft yellow light escaping from its window and doorframes. It seems we have finally arrived at our resting place for the night.

Our horses canter away to eat the moment we remove our packs and my guide makes his apparently all-purpose crooning noise to announce our arrival at the hut. He opens the door and beckons. Inside the tiny shack a range has been stoked to maximum capacity with burning wood with a kettle whistling merrily on top. After the cold of the mountain, the warmth is almost impossible to comprehend. Within minutes of being chilled to the very core I’ve dispensed with my gloves and jacket and am struggling to free myself of a suddenly suffocating fleece. Sangye, who has made the entire journey in a heavy Tibetan tabard, makes no sign that he has noted a change in temperature. Instead he goes about assembling the ingredients for the evening meal, first removing a meat cleaver from the wall and slivering an enormous bunch of spring onions into delicate rounds. He pauses briefly to pour from the kettle. Under a dual bombardment of blazing range and hot tea the cold outside is now completely forgotten.

Afternoon tea
Suddenly there is a knock on the door. It seems as though the chance to sample Sangye’s cooking has brought guests, even in a remote location, and a blast of freezing air ushers in an aged Nepalese and his middle-aged son. They huddle onto the small bench, by the range smiling in greeting, and are rewarded with tea.

But once the pleasantries have passed, Sangye’s concentration is back with the cooking, gracefully slicing an endless pile of white root vegetables, garlic, cabbage and ginger into the bubbling pan. He leans into the corner to retrieve a bottle a fragrant sesame oil which he upends generously into the mix. Next piles of flat white noodles are broken into the bubbling broth. The mixture is left to simmer, and more tea is poured. Sangye removes a dish of Sichuan pickles and spices from a hidden corner under the range, prods them by manner of inspection, and leaves them to warm on the range.

Finally the soup is complete, and after a requisite dollop of the flame-red chillies the broth is generously ladled into bowls. The first mouth-full is hot, salty and unctuous with the tang of the spices spiking through the soft noodles. And despite the large portions we all finish rapidly and wordlessly. More soup is ladled out, and full to bursting after my second bowl, I am treated to the famous Chinese practice of force-feeding guests.

“Chur chur!” urges Sangye, snatching up my bowl for a third portion. Nodding happily as I tuck into round three he scrabbles about to uncover a clutch of large dough dumplings which he distributes earnestly. Then his companion reveals a bottle of Chinese whisky.

The first sip adds to the fire of the soup to make a rich glow in my stomach. By now the heat is radiating in waves from my body, and Sangye nods in approval at the row of faces ablaze by the fire. ‘Good soup. Good. Warm’ he nods, touching his own red face in pleased acknowledgement that the soup has fulfilled its function. And although the range has died down a little, with a belly-full of Sichuan’s fiery-finest, it doesn’t seem so cold anymore.

Lijang
Winding back down from the hills of Songpan the next morning, and it’s time to head even further into the hills. This time to the tourist Mecca of Lijang – at once an isolated and much-visited village in the Yunnan province. Lijang’s ancient streets and waterways have made it legendary for both Chinese and visitors from further afield, and bears the dubious privilege of being one of the most visited destinations on the planet.

Getting there from Songpan means making the torturous route back to the urban hub of Chengdu and heading south again by both train and bus. But despite the effort to get here I can immediately understand why this tiny far-flung village is so popular.

The arched bridges and traditional tiled rooftops are an iconic image of rural China, complete with the odd brightly coloured temple peeking out from between rustic wooden homes. If you’re up early enough you can wander the picturesque streets almost alone, taking in the soft dawn rays.

As the hoards descend, Lijang is everything that rural China isn’t, and the tiny streets are rapidly crushed full of tourists desperate to get that perfect picture of the scenic waterways. During the daytime, however, it’s easy to hop off by local bus to other less touristy hamlets, returning to enjoy Lijang’s ample accommodation and restaurant facilities by nightfall.

As I muscle my way into one of Lijang’s many restaurants for a meal, however, I can’t help but think that a break from all these people could be welcome, and the wide open space of Tiananmen Square has never seemed more appealing.