Travel Notes on Visiting Waquan Village on Boshan Mountain

Original title: Waquan Village is not just a legend

A pool of clear and refreshing spring water has been gushing non-stop throughout the Ming and Qing dynasties, the Republic of China and the present day, and has nurtured a people who have experienced A vicissitudes of life, a village of simple and kind-hearted villagers, its name is Waquan.

I am destined to meet him in this life, surrounded by mountains in the three counties of Jiming. In a daze, the grinding mill, the alley, the cows, the sheep, the chickens and ducks, the tree at the entrance of the village, and the group of fellow villagers with unchanged accents all seemed familiar to me. I can’t remember which dynasty or generation, or where we met.

In the mist and mist, I am looking for the magic of Sanwa Spring, and also for the character of a Confucian scholar who would rather be a broken jade than a complete tile. Of course, there are also the footprints on the stone road and the stories under the old trees. The stream is tinkling and singing, the autumn leaves are rustling, the dogs are walking leisurely, and the old house is waiting for the wanderers. Especially the fountain surging from the big grinding wheel in the village, and all kinds of vague memories of my previous life.

The Wangjia Hutong is not deep, and the door, the tree, and the wall are not ancient. The adobe wall cannot withstand the wind and rain for thousands of years. The imprint of Hongwu has locked the limit. I asked them, can they remember? The Jingnan incident? Can they remember? The pacification of San Francisco? Do they still have memories of the shame of the Opium War and the bells of the Revolution of 1911? Do they still have memories of the establishment of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom and the outbreak of the May Fourth Movement? Everyone remained silent, whether they were afraid of disaster or had other scruples, it was unknown. I think it is the duty of the honest Badajiao folks to work at sunrise and rest at sunset. In the face of changes in dynasties and transfers of political power, it is their bounden duty to stick to their one-third of an acre of land. As for the rest, they didn't ask anything, and their great wisdom was filled with silence.

A locked door and three old houses with four beams and eight columns of gray bricks and gray tiles witnessed the hard work and prosperity of the Wang family and the arrogance of seven mules and horses traveling together. The 400-year-old Despite his advanced age, he still looks majestic and shows his master's high status in the village. No one remembers who the original owner was. The name of the arsenal seems to have become a substitute, repeating to people tirelessly: During the Anti-Japanese War, the Eighth Route Army opened an arsenal here, manufacturing grenades for the Japanese, shooting bullets for the Japanese invaders, and repairing ordnance for the Anti-Japanese War. front. The mottled door cannot forget the craftsmen who made the gunfire, and the factory director named Xu Bin. I also remember the Eighth Route Army soldiers who came out of here and made loud killing sounds on the battlefield.

The stream at the head of the village is not as clear as the mountain spring water, but it has the bitterness and bitterness that the villagers filled it with in the past, and the laughter and joy that fills the air today. It seems that the poor god has a destiny with this land. It has poor mountains, poor water, and poor villagers. There are many rocks in the tile springs, so he climbs the slopes when he goes out. The adults smoked leaves, but there were many children. This is a true portrayal of Waquan Village in the past. There are peach, plum and apricot trees all over the mountains and plains, with abundant fruits; the Agricultural Tourism Expo Park, strawberries, grapes and kiwi fruits attract guests from all over the world. The winding mountain road looks like a silver road to wealth. The poor mountains bear golden fruits; the bad waters have silver waves. Amid laughter, the poor god walked away dejectedly. This is Waquan today.

Waquan, Waquan and Waquan seem to be not only legends, but also legends. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. . . . . .

Text/Hanzhong

Public account: Oriental Prose Magazine

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