Harmony, Living Summer at a Leisurely Pace

If summer's extremities are chased by heat, why not find a crack in the middle to slow oneself down into a patch of moss? July, in its gentle grace, brings rain often and departs swiftly, leaving the cobblestone paths perpetually damp, reflecting the light of the sky. Those who have made their home here do not inquire about attractions; they are concerned with which window can hold onto the breeze of the afternoon.

Choose a place not to be a guesthouse on the street. Seek an old residence hidden deep within an alley, wooden, two stories tall, with a courtyard. The wood is a deep brown, with a patina of decades, smooth to the touch with fingers. The room need not be spacious, but it should have a small window facing the courtyard. During the day, do not draw the curtains, allowing light to fall diagonally on the teak floor, like a moving sheet. As evening falls, the light diminishes, and the mossy steps are dyed honey-colored; this is when it is fitting to sit on the threshold and watch swallows darting beneath the eaves.

Sound is also crucial. The mornings and evenings in and around Shunxin are gentle, with the clucking of chickens, distant pounding of laundry, and the delicate sound of rain on bamboo leaves, all enveloping the person. During the day, the liveliest sound is the wind rustling through bamboo thickets, whispering like the turning pages of an old book. At night, it becomes quiet, with occasional barking dogs that quickly sink into deeper silence. It's a good idea to bring earplugs, though they are seldom needed—what truly wakes you is often the dripping of overnight rain from the eaves.

Eat slowly. Purchase fresh corn and pumpkins at the morning market, their leaves still glistening with dew. The landlord's kitchen usually has an old-fashioned stove, and the rice cooked over wood fire is particularly fragrant. The fruit stalls in town offer hot mochi, with the delicate fragrance of the pine pollen mingling with the sweetness of red bean paste. Pair it with a cup of bitter buckwheat tea, and the bitter and sweet slowly dissolve in the mouth. Mushrooms are in season, and stir-fried with green peppers, the beef fungus is fresh, evoking the scent of rain-soaked earth. Don't overindulge; leave room for the next meal.

The most important thing for a long stay is the schedule. Follow the sun; at dawn, head to the laundry stand to watch people washing clothes. The water is cool, seeping from the cracks of volcanic rock, and splashing a handful over your face, it revives you instantly. In the midday heat, lie on a bamboo chair for a siesta, with a small fan gently blowing, no need for air conditioning—Shunxin's summer is often no more than 25-26 degrees. In the evening, add a light linen jacket and take a walk by the fields, watching egrets perched on cows' backs, with the wind over the rice fields carrying the scent of green grain. There aren't many mosquitoes, but it's a good idea to light a disk of mugwort in the house, its wisps of smoke like the shape of time.

To make life more convenient, renting a room with a courtyard is best. Plant a pomegranate tree in the courtyard, and in the afternoon, the light spots scatter on the rim of the jar, where lotus flowers float. All your daily needs are within walking distance. The uncle at the rice shop will deliver rice to the alley entrance, and the aunt selling tofu will give you extra bean dregs. People here speak softly, as if afraid to disturb the ferns in the crevices of the stones.

Residing in a place to escape the summer heat is not about evasion but about returning to oneself. The pace of Shunxin is a tangible, handcrafted daily routine. You need only bring a few changes of clothing and a book you've only read halfway through. The rest is left to the rain, light, and the coolness of each dusk. After staying for a while, your phone may even end up forgotten under your pillow—not because there's no signal, but because the disturbances of the world don't seem to match such a summer.