One grandmother, one lane, one plate — the original stall at Nanmenkou, standing since 1979.

Nanmenkou's old wet market — a few hundred metres of chili jars, fried rice cakes and family stalls that outlasted the city.

Slippery morning noodles that taste of steam and hungover streets.

A whole fish head crowned with minced chilies, steamed until the spice seeps into the bone.

Smoky sausages and salted pork, steamed slow — the pantry of a southern winter.

The everyday dish of every Hunan kitchen, and the one most people miss the most when they leave.

Sticky fried rice balls rolled in amber sugar, sold warm on rainy corners after the market closes.

A hot bowl of duck blood and clear broth that warms what the city has made cold.

Thin-skinned buns full of burning broth that hurt the tongue just before they comfort it.

Cold noodles under a violent red spoonful, for evenings when you want to taste the danger.

Bean curd brushed with cumin and chili, eaten under streetlights that hum like they are also trying to keep warm.

A wooden room over the Tuo River, where you sleep to the sound of oars and lantern light.

A balcony aimed at the stone peaks, mist rolling in like an apology at dusk.

An earthen house in a singing village, where dinner is shared and the night is loud with insects.

A quiet cabin beneath the maple trees, close enough to the old academy to hear its ghosts.

A fisherman's cottage on stilts, where the lake is the only neighbour worth having.

Bunk beds under a roof of river wind, and a skyline of bridges drawn across the water.

Steaming pools after long roads; the water asks nothing of you at all.

A sleek room suspended over the canyon, for travellers who like their rest a little unnerving.

A single room among bamboo that knocks and clicks all night, like a hundred small doors.

A converted courier station where the letters have stopped arriving but the rooms still smell of paper.

Sandstone pillars rising out of cloud — the mountains movies borrow when they need another world.

A cable car through the mist to a hole in the mountain, and a road of ninety-nine turns below.

Walking on a pane over a thousand feet of air, gripping the rail and pretending to be calm.

Black-tiled roofs and midnight lanterns; a town that looks like a song written about itself.

A thousand-year schoolhouse under autumn maples, where the past still reads aloud after class.

A long green island in the Xiang River, with a young Mao looking out at the current.

The great southern lake, wide as an inland sea, where fishing boats stitch the evening together.

The birthplace of a chairman, now a quiet pilgrimage of rice fields and red flags.

A canyon village reached by footbridges, where embroidered sleeves and silver bells still matter.

One of the five sacred peaks, climbed at dawn through temple incense and pine fog.