21. Girl of the pearl sea

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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Zhuhai welcomed us with the salt-scented breeze of the South China Sea, a welcome contrast to the landlocked heat of Guangzhou. The minibus rumbled to a stop near the waterfront, where a statue loomed over the bay - a figure of legend gazing out to sea. I didn’t know her story, but she was clearly beloved; tourists clustered around, angling for photos, while others stood back, admiring the way she seemed to rise from the waves, an emblem of something both local and timeless.

Lin stood beside me, her expression one of quiet admiration. “She is the Fisher Girl,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “She waits for her love.”

A romantic story, I supposed. I studied the statue: her serene, upturned face, the graceful arch of her arms holding a luminous pearl aloft. Around her, the sea lapped gently against the shore, adding to the sense of quiet yearning. The legend, Lin explained, spoke of a celestial maiden who fell in love with a fisherman but could only remain with him if she cast aside her divine heritage. It was, I thought, a fitting symbol for a city perched at the edge of China’s vast mainland, looking outward yet tethered to tradition.

As we wandered along the waterfront, I found myself enjoying the city’s easy charm. Zhuhai lacked the frenzy of Guangzhou; its palm-lined boulevards and open spaces gave it a relaxed, almost leisurely air. This, I thought, was a city content with itself.

Before heading to the main attraction of the day, Lin suggested we take a break in a nearby park. “We have a little time,” she said, checking her watch. “And the park is very famous here - locals like to fly kites there.”

We followed a shaded path into a wide, tree-lined space that opened onto a large grassy field. There was life all around us. Children ran barefoot across the grass, chasing after kites shaped like dragons and butterflies. A soft breeze carried them high, tails fluttering against the pale blue sky. On the periphery, families sat beneath trees on woven mats, sharing peeled fruit and plastic containers filled with rice and stir-fried vegetables. The mood was easy, unforced - like the city itself.

We found a bench near a row of banyan trees. I watched as an elderly man adjusted the string on his grandson’s kite, showing him how to catch the wind. The boy laughed as the kite wobbled, dipped, then soared upwards. The old man clapped softly, pleased.

A woman nearby caught my eye and smiled. She was sitting on a picnic blanket with her husband and two young daughters. The girls, perhaps five or six, were peeling tiny oranges with intense focus, their fingers sticky with juice.

“You are tourists?” the woman asked me.

“Yes and no,” I smiled before switching to the little Mandarin I had learnt, “we live in Guangzhou.”

She nodded, pleased. “Guangzhou is busy,” she said. “Zhuhai is quieter.”

I laughed. “I agree.”

She gestured to a small plastic stool beside their mat.

I hesitated, then accepted, and was promptly handed a skewer of candied hawthorn. The sweet, tart crunch of it was startling at first, but I found myself enjoying the contrast. It reminded me of the Bonfire Night toffee apples of my childhood. Her husband offered me a bottle of water with a quiet nod.

The conversation meandered. They asked me the usual questions: where I was from, how long I had lived in China. I explained that I taught English, that I had visited Beijing before moving south. The girls stared at me as if trying to work out whether I was real. When I waved at one of them, she buried her face in her hands, giggling.

Lin and Martin soon joined us, and the simple exchange turned into a kind of shared interlude. We didn’t stay long, but there was something grounding in the interaction - a brief but genuine connection. When we stood to leave, the woman pressed a second skewer of candied fruit into my hand. “For the road,” she said.

The main attraction of the day was The New Yuan Ming Palace: a grand reconstruction of an imperial complex, meant to evoke the grandeur of the Old Summer Palace in Beijing, destroyed by British and French forces in the nineteenth century. Here, in Zhuhai, it had been reborn in facsimile: sweeping courtyards, carved wooden halls, and a boating lake teeming with koi. The original, I was told, had been a wonder of the Qing Dynasty - a sprawling labyrinth of European-style fountains and Chinese pavilions, home to priceless treasures before being reduced to ashes.

Here, in its reconstructed form, it was pleasant enough, a pastiche of China’s imperial splendour, polished and pristine in a way that no actual historical site ever could be. We meandered through gardens where carefully placed stones mimicked the wildness of nature, crossed arched bridges over man-made streams, and watched a performance of traditional acrobatics in an open pavilion. The performers tumbled and twisted through the air with effortless grace, their movements precise, yet brimming with energy. A tightrope walker balanced with impossible stillness before executing a sudden somersault, landing lightly as if gravity had momentarily forgotten its purpose. The audience gasped in appreciation, then erupted into applause.

Martin was fascinated by the acrobats, his eyes bright with admiration. “They must train for many years,” he said, his voice hushed as a young girl balanced effortlessly on a tower of chairs, arms outstretched like a bird poised for flight.

I nodded. “It’s incredible discipline.”

He considered this. “Maybe they don’t think about it as discipline. Maybe it’s just their life.”

I found myself thinking of Beijing, of the Palace Museum and its endless courtyards, where layers of history had been scrubbed, repainted, and repurposed until it was difficult to tell what was real and what wasn’t. There, the past felt conflicted, caught between preservation and performance. Here, at least, there was no pretence - The New Yuan Ming Palace was unashamedly a reconstruction, and perhaps because of that, it was more honest. It was not trying to deceive. It existed to evoke, to entertain, and perhaps to soothe a lingering sense of cultural loss.

After the performance, we walked by the boating lake, where families rented paddle boats shaped like swans. The koi swirled lazily in the water beneath the bridge, flashes of gold and white in the green depths. I watched them for a moment, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction. The day had been enjoyable, even if the place itself had been more stage than history.

We lingered in the gardens, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of conversation. The pavilions were carefully crafted, their curved eaves casting intricate shadows on the stone pathways. Every detail had been designed to transport visitors into an imperial dream - one that had never quite existed in this form, but was no less enchanting for it.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, we boarded the minibus once more, the sea air lingering on our skin. Zhuhai had been a pleasant interlude - a moment of ease before returning to the chaotic energy of Guangzhou. I glanced back at the Fisher Girl as we pulled away, her silhouette soft against the evening light. She remained, as always, gazing out to sea, waiting for something - or someone - that may never return.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink - it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.