5. Beijing ghosts

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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I have the afternoon to myself, the first real stretch of time since arriving in Beijing. The guidebook I’ve been flipping through mentions the hutong - ancient alleyways, said to be the very soul of the old city - and something in the description stirs me. It promises glimpses of a Beijing that has resisted the onslaught of modernity. I decide to seek them out, to find these hidden veins of the city, where the past clings to every corner.

A humid breath rises from the alleyways, and the city feels as though it exists in two separate worlds: one ancient and one modern. The world I’ve entered, a country I’ve only just begun to understand, feels like a dream on the cusp of waking, and in these quiet hutong, as the Chinese call them, it is the past that lingers. I’ve been here four days. The half-familiar sounds of a city in flux fill the air, and I am still trying to piece together the notion of belonging.

The hutong are Beijing’s veins, intricate and winding like a labyrinth designed for the most intimate exchanges, between people and between the past and the future. To walk them is to enter the heart of the city - tangled, congested, but deeply alive with history.

The word “hutong” itself means “well” in Mongolian, a reference to the wells around which these old lanes were built. But to the modern ear, it has come to signify the older, poorer quarters of the city, a patchwork of narrow alleys and crumbling, low-slung buildings of grey brick, many of which house families in tight-knit, communal quarters. The original plan was simple - each hutong was constructed around a central courtyard, with rooms radiating outward. These courtyards were both private spaces for families and communal ones, linking neighbours together in ways that seem unimaginable now.

I make my way along one of these alleyways. The heat of the Beijing summer weighs down on me. It is a city on the cusp of something greater; it is three years since Beijing had been chosen to host the 2008 Olympics. Change is in the air. Bulldozers rumble in the distance, and the hum of construction fills the spaces between the sounds of the old city - children’s laughter, the murmur of an old man muttering as he bends to tie his shoe, the faint creak of wooden carts pushed by elderly women. I wonder if they even notice the future coming.

The road I walk is packed with life, yet its old ways are visible in the dust of history that settles on every surface - the spoked wooden wheels of a hand-pushed cart, the low-slung rooftops crowned with ceramic tiles, the faded red lanterns that swing like ghosts in the breeze. The hutong have their own music: the slow tapping of wooden clogs against cobblestones, the bark of an old man’s voice, and the laughter of children as they chase each other through narrow passageways. It’s a world both ephemeral and permanent. This is the pace I’d hoped to find, but it sits uncomfortably next to the towering skyscrapers and the slick, chrome-lined motorways.

I reach a small courtyard, pausing at its entrance, standing just beyond the threshold. Before me, the worn brick walls sag under the weight of years. In the centre, a weathered door stands slightly ajar, a passageway into something old and unknown. As I linger, I spot an elderly man sitting quietly on a low wooden stool in the yard, his back slightly bent. He holds a porcelain teacup. His eyes are fixed on the steam rising from the cup, the faintest curl of it twisting into the air.

I stand, drawn by the sight, unsure of my place in this intimate moment. My Chinese is still awkward, a broken collection of phrases that betray my foreignness. Yet, there is no need for words here. The simple act of presence is enough. The old man looks up, his gaze sharp.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he gestures to the space beside him, offering me the silent invitation to sit. I lower myself to the spare stool beside his. The air smells faintly of jasmine.

He pours from his teapot with practiced ease, filling the cup. His hands move with a grace that seems to defy their age, and I watch closely as he lifts the cup to his lips. I mimic him as best I can, taking the cup gently. The ritual is simple, quiet, contemplative, but there is a serenity in it. Each sip is slow, deliberate, a meditation in itself. The tea is bitter at first, but there is a sweetness that lingers.

As we sit together, I find myself full of questions. Who is he? How long has he lived in this courtyard? What has his life been, and how does he feel about the changes sweeping through Beijing, this city I am trying so hard to understand? But these questions hover in the air between us, unspoken and unreachable. My Chinese is not nearly enough to bridge the gap, and my frustration grows. How much I want to know his story, to ask him about the world he’s seen, the things he has witnessed.

But then, slowly, I begin to let go of the impulse to question. I realize that words are not necessary here, not in this moment. The tea, the quiet, the simple rhythm of our shared silence - this is the conversation. It is enough to be here with him, to sit in the presence of his life without needing to pull it apart with questions. For all my curiosity, this quiet exchange is a kind of understanding too, one that doesn’t need to be translated or explained.

We remain still, the only sounds the clink of porcelain and the rustle of wind in the trees. I watch him as he sips his tea with such reverence, and I understand the depth of this moment. I realise that, perhaps, there is more wisdom in simply being present than in knowing everything.

Eventually, I rise, my legs stiff from sitting, and I give a small bow of gratitude. The old man nods, his lips parting just enough to reveal the faintest of smiles - a smile that says far more than words could. He returns to his tea, and with a final glance, I step back into the alley, the weight of the moment lingering like the taste of the tea on my tongue. The courtyard, with its worn stone benches and low wall, feels more alive than it did moments before. In that brief exchange, I have touched something ancient and enduring. And though I may never fully understand it, I carry it with me now, a quiet echo in the midst of a city rushing toward its future.

As I continue along the alley, I pass more such courtyards, but with each step, I can feel the tension between old and new. The crumbling structures, their walls streaked with mildew and time, are punctuated by the occasional flash of construction. There’s a new layer to Beijing now, and it pushes into the old city with an insistent force. Just behind a faded shop front selling medicinal herbs, a crew of young men are working - lifting bricks, hammering at bamboo scaffolding. The clang of tools jars the atmosphere, and for a moment, the stillness of the hutong is broken, replaced by the raw energy of change.

A group of children rushes past, their laughter bright in the heat of the afternoon. They wear colourful clothes - clothes that seem to belong to a different world entirely. I watch them disappear into the labyrinthine alleyways, and I’m struck by the strange blend of innocence and modernity they embody. Their presence in this place - a place so rooted in the past - is a reminder that Beijing, and China, are moving forward.

I continue through the alleyways, the air growing thicker with the smell of incense and the scent of cooking oil, until I come to the mouth of the hutong. Here, Beijing opens up again, the modern city rushing in - the skyscrapers, the neon lights, the buses and taxis sounding their horns. The future is rushing toward me, toward all of us. But in the hutong, time slows. The old world, the world of these ancient courtyards, the world of these old Beijingers, still endures. It is a world that speaks in quiet gestures, in the sweeping of brooms, in the silent sharing of space. A world, it seems, caught between two moments, and I, just a passing observer, try to capture a glimpse of it before it slips away.

As I step into the bustle of the city again, the distant clang of construction mingling with the hum of modern life, I carry with me a sense of something fragile, something transient. The Beijing of 2004 is a city caught in the throes of rapid change, but here, in the shadowed hutong, I have witnessed another Beijing - one that exists in the flickering spaces between time, between tradition and transformation. Whether it can hold onto this past as the future surges forward, I do not know.¹ But for now, it is here, and I have touched it.

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.

1. In the mid-20th century, Beijing had over 3,000 hutong, but urban development has reduced that number drastically. Today, only a few hundred remain in their original form.