This overlooked ancient town in Anhui is my spiritual remedy!
To be honest, I didn’t have high expectations before coming to Chaji. In my social circle, Xitang and Wuzhen have almost been squeezed into photo backdrops, and I thought, this place’s name sounds a bit tricky, probably more or less the same.
But the deeper the car drove in, the more it felt right. The road narrowed, with real fields and mountains on both sides, not suddenly popping-up specialty shops. After buying the ticket and entering, there was no exaggerated archway saying “Welcome to XX Ancient Town,” it just felt like walking into another village entrance.
The first difference: this place is truly “bare.”
Not desolate, but a kind of unpretentiousness that doesn’t try to please you. Other ancient towns hang red lanterns all along the riverbanks, and shop signs are more and more exquisite. The river in Chaji is just the Xuxi Creek, with water so clear you can see the round pebbles at the bottom. Most houses on both sides have gray tiles and white walls, many walls are weathered and peeling, revealing bricks or adobe inside, like an elderly person whose wrinkles tell stories, too lazy to use a beauty filter.
Those bridges, the Degongting House, Erjia Ancestral Hall, and so on, the wood is black and shiny, rough and warm to the touch, not freshly painted. I leaned on a small stone bridge whose name I didn’t know and could daydream there all afternoon. Just watching the creek water slowly flow under the bridge, a few ducks clumsily paddling, an old lady on the shore beating clothes with a wooden mallet, the “bang bang” sound mixing with the flowing water, not noisy at all, more like white noise. Listening to it, the little anxiety in my heart was gently beaten away.
The second difference: no one treats you like a “tourist.”
Walking in the narrow alleys, most people on both sides live their normal lives. Doors are open, you can see TVs in the main rooms, grandpas lying on bamboo chairs watching opera, dogs napping at their feet. One household’s kitchen was right by the road; I peeked in and saw meat stewing in a pot, the aroma drifting directly onto the street, making me too hungry to move.
The shop owners are also laid-back. When you enter, they glance up, smile, then go back to their own business or chat with neighbors. Unlike some places where the owner’s eyes lock onto you like a spotlight the moment you step in. I squatted in front of a stall full of bamboo crafts for a long time, picked a small basket, asked the price, and the old lady slowly came over and said in heavily accented Mandarin, “Ten yuan.”
This feeling is so good—you’re just a bystander who accidentally wandered into someone else’s life, not a walking wallet.
What surprised me most was when I reached the “Painter’s Village.”
Passing through the core scenic area and walking upstream along the creek, there were fewer and fewer people. Then I saw on the opposite bank a group of students sketching, quietly painting on their easels. Chaji seems especially favored by art students, reportedly all year round. Standing on the bridge watching them, they become part of the scenery. That artistic, leisurely atmosphere is something you can’t feel in other commercialized ancient towns.
I found a stone by the river to sit on, dipped my feet into the cool creek water. Sunlight filtered through tall leaves, casting dancing light spots on the water surface. The café owner nearby moved the speaker to the door, playing some light folk music, not disturbing anyone, just adding to the ambiance.
At that moment, all the KPIs and unread messages were washed away by the creek water. My mind was empty, only the word “comfortable” remained. This must be the so-called “relaxation,” not deliberately created, but naturally emanating from the bones of this place.
As for food, there’s no “ancient town internet-famous cuisine.”
Just farmhouse dishes. I ordered bamboo shoot stew with pork and small river fish, eating on the second-floor terrace. The taste wasn’t stunning, but the ingredients were clearly fresh. While eating, watching children playing by the creek and people sketching, I felt that this meal was not about flavor but about blending into the local rhythm.
When I left, it was already evening. The sunset gilded all the weathered white walls with a golden hue, and smoke from cooking fires rose gently. Looking back once more, Chaji was still Chaji, quietly nestled in the embrace of the mountains. My arrival and departure were as ordinary to it as the water flowing through Xuxi Creek every day.
But this “water” washed away some of the dust in my heart.
This place isn’t famous, not a “must-check-in,” but especially suitable for those wanting to “hide away in peace.” If you’re tired of crowds and want to truly take a breath, come to Chaji. It won’t disappoint you.