Nestled between mountains and water, Huaronpu enjoys spring all year round.
Huaronpu is a small town surrounded by mountains and rivers—compact, yet complete in every way. Along the stone-paved streets, white-walled and grey-tiled houses line both sides. From a distance, vibrant flowers bloom in pots by the windows, and whenever the wind passes through, their fragrance drifts gently into the narrow alleys.
Morning is the liveliest time in town. Fishermen and fruit growers steer their small boats slowly through the misty river channels, the water shimmering with delicate light. Farmers carry baskets of freshly picked fruit—hues of orange and yellow mingling together. The flesh of the fruit glistens like sunlight slipping through one’s fingers, each segment crystal-clear, as if wrapped in honeyed amber and glowing softly in the morning light. Fishermen bring ashore bamboo baskets filled with lively fish and shrimp; the splashing water soaks their pant legs, carrying a faint briny scent that is, nevertheless, fresh and inviting.
Vendors set up their stalls early along the street, with the warm aroma of rice noodles floating through the air. Trays of colorful pastries are neatly arranged on wooden shelves. The crowd gradually swells, the calls of hawkers rising and falling—a bustling, steamy rhythm of life. In such sounds and scents, the town’s day quietly begins.
A few traditional craft shops still remain here. In the old street’s oil-paper umbrella shop, rows of umbrellas in scarlet, light blue, and pale yellow hang from the ceiling, weaving soft shadows in the sunlight. Next door, the weaving workshop keeps its windows open year-round, sunlight slanting in and falling across the fabric. Someone sits quietly, weaving or embroidering, busy with each stitch. Time seems to be hidden in these tiny daily moments—slipping gently past the weaver’s silhouette, gliding through the seams of oil-paper umbrellas, treading over the old stone slabs of the street, leaving no trace behind.
To the southeast of town lies the “Huaron Valley,” lush with greenery, dotted with delicate camellias and cattail flowers. Teahouses are scattered along winding paths beside the stream. On rainy days, people sit in the teahouses sipping tea, listening to the steady patter of raindrops. Freshly steamed snacks fill the air with warmth, and raindrops fall on the grey-tiled rooftops—everything feels comfortable and at ease.
Mila lives here too. She dreams of opening a dessert shop, using skills learned from many places to craft delicious, delicate pastries, quietly watching the seasons change in this gentle little town.
