The Wild Plants of Shangri-La
- Aug 8
- 5 min read
On the first day we arrived in Shangri-La, the change in temperature was instantly noticeable. We pulled on some socks and layered up to walk to a local restaurant. We barely saw anyone on the way. We'd been told by a friend that Shangri-La was very touristy. Just coming from Lijiang and noticing the commercialism, I had expected something similar—but honestly, it wasn't at all. There was grass and animals and locals walking their animals. Loved it.
On our first full day we planned to head to the monastery by scooter. (Walking back the night before we saw some scooters for rent at the back of our hotel, just outside a youth hostel/community). We called the number advertised and within 10 minutes the Laoban arrived. Full of smiles and swagger. He gave us a route to take—a fully detailed map with the stop points added. This was a detour we hadn't planned and sent us to places we hadn't been aware existed. We'd have really missed out big time if it wasn't for him. I'll add his details below. He's the younger of two brothers—the more joyful one.
Helmets on, we were on our way. And wow, we fell in love with Shangri-La. I squealed with delight at every passing cow. I'm a farm girl at heart. Our first stop was a patch of grassland where you can play with lambs, chill out with cows and stroke horses—all respectfully, of course. After this blissful pit stop we were back on our way.
Riding around Napahai (纳帕海) was one of the best days ever: stopping for crossing cows, pausing to coo at the birds, snuggling with lambs, greeting horses, sitting on the grass free with the animals. Can we stay here forever? The sights and the sounds! The bells that hung from the necks of the beasts swayed in unison with the wind, their chimes calling sweetly to the sky, asking for the stars to surrender the night, the blue to bring the black back until the blue returns again. The blue that melts into the soil—the animals appeared to walk through the sky reflected in the bodies of water collected within the mountains' basins. Such bliss—we felt so at home.
We managed to tear ourselves away from the grassland despite the strange misty desire to stay, like something out of Lost Horizon. We arrived at the foot of Songzanlin Monastery after guards checked our tickets. If you don't have them you'll have to drive back around, so make sure you get tickets or have the battery fully charged. Walking up to the monastery, I noticed a few wild plants growing on the steps, baking under the sun, nestled in the cracks on the side as believers and non-believers ascended to reach the summit. On the day we visited, we were lucky enough to witness some decorating—either restoration work or new designs being painted—and got to be the audience to one of the painters singing along while he worked. Listen below to his whistle.
The second day we drove around the river again—this time dressed up. Wherever you travel in China you can find dress-up cosplay shops. We never do, but the local style clothes here felt like something we could wear every day. I found a shop on Xiaohongshu that looked very authentic, so we went there to rent the clothes. I was worried about cultural appropriation, even though most others dressing up didn't belong to the local ethnic group either—but we got a lot of smiles and nods from the locals. Approved. The studio even asked to book me for a shoot the next morning because they said I had the look of a local girl and they liked my curly hair and freckles. Whaaat! Of course I said yes. I'll add some of the shots taken below.
3 nights and 10 pots of ghee tea (酥油茶) later, it was time to leave. But before we close off this blog, here are some wild plants from Shangri-La.
In Shangri-La there are greens against greens, not a grey in sight except for the stones; layers upon layers of prayers. Prayers stacked up towards the sky but not out of reach. I prayed to amplify my good intentions and to eradicate what does not belong at home in my heart. To embrace my shadow and pour love into its forgotten heritage.
Wherever we are, I always stop our stride to photograph a wild plant on our walks. Now my husband even points them out to me too—"Look. Opaline Quill." Some I photograph, most I don't. Some call out to have their shot taken, others prefer not to.
Some look all shrivelled up and weatherworn, while others look so grand despite their miniature bloom—such distinguishedly pretty petals. Each wild plant I see gives me so much strength; I feel my hope renewed.
I can't deny my affinity with wild plants. While the symbolism of the lotus flower blooms pure and majestic despite its murky and muddy origins, wild plants are so varied—some remarkably mundane, just an ordinary-looking leaf. I love them.
Here's a little yellow bloom, its roots a stranger yet still kin among the short and sturdy blades of grass, its petals soaking in the sky. I wonder if it's food for the grazing local animals?
Whenever I see a little yellow flower, I involuntarily sing a line of one of my old songs: "a yellow flower crushed beneath the pain, the joy arises and calls to me your name" (from A Never Ending Happy Ending). I still remember the scene on the day I first sang it into existence. At home in London, looking at the garden through the glass, just before sunset, light streaming through.
Without natural surroundings, I'm nothing. I shrivel up and stop functioning. I'm so grateful for the grass and the sky. Don't leave it too long before you rest your eyes on sky and green.
Oh, wild plants—they sprout wherever; their nonchalant perseverance is so inspiring. They're tenacious and audacious, and I love them. Ever seen a scraggy little bloom getting blown to bits by a gusty wind? You know the feeling? Ever seen one spread high above you, out of reach, crawling to the sky? How did it bloom up there?
Bloom as you are,
Love R x
Fun Fact from Wikipedia: Shangri-La in Yunnan, China, was officially renamed on December 17, 2001. Before this change, it was called Zhongdian County (中甸县). Local Tibetans also historically and traditionally know the area as Gyalthang (or Jiantang), which means "Royal Plains". The new name came from the fictional, utopian valley in James Hilton's 1933 novel Lost Horizon.
P.S. Here are the locations and contacts. Plus I have to mention the strength of the sun there. My husband's hands looked like a burn victim's after the first day of riding the scooter. Gloves came with the scooter but we didn't realise what for. Don't get fooled by the cool dry breeze—you'll fry.
Stay: Maddison (ground floor rooms come with a garden)
Eat:
We went here twice. It's a quick walk from the hotel.
A place with a view of The Giant Golden Prayer Wheel at Guishan Park (龟山公园)—shown below (we went at rush hour—try the morning).
This chef was 10/10. This is the place opposite the 10/10 wok chi chef—find here and you'll find him.
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