Mount Langya

Overview

About

The Mount Langya scenic area lies among the hills about 5 km west of Chuzhou, Anhui, anciently Motuo Ridge, 115 km² in four parts: Langya, West Lake, Gushan Lake and Sangu. The Old Drunkard’s Pavilion is one of the four famous pavilions of China; it and the Fengle Pavilion are famous for inscriptions of Ouyang Xiu’s prose in the calligraphy of Su Dongpo.

“The Old Drunkard’s Pavilion” by Ouyang Xiu

Chuzhou is ringed by mountains, and of the peaks to the south-west the woods and valleys are the loveliest; the one that looks lush and deep is Langya. Six or seven li up the mountain road you begin to hear the murmur of water pouring out between two peaks: the Brewing Spring. Where the peaks turn and the path winds, a pavilion stands like a bird with spread wings over the spring: the Old Drunkard’s Pavilion. Who built it? The monk Zhixian. Who named it? The prefect, after himself. The prefect comes here with guests to drink, gets tipsy after a little and is the oldest of the company, so he calls himself the Old Drunkard. The Old Drunkard’s mind is not on the wine but on the mountains and waters; the joy of mountains and waters is held in the heart and lodged in wine.

When the sun rises the forest mist clears; when the clouds return the caves darken: these changes of light and dark are the mountain’s morning and evening. Wild flowers open with a hidden fragrance, fine trees spread their thick shade, the wind is high and the frost pure, the water falls and the rocks show: these are the mountain’s four seasons. Going out at dawn and returning at dusk, the scenery of the four seasons differs and the pleasure is endless.

Porters sing on the road, walkers rest beneath trees, those in front call and those behind answer, old and young hand in hand, coming and going without a break: the people of Chuzhou at their outing. Fishing in the stream, which is deep and its fish fat; brewing wine from the spring, which is fragrant and its wine clear; mountain game and wild greens set out in profusion: the prefect’s feast. The joy of the feast is not in strings and flutes: the archers hit, the chess players win, cups and tallies cross, people rise and sit and shout: the guests at their pleasure. The grey-haired old man slumped among them: the prefect, drunk.

Soon the sun is on the hills and the shadows scatter; the prefect goes home and the guests follow. The woods grow dark, birds call above and below: the visitors gone, the birds rejoice. But the birds know the joy of the mountain forest and not the joy of men; men know the joy of following the prefect and not the prefect’s joy in their joy. He who can share their joy when drunk and record it in writing when sober is the prefect. And who is the prefect? Ouyang Xiu of Luling.