Dongfeng Old Street

Dongfeng Old Street

Dongfeng Old Street

The old street of Dongfeng isn’t really old, yet it leaves me with deep nostalgia.

The narrow, winding streets twist like the dead branches of winter, sprawling in all directions, giving off a faint aroma mixed with the smell of earth. Whether in the drizzling rain of April or the fragrant fallen leaves of autumn, whether at bustling intersections or on clean, open roads. Open up memories as clear as moonlight, and within the sea of indigo hues, you’ll see a peaceful old street quietly stretching out...

The houses of the local residents have expanded outward from the street, and spacious concrete roads run orderly through the blocks. Like an old person forgotten by time. The old street belongs only to itself—its dark grey walls, bright red doors and windows, and deep footprints carved into the eaves. Scattered and uneven, high and low, twisting and deep, like the wrinkles on an old man’s forehead, preserving a traditional custom.

The old street is made of cement, which over time turns light grey, like a grey ribbon laid out across a quiet, ancient village.

The old houses next to the old street have foundations entirely built from stone bricks, while the walls are constructed from dark grey stones. The upper parts near the roofs are tiled with earth-colored tiles. From afar, they look like a very plainly dressed elderly woman in a blue dress and a yellow straw hat—serene and kind.

There are no deep, ancient alleys, nor are there stone lions or tigers guarding the doorways. The old houses of the old street huddle together like crops, simply using their bright red doors as part of the street itself. The doors and windows of every household are crafted into classic floral patterns, these windows and doors encapsulating the mysterious hopes of their owners into the old buildings, preserving the glory and history of each one. Most are rectangular or square, very neat. Wealthier families even carved auspicious patterns such as dragons, phoenixes, and qilins to symbolize peace and prosperity.

Dongfeng’s old street winds and twists, like ivy growing along the old houses, spreading further and deeper. It’s hard to tell from which window the inviting aroma of food wafts. But it’s not entirely a maze; if you’re willing, you can always find an exit. This exquisitely crafted Pandora’s box is waiting for you to open. Just when you think you’ve reached a dead end at what looks like a square, you’ll find another alley branching off. Some alleys are wide enough for cars, others so narrow that only a single cow or person can barely pass. The roof tiles on both sides are densely packed together. The old street often becomes a playground for children, where mischievous kids prop themselves against the walls with hands and feet, competing to see who can climb higher. The grey-blue walls are left with their small, pale yellow footprints, some of which might even be mine.

The day’s bustle on the old street begins early. Sounds from the street flow continuously into the depths of the alleys. Early-rising wives fetch water and cook, young husbands splash water on their faces to wash away sleepiness. Stone mills turn, village girls wash clothes, disturbing the street’s morning slumber. In the evening, the laughter of villagers chatting about daily life and farm work lingers long on the old street.

The atmosphere of the old street changes with the seasons, each bringing a different charm.

The spring breeze plays a gentle tune with the patter of rain, warming and humidifying the old street. The doors and windows embedded in the old houses don’t grow, but moss thrives on the eaves, spreading lush green from one end to the other, like crooked lines of poetry written on white pages. The moss carries the scent of soil, mixed with the dampness of the wooden frames. This smell diffuses through the old street, offering a unique flavor—sometimes feeling a bit monotonous, yet never dull, sometimes seeming simple, with tranquility blended with harmony, serene and profound. Unknown little grasses and flowers wake quietly from the roadside, from corners, from dreams, peeking out and greeting pedestrians, greedily drinking in the spring dew.

Some say summer is just a grown-up version of spring. When this season arrives, the sunlight becomes harsh and clear. The old street, like an old father without a straw hat, bares itself to the sun. The scorching road burns the soles of villagers’ feet. The street is covered with cow dung and scattered dry stalks from summer planting, filling the entire old street with a dry yet sweet smell. The dried moss peels off the eaves, and the mottled exterior walls of the old houses resemble age spots on an old man’s face.

After a day of noise, the old street quickly quiets down in the evening under the breeze. An old ox, carrying a shepherd boy and the glow of the sunset, walks leisurely, “clip-clop, clip-clop,” stepping into the old street. The sounds of shepherding songs startle flocks of birds on the dam, which then settle on the rooftops, chirping and chattering about something. Farmers carrying crops appear and disappear along the old street. Each step firmly presses onto the concrete road, each footprint revealing the temperament and character of the people, each footstep echoing the dreams of tomorrow. Red lanterns hang once again from the eaves of the old street—perhaps another special occasion is coming soon.

The old street, a quiet and ancient ballad, rises and falls with the rhythm of day and night, changing with the seasons. Grey-blue tiles lay down the repeating notes of the old street.

Nowadays, the old street has truly aged, but it remains an unforgettable memory, forever displaying the serene and tranquil faces of our ancestors, flowing with ancient blood through the tunnel of time. Every time I come to the old street, I still insist on visiting its traces of time, leaving my faint footprints on its surface. Every memory detail is like a soft cloud, silently drifting from the broken eaves.