The Hometown of the Sage of Calligraphy and the Goose Pond: A Bowl of Warm Porridge to Comfort the Traveler
Early summer in Linyi, the sky is brilliantly blue. The night before, I was still wondering where to go the next day. Suddenly, I recalled the phrase "The hometown of the Sage of Calligraphy, Linyi Langya"—wasn't Wang Xizhi's former residence right in the city? So I got up early, packed my bag, and headed toward Xiyan Pool Street.
Stepping into the Ink Fragrance of 1,600 Years Ago
Wang Xizhi’s former residence is tucked away in an old district. Walking in from the street entrance, the bustling city sounds gradually fade, and locust trees on both sides cast deep shade along the way. At the gate, gray walls and black tiles frame a plaque inscribed with the words "Wang Xizhi Former Residence," written with dignified restraint. I didn’t rush inside but stood at the gate for a moment—imagining a boy named Wang Xizhi stepping out of this door over 1,600 years ago, his robes fluttering, heralding the golden age of Chinese calligraphy.
Inside the gate lies a broad pool of water—that’s the Ink Washing Pool. The water isn’t clear but has a deep greenish hue. It’s said that Wang Xizhi often washed his inkstone here after practicing calligraphy, and over time, the pool darkened with ink. Of course, it’s not really ink-colored now, but a stone tablet beside the pool reads "Ink Washing Pool," bringing a knowing smile. A few koi fish swim leisurely in the pool, their red and white scales striking against the green water. I imagine they are probably the least "culturally pressured" residents of the pool.
Following the bluestone path further in, you reach the Goose Pond. This is the spot I looked forward to most in the entire residence. The pond is small, with piled stones forming the banks and weeping willows brushing the water. In the center, a group of white geese—some stretching their necks and honking, others dipping their heads to forage—pose so gracefully as if they know they are the "models" in the Sage of Calligraphy’s brushwork. A stone tablet at the pond’s edge is inscribed with the words "Goose Pond," said to be penned jointly by Wang Xizhi and his son Wang Xianzhi—the father wrote "Goose," the son added "Pond." Two characters on one tablet, two generations of calligraphers, a timeless legend.
I stood by the pond for a long time. Suddenly, a large white goose came ashore, held its head high, and strolled past my feet with a leisurely, indifferent gait. I couldn’t help but laugh—it probably didn’t know that 1,600 years ago, its ancestors had walked just like this before a great calligrapher who loved geese so much he wrote many characters inspired by them. It is said Wang Xizhi observed the way a goose’s webbed feet parted the water and gained insight into brush techniques. The liveliness of the character "zhi" might just be hidden in the curve and stretch of that goose’s neck.
Calligraphy Corridor: Every Stroke Full of Spirit
Leaving the Goose Pond and heading east, there is a long corridor of calligraphy steles. The corridor is built in an ancient style, with wooden pillars and green tiles. Wind chimes hang under the eaves, tinkling softly in the breeze as if providing music for the inscriptions. The corridor is embedded with dozens of stone tablets engraved with rubbings of Wang Xizhi’s famous calligraphy works—Lanting Xu, Kuai Xue Shi Qing Tie, Sang Luan Tie... Though I know these are not originals, standing before each stroke still conveys a powerful presence.
I lingered longest in front of the longest stele of Lanting Xu. "In the ninth year of Yonghe, the year of Guichou, at the beginning of late spring..." The words are familiar, but engraved on stone and read in the former residence, they feel completely different. It’s as if the elegant gathering at the Orchid Pavilion is just nearby—majestic mountains, lush bamboo groves, clear rushing streams, and winding water cups. Over 1,600 years have passed, yet the spirit and charm of the calligraphy remain. I reached out and gently traced the delicate "zhi" character through the glass—fine as a hair yet tough as steel wire. This is the mastery of the Sage of Calligraphy.
At the corridor’s end, an elderly gentleman was copying the calligraphy. Sitting on a small folding stool, he carefully wrote each stroke slowly on rice paper. I quietly stood behind him for a while. He was copying the first few lines of Lanting Xu. Though not perfect, his earnestness was touching. He looked up, smiled, and said, "Not good, but I like it."—Liking it is enough. If Wang Xizhi knew that over a thousand years later, ordinary people would still quietly write in his former residence, he would surely be comforted.
Ancient Trees, Bamboo Groves, and Peaceful Moments
Besides the traces of calligraphy, the most moving things in the residence are the plants. Several ancient locust trees stand gnarled and strong, their trunks covered in moss but their branches lush, casting a wide shade. The bamboo grove is another scene—dense green bamboo rustling softly in the breeze, extremely serene. I think Wang Xizhi chose to live here partly because of his love for bamboo. Bamboo and calligraphy share the same pure and strong spirit.
In a quiet corner, there is a small reconstructed study. On the desk lie brush, ink, paper, and inkstone; a small incense burner sits on the table, and a portrait of Wang Xizhi hangs on the wall. Though I know these are later imaginings, sitting on the cushion before the desk and closing my eyes for a moment, I almost smelled the fragrance of ink. I don’t understand calligraphy, but at that moment I suddenly realized: calligraphy is never just writing characters; it is the process by which Chinese people express their inner order and spirit through brush and ink on paper.
Afternoon: Booking Ronghua, the Warmth of a Bowl of Porridge
Leaving Wang Xizhi’s former residence, it was already afternoon. Nearby, I had a bowl of Linyi san tang (a local soup), hot and comforting. Sitting on a bench by the street, I opened Trip.com and habitually searched for Ronghua Hotel—whenever I come to Linyi, I stay there; it feels like a second home. I placed the order and booked in minutes; the system confirmed immediately. I called the hotel and said I’d arrive around evening. They laughed and said, "Your room is reserved; take your time on the road."
In the afternoon, I wandered casually through Linyi’s streets, watching the sunset. By the time I reached the hotel entrance, dusk had fallen. Opening the door, the front desk greeted me like an old friend: "Nice to see you again! Your room is ready, facing south and quiet." Taking the key card and going upstairs, I opened the door to find everything just as familiar: the bed neatly made, curtains half drawn, and the lighting set to the most comfortable warm yellow.
Just as I sat down, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, a staff member stood there holding a small tray with a white porcelain covered bowl and a small spoon. "Hello, the weather is a bit chilly today, so the hotel sent you a warm bowl of porridge—white fungus and red date soup. Please enjoy." I took the bowl; it was still hot. Lifting the lid, a sweet fragrance rose—the white fungus was soft and glutinous, the red dates had blossomed, and the broth was thick and clear.
I lifted the bowl and sipped slowly, spoonful by spoonful. The sweetness was just right, neither cloying nor bland, like the taste only a mother could make at home. Honestly, the day’s itinerary wasn’t tiring, but the feeling of being cared for was warmer than the porridge itself. I picked up my phone and sent a message to the front desk: "The porridge is delicious, thank you." Soon came the reply: "Glad you like it. Good night and sweet dreams."