Journey from Keelung to Matsu and Onward to Wuyishan, Fujian.
In the evening glow of Keelung Port, the sea breeze gently brushed my face, carrying a briny, salty scent. The 9 PM ferry ticket was incredibly cheap—an absolute steal for a spontaneous traveler like me.
Stepping into the cabin, I found it surprisingly spotless. The crisp white sheets were folded with sharp corners, and instead of any stale odors, there was only a faint, clean scent of disinfectant. After stowing my bags, the gentle rocking of the boat soon lulled me to sleep. A night at sea turned out to be incredibly peaceful.
When I opened my eyes again, daylight was already streaming through the porthole. We had arrived at Nangan, Matsu.
The morning mist had yet to lift, leaving the island's silhouette hazy and shifting, much like the blurred ink washes of a traditional painting. Since we were already there, we planned to stick around for a day to catch a glimpse of the legendary Blue Tears and explore the mountain's hidden wine cellars. But fate had other plans—the fog was so thick that the ferry to Langqi was flat-out canceled.
That’s just how travel goes: your plans can never quite keep up with the curveballs.
Thinking on our feet, we pivoted from Nangan to Beigan. The inter-island boat ride was short, with white foam churning alongside the hull. Beigan's pier was small and unpretentious, free from the usual hustle and bustle. After a brief stopover, we caught the afternoon ferry to Huangqi. It was a speedy crossing, and before long, we were standing on Fujian soil.
Once ashore, securing a place to stay was the first order of business. Our downtown hotel was perfectly located right next to a subway station, making it incredibly easy to get anywhere. Bags dropped off, I was already plotting the next move: since we made it to Fujian, a trip to Wuyishan was an absolute must.
Tickets in hand, we headed straight into the heart of tea country.
The air in Wuyishan seemed perfectly steeped in the faint aroma of tea. We stumbled upon a tea shop at the foot of the mountain run by a down-to-earth middle-aged man whose eyes completely lit up the second he started talking about tea. We ended up sitting there, chatting away from the late afternoon right into dusk.
He introduced me to the concept of "tea bone."
What exactly is a tea bone? It's not about the trunk or the leaves, but rather the innate, earth-rooted vitality breathing within the tea. He explained that a truly exceptional tea is completely indigenous; its character is slowly nurtured by the very mountains and soil where it grows. Non-transplanted Da Hong Pao carries the weathering, the sun, and the moon of Wuyishan's rugged cliffs in its very marrow. Every sip you take is essentially the language of this land.
As he spoke, he brewed a pot for me.
Brewing rock tea might look simple, but it’s an art form. His movements were steady and unhurried—warming the pot, tossing in the leaves, pouring the water, and serving the tea all in one fluid motion. The water must be boiling, the pot piping hot, and the hands perfectly steady. The first brew is to wash the leaves; the tasting actually begins with the second. The liquid poured a golden-orange hue. The first note to hit the palate was the mineral bite of the "rock rhyme," followed by a blooming floral aroma, and finally, a lingering, sweet aftertaste.
"With rock tea," he said, "it needs to be 'alive.' When the water is alive, the tea comes to life."
...Holding that cup of tea, it suddenly hit me: this entire roundabout journey—the night ferry from Keelung, the dense fog in Matsu, the detour to Beigan, the rolling waves to Huangqi—every single bump in the road was completely worth it just for this one brew.
I sat in that tea shop until night fell. The owner refilled the pot several times, yet that distinct rock essence never faded. As I was leaving, he gave me a tip: "If you have some free time tomorrow, you absolutely have to take a bamboo raft down the Jiuqu Stream and climb Tianyou Peak. Only then will you truly tap into the blood and bones of Wuyi."
I took his words to heart.
The next morning, the mountain air was as crisp and pristine as if it had been washed by spring water. I made my way to Jiuqu Stream first.
Slender bamboo rafts were already lined up along the bank, lashed together from aged bamboo that yielded with a slight, springy bounce underfoot. With a deft push of his pole against the shore rocks, the boatman sent the raft gliding effortlessly into the water. Jiuqu (Nine-Bend) Stream definitely lived up to its name—each bend revealed a breathtaking new view. The vibrant Danxia red cliffs on either side were perfectly mirrored in the emerald waters, unfolding slowly like a massive, living scroll of blue-and-green landscape painting. As we floated past Dawang Peak and Yunu Peak, the boatman casually belted out a local folk song. Its rustic, old-world melody intertwined beautifully with the sounds of the rippling water and the tapping of the bamboo pole.
The water was incredibly clear; you could easily spot pebbles and fish darting along the stream bed. Occasionally, an egret would skim the surface, its wingtips nearly kissing the shimmering waves. When the raft navigated shallow shoals, water splashed onto my ankles, bringing a refreshing chill. But the most awe-inspiring sight of all were the ancient "hanging coffins" wedged high into the crevices of the steep cliffs—suspended there for thousands of years without ever falling, leaving me staring up in pure wonder. Drifting for over an hour felt exactly like traveling right through a landscape scroll, making me reluctant to ever step ashore.
In the afternoon, I set off to conquer Tianyou Peak.
The trail kicked off at Chadong. The stone steps were narrow and impossibly steep, flanked by towering ancient trees and rock faces blanketed in thick moss. At first, I was still able to joke around and laugh, but not even halfway up, I was completely reduced to gasping for air. Yet, with every section I conquered, I’d turn around to find the view expanding a little more. Jiuqu Stream meandered through the valley like a flowing ribbon of green silk, with the bamboo rafts looking as tiny as grains of rice inching along.
The moment I finally reached the summit, the wind swept in from all directions. There is an observation deck at the top known as "Tianyou" (Heavenly Tour). Standing there, the entire Wuyi mountain range was laid out right before my eyes. Clouds and mist coiled around the waists of the mountains, gathering and scattering, making the peaks look like islands floating in a vast sea of clouds. People always say, "A trip to Wuyi is totally wasted if you don't climb Tianyou"—it was only in that moment I realized just how true that was.
I sat at the summit for a long time, watching the clouds, the mountains, and that tirelessly flowing stream. Suddenly, I remembered the tea shop owner talking about the "tea bone" yesterday. The inner spirit of that tea must have grown directly from these very mountains, this water, these mists, and these rocks. Without physically climbing the peaks and drifting down the river, sitting at a tea table alone would never allow you to fully grasp the true origins of that elusive "rock rhythm."
As I made my way down, the sunset painted the sky a brilliant crimson. Down at the foot of the mountain, tea farmers were busy harvesting fresh green leaves, and that familiar scent of tea once again filled the air. I bought a small packet of authentic, non-transplanted Da Hong Pao, planning to take it all the way back to Taiwan to brew and savor slowly.
This entire journey, right from the night ferry in Keelung to the sunset in Wuyi, saw me tossing across sea and land, cutting through dense fogs and magnificent landscapes. In the end, what I’ll really remember isn't how cheap the ferry tickets were or how winding the itinerary turned out to be. Instead, it will be the soothing sound of the bamboo raft slicing through the water, the crisp wind blowing across the summit of Tianyou Peak, and that single cup of tea—a brew truly rooted in its native earth, complete with a soul and a bone of its own.