Travel writer, China: ‘The leaves swirled and settled and the jug clouded like mist on a river’

[This story is one of ten shortlisted in the 2015 Irish Times Amateur Travel Writer competition]

“Please, what you like?” asked the hostess in halting English, gesturing all around the teahouse in Jinhong in Western China.

Her jade bracelet was almost luminous in the dimness. A dozen or more open barrels stood on the left-hand side, filled with tea leaves ranging from deepest black through caramel and raspberry to subtle green. Tea leaves were pressed into round moulds and arranged on a shelf like coffee cakes in a bakery window.

Packages of tea in every shape and size clung to the walls from the dark polished floor to the high ceiling. Most of the packages were covered with Chinese characters in gold, black and red: an exotic and enigmatic code.

“How can we decide what tea to try? We only know Barry’s tea. This is bewildering.” I turned to Mei Mei, our guide, who translated the names into English for us. I sniffed the air that smelt of vanilla, smoke and cloudy skies.

At another counter, a tiny lady with a wrinkled face and a walking stick talked in a low-pitched voice about tea for her granddaughter’s wedding tea ceremony. “I think we should try this one ‘The Stars of Heaven’” said our daughter Caoimhe, who had never before shown any enthusiasm for tea.

In a secluded corner at the back, much like a snug in a pub in Ireland, four men sat around a table and savoured tea from tiny cups, little bigger than eggcups, with all the reverence of whiskey drinkers for a twelve-year-old reserve.

We sat on red velvet stools at a beautifully-carved wooden table that sloped gently inwards towards a hole cut into the wood at one end like a wooden putting green. I rubbed my finger along the smooth varnished surface. A tiny bird sang in a little circular cage overhead.

Our hostess lifted a large black teapot with a bamboo handle and poured steaming water onto tea leaves in a glass jug. The leaves swirled and settled and the jug clouded like mist on a river. Then she poured the tea through a sieve and threw it directly on the table. It trickled down the hole, tinkling into a silver bucket. “That wets and cleans the leaves,” explained Mei Mei, noticing our raised eyebrows.

The hostess then poured more water onto the leaves, strained it and poured the liquid into our little handleless cups. I reached for mine and had almost brought it to my lips. Mei Mei shook her head. “Not yet. That only flavours and warms the cups.” The hostess splashed the liquid from each cup onto the table and it ran again in rivulets over the shiny surface towards the outlet. For a third time, we watched as the leaves swirled, settled and strained and our little porcelain cups were filled with amber liquid.

“Now, it is time,” said Mei Mei. Our hostess clasped her hands together in front of her heart as if in prayer and bowed slightly. The little caged bird tweeted again. We lifted our cups in unison, sipped and tasted the Stars of Heaven.