Creeksong
creekside tatami roomThe creek runs right below the window. At night the water covers every voice — a good reason to save your words for daylight.
A timber inn deep in the mountain mist
Yanxi keeps only four guest rooms. Shoes come off at the door, warm towels wait beneath the eaves, and spring steam drifts up behind the stone wall. Time here keeps pace with the charcoal fire.
One night · Dinner & breakfast · Reservations by phone
I'm home
Our way of hosting
No lobby, no luggage carousel. The stone slabs in the entryway are worn smooth, the slippers are lined up by size, and the sitting room begins the moment you lift the curtain over the door. Most people say something closer to "I'm home" than "excuse me".
Everything takes the time it takes: the bath is coaxed warm, the rice steams slowly over a wood fire, and after nine only the low lamps along the corridor floor stay lit. The quieter it gets, the closer the conversation.
Small enough that we learn your name on the first evening and remember how you take your tea.
Built by a mountain carpenter, repaired by hand each spring, and nothing hidden behind plaster.
Dinner when the fire is ready, breakfast when the rice calls. Nothing here runs to a schedule but the train.
Rooms
Every room has its own hot-spring bath or foot bath, and the rate includes dinner that evening and breakfast the next morning.
The creek runs right below the window. At night the water covers every voice — a good reason to save your words for daylight.
One undivided window holds a single old pine. Look at it long enough and you go quiet along with it.
A private garden six steps across. Once the lantern comes on and the moss darkens, you stop wanting to leave the room.
The only split-level room. Morning fog moves past below the window until the bed seems to be resting on it.
Linger
Baths
The pool is fed by a mild salt spring that wells up behind the house — water almost clear, with a whisper of mountain iron in it. The stonework came up from the creek below, piece by piece, when the inn was built.
By day you watch mist skim the surface; in winter, snow lands on your shoulders and is gone. Roasted tea waits by the pool, and sitting afterwards in your robe is the cheapest and the dearest thing here.
Nothing added, nothing recirculated — a steady 42°C, as warm at midnight as at first light.
Two slots are held each dusk for private bathing — one family, and the whole mountainside of mist.
After nine, a single stone lamp stays lit beside the pool while the stars come up over the roof.
Supper
Dinner is at 18:30, one set menu for the whole table. The dishes turn with the season; below is this spring's. The rice is the new harvest from the terraces behind the house.
Glimpses
House rule: no photographs of other guests — only of the light. These are the ones we kept for you.
Journal
Not announcements — just days at the inn, written down as they come and left as they are.
Visit
The bends are many, so take them slowly. Call us when you reach the station and we'll drive down for you.
From the city it is about an hour and twenty minutes on the Shanyang Line; the last connection leaves at 17:40.
There is a payphone at the station exit, or call from your mobile — it is a 25-minute ride up the mountain road.
Once across the third bridge over the creek, look for the stone lanterns and the curtain over the door.
Larger luggage can go in advance to the forwarding office by the station — mark it with your check-in date.