Aman at Summer Palace is Beijing's last word in luxury, and a great base for sight-seeing, writes SARAH FREEMAN
ON ARRIVAL at the new terminal of the Beijing airport, our small group was whisked away to make the 30-minute car journey along a massive ring road flanked by endless apartment tower blocks. As the early morning mist evaporated to reveal glorious sunshine, citizens epitomised wholesome endeavour as they cycled to work along bicycle lanes lined with pagoda, poplar and willow trees.
We swept into the gleaming forecourt of Aman at Summer Palace, so named because of the old imperial retreat next door. The hotel is housed in what used to serve as guest quarters at the turn of the last century for those waiting to see the Empress Dowager Cixi, who would have been ensconced somewhere in the 290 hectares of what is now a 250-year-old World Heritage Site.
The Aman is Beijing’s last word in understated luxury, staffed with a legion of gracious young employees who offer greetings of nihao (hello) at every opportunity. Courtyards form the basis of the structure and an ornamental lake fringed with willow trees is at its centre.
In my suite, I took in the sleek, Ming-dynasty inspired elm furniture and wandered through the vast bedroom, trailing a variety of muted silver, blue and grey silk cushions in my wake. Having earmarked the free-standing bronze bath in a cosy alcove for later use, I admired the results of a 10-hour flight on my jet-lagged self in the subtly lit mirrors. I wondered if the hotel was the modern equivalent of the Emperor’s Forbidden City, with only a tiny percentage of Chinese ever getting to see it. Among those who do are the calligrapher and paper cutter who demonstrate their skills daily, the people who perform the tea ceremony for guests and those teaching guests how to play Mahjong.
In the candle-lit spa, I was treated to a foot rub and massage. I had drifted off to sleep when Jade, the masseuse, did a quick hop and started kneading the air miles out of my muscles while kneeling on my back.
Having been warned to expect smog, the hotel’s proximity to the verdant parkland of the Summer Palace might explain why my over-riding impression of Beijing was that it had a lovely earthy smell. Once inside the gates of the enormous royal retreat, we jostled along with hordes of Chinese tourists to see a fraction of its 3,000 decorative halls, pavilions, towers, bridges and corridors, before taking a breather as the sun set over Kunming Lake.
While the tour guide gamely answered my barrage of questions about life in the People’s Republic, she interspersed her replies with healthcare advice, something of which everyone I met seemed to have volumes. I’m not sure if they learn this stuff in school or if it is passed down as folk wisdom, but I couldn’t keep track of all the tips to keep my skin dewy or my blood circulation on an even keel. With many of the treatments involving convoluted rituals, I can only admire their diligence. Healthcare for the Chinese is a preoccupation comparable to an Irish person’s interest in the weather.
That night, as I made my way to Naoki – the hotel restaurant – music tinkled in the distance. Closer inspection revealed musicians dressed in red cheongsams on a dais by the lake, strumming traditional instruments – this hotel has everything. The meal was incredible – my culinary horizons were well and truly broadened by the eight courses, which included steamed shark fin in ginger sauce and foie gras.
Thoroughly sated and really feeling the effects of 36 hours without sleep, I clambered onto the king-size bed and didn’t stir until my wake-up call.
Our plan was to drive 70km north of Beijing to the “wild” Great Wall of China, so-called because it has had no upkeep since 1632. Orchards stretched into the distance and farmers’ stalls lined the route. In Xiangtun, a village nestled in the green foothills approximately half an hour’s walk from the Great Wall, we were welcomed into the village leader’s home. This gentle, weathered farmer gave us a tour of his courtyard house before we drank perfumed jasmine tea that hotel staff had travelled ahead to prepare. A picture of Mao Zedong took pride of place on the wall, high above family photographs.
We then wandered through the village, past doorways festooned with colourful banners and blessings, and up through the terraced apricot and walnut groves towards the Great Wall. My first glimpse was the dilapidated watchtower that peeped out from over the top of the hill. I clambered through the overgrowth up to the wall; it was only when standing up there, with mist swirling around the surrounding mountain tops, that I realised what an enormous monument it really is, stretching some 6,400km. We spent an hour walking from tower to tower, and far below in the valley we could see our next stop, the village of Llongquanyi.
Descending was treacherous, as the rain had made the stone slippery, but we reached the village safely and were welcomed into yet another home.
The next day dawned cold and wet but we pressed on to the antique market at Panjiayuan. En route we passed the now iconic sights of the Bird’s Nest, the Water Cube and the imposing splay-legged headquarters of the ominously named television station CCTV. Bargain hunters would love this market. Everything is sold, from jade, ceramics and clothes to pictures and knick-knacks.
Next on our tour were the hutongs, a series of maze-like alleyways with courtyard residences that are considered the slums of the city. We had lunch at Da Dong Restaurant, renowned for its Beijing roasted duck. After choosing a duck from a rack, guests are treated to the slicing and dicing by a carver wearing a surgical mask. Our dining companions seemed, without exception, to be parents accompanied by one child. It’s impossible to know how they really feel about the one-child policy, but the general consensus is that many of these children, treated like demigods, are growing up with a huge sense of entitlement.
No part of the duck is wasted and, of course, some health advice was imparted. Apparently the neck meat and brain are both great for – you guessed it – blood circulation and good skin.
Thus fortified, we made our way to the Forbidden City, the enormous complex that took 15 years and over a million workers to build. As the home of the emperor and the political centre of China until 1912, it was decorated in a lavish style with carved marble slabs, intricately painted woodwork and bronze sculptures. Most appealing were the private quarters, which lie untouched behind protective glass, as if the inhabitants had deserted without warning. The small rooms are full of exquisite jade decorations, dainty furniture and tiny double beds.
Today’s young empresses would love the Pearl Market, a four-storey building with pearls of every size, quality and price, shops full of silk ties and cheongsam dresses, an entire floor of knock-off handbags and jewellers who will make replicas of your favourite pieces for a few euro. The rule of thumb when negotiating prices is to divide the figure initially given by three as a starting point.
As we drove back to the hotel through the brilliantly illuminated Beijing night we passed Tiananmen Square, where Mao’s likeness bears down on passersby – a contrast emblematic of the two Chinas, where modernity and antiquity sit side by side, where beauty and elegance are revered and where the wisdom of the elderly is cherished; but also a place where books are banned, where the one-child policy is strictly enforced and where citizens are photographed before using an internet cafe. Hopefully one day they will have the best of both worlds.
** Sarah Freeman stayed as a guest of Aman Resorts
Go there
A four-night trip to Beijing, staying at the Aman at Summer Palace, costs from €1,962 per person with Audley Travel (01993-838000, www.audleytravel.com). Price includes return economy-class flights with British Airways, three nights at the Aman and guided trips to the main sites of Beijing.