Looking for Huizhou deep in the ink marks Stepping on the bluestone slab where the morning mist has not yet dispersed, I fell into the long scroll of Huizhou’s ink. The mountains, water, and villages here are like lines of poetry oozing from the ink pads, and every screen is soaked with the fragrance of thousands of years of ink. Before the light was clear, I stood guard by the Xin'an River. Clouds and mist rose from the river, and the mountains in the distance were looming in the mist, like a hazy background on an ink painting. When the first ray of sunlight pierces the clouds, a miraculous sight appears - a fishing boat slowly enters the line of sight, the fisherman swings the oar, the ripples on the water crush the reflected mountain, the startled egrets sweep across the river, the arc drawn by the wings resembles the ink marks that a painter swings at will. I held my breath for fear of disturbing this volume of landscape painting being created. Walking into Hong Village, the calmness of Nanhu made me stop. The surface of the lake is like a mirror, embracing the white walls, the blue sky and the white clouds in its arms. The students who were sketching were scattered around the lake, the paint on the drawing board echoing the scenery in front of them, and it was hard to tell whether they were imitating the landscape or the landscape imitating their paintings. On the edge of the moon swamp, several elderly people sit and talk on the stone steps, with freshly picked green vegetables in bamboo baskets beside them. The smoke of life and the tranquility of the ancient village blend harmoniously, adding the most vivid footnotes to this ink painting. The rain from Xidi came suddenly. Raindrops form strings of crystal-clear bead curtains along the tiles of the horse's head wall, and fine splashes appear on the bluestone slab. I hid in an old shop with a sign of "Hui Mo Fang", and the house was filled with the unique aroma of pine smoke and ink. The owner is making ink, he beats the plastic and charcoal repeatedly, his movements are steady and powerful. Through the wooden window, I looked at the village in the rain, the white walls became more and more plain in the rain and mist, the Deva was washed by the rain and shined, at this moment, it was like time went back, I became the literati who stepped in the rain to seek ink in ancient times. At dusk, I climbed high and overlooked the whole of Huizhou. The setting sun gilded the village with a golden layer, and smoke rose from the rooftops, blending in with the evening glow on the horizon. On the Xin'an River, the sails are dotted, and fishing sparks are shining, like stars in the sky falling into the world. The canopy of the ancestral hall outlines a graceful outline in the twilight, the faint sound of reading comes from the college, and the thousand-year-old culture flows quietly at this moment. When I left Huizhou, I carried a piece of Huizhou ink in my backpack, my clothes were stained with the atmosphere of the ancient village, and in my mind, that ink painting of Huizhou had long been deeply engraved. This trip is not only a trip to the mountains and rivers, but also a dialogue with the rhyme of thousands of years of ink. Deep in the ink marks, I find the poetry and distance that my heart yearns for.