I Went to China to Rest, But Found More Than Quiet

A solo New Year in Haikou that gave me more than I expected.

The Dinner That Was Getting Cold

On the evening of 31 December, I found myself standing in a crowded night market in Haikou with a takeaway dinner in my hands.

There were people everywhere. A live band was playing, stalls displayed all kinds of small treasures, and I saw the glossy candied fruit I had so often noticed in Chinese dramas. I still did not dare to try it, but simply seeing it there made me happy.

I was properly hungry, the kind that begins to make you dizzy and tired after walking through a large museum. I wanted to sit, perhaps even squat quietly somewhere, and eat while watching the market. But everything distracted me. Then someone explained that there would be fireworks and a drone show at midnight. Suddenly the crowd made sense.

By then, the temperature had dropped to around sixteen degrees, and I had not brought a proper winter jacket that could keep me warm outdoors until midnight. My hotel was nearby, and the balcony looked across the water. I told myself I would return to my room, eat first, warm up, and perhaps come back down later.

I did not come back down.

I Needed to Feel Human Again

December was tough for me. Work consumed most of my energy – physically, emotionally and spiritually. I was going through perimenopause and had just had a tooth extraction. I usually participate in the church choir at Christmas, but not that year.

I needed to feel human again. I simply needed to step outside my routine long enough to remember that I was more than work, deadlines and responsibility. I wanted different air, different scenery and something new for my senses to hold.

So I booked a short solo trip to Hainan. I considered Sanya, but eventually chose Haikou and Qionghai because I found a hotel in Guantang with twenty-five hot-spring pools. Twenty-five. That sounded like exactly the kind of problem I was willing to have.

I arrived at around two in the morning, showered and slept. The next morning, China greeted me properly – with breakfast.

Breakfast First

Breakfast in China is something I always look forward to. Noodles in the morning. Dumplings and dim sum in the morning. Congee in the morning. All the food I love, presented at an hour when I am usually expected to be sensible.

Breakfast was the first sign that I was beginning to enjoy being by myself. There was nowhere to rush and no one else’s schedule to consider. My guide gave me practical advice: enjoy the resort and hot springs for two days, and let the sightseeing wait.

At first, I did not understand what I was supposed to do all day. Change into my swimming clothes, sit in one pool for five or ten minutes, get out, then move to another pool? Was that really the plan?

Most guests were older Chinese aunties and uncles, talking comfortably in pools of different temperatures infused with different herbs. I could not understand them, and when they spoke to me I explained that I could not speak Chinese. Still, I sat quietly among them, listening to some familiar words and breathing in the warm, herbal air.

Slowly, I understood: rest did not need to produce anything. I could move from pool to pool, breathe, and be grateful that I had the courage and opportunity to be there.

The Aunties Who Could Really Swim

Later, I moved to the swimming pool. The water was warm, which was welcome because Hainan was enjoying its version of winter at around twenty-three or twenty-four degrees.

That was where I made another discovery: the aunties and uncles could really swim.

I do what I call frog-style swimming, usually with my head safely above the water. That day I had forgotten my goggles, so I certainly was not planning to dip my face in. But these older swimmers were not playing around. Their strokes were strong, confident and proper. They looked fit, relaxed and completely at home in the water.

I watched them and thought, I want to grow older like this. I want to keep moving, keep enjoying the day, and perhaps swim with children or grandchildren without making age the centre of the story.

It was a small scene, but it gave me a quiet picture of how I might want to live later.

Feeling Small in the Best Possible Way

When my guide collected me, we went to Baishiling. A cableway carried us partway; after that came the steepest hiking stairs I had ever seen—narrow, uneven stone steps climbing sharply between the rock face and wooden railings.

My goodness, I was out of breath. My guide was completely fine, which I found both impressive and slightly insulting. Admiring fit aunties and uncles, it turned out, was not a fitness programme.

But when we reached the viewpoint, the effort disappeared. The landscape opened beneath us: green hills, distant ridges, blue sky and enough space to make every worry feel temporarily smaller.

Views like that always return me to gratitude. I become aware of how small I am—not in a hopeless way, but in a freeing one. My problems do not vanish, yet they stop occupying the whole horizon. God’s creation is larger than the thing that was exhausting me.

A Train, a Film Set and More Food Than One Person Could Eat

From Qionghai, I took the high-speed train back to Haikou. I booked business class because it was surprisingly affordable and because I wanted to see for myself why people spoke so highly of China’s trains.

The train was fast, clean and excellent—perhaps too fast for someone who likes watching scenery. The landscape disappeared before I had properly looked at it.

In Haikou, I wandered slowly through a nearby shopping complex looking for mouthwash because I still had stitches from a recent tooth extraction, and hoping to find something for my legs. I found Lawson, Burger King and a very large Miniso. I always inspect familiar chains when I travel, just to see what is different. And Miniso is dangerous everywhere; I can enter for one practical item and emerge with things I never knew I needed.

The food court was even more dangerous. I wanted to eat everything, but solo travel has one practical limitation: there is only one stomach at the table. Eventually, I chose noodles.

Before we went to Movie Town, I had Wenchang chicken in Haikou. This was the chicken served in a clay pot—warm, juicy and full of flavour. It was completely different from the Hainanese chicken I ate later.

At Mission Hills Huayi Brothers Feng Xiaogang Movie Town, the streets recreated different periods of Chinese cinema. For someone who enjoys Chinese dramas, it was irresistible. I posed with characters, opened my arms among the old façades, pointed happily at signs I could not read, and placed my hand beside Andy Lau’s golden handprint. For a little while, I was not watching a story. I was standing inside one.

The New Year I Watched From Above

By the time I returned to my room, my dinner was cold. I ate it anyway, warmed myself up, and then discovered I was too tired to persuade myself back into the cold and the crowd.

So I sat outside on the balcony and waited.

At midnight, the city lit up. Fireworks burst over the water. Drones formed enormous pictures above the skyline, while the buildings across the harbour glowed in red, blue and gold. From above, it was beautiful.

And still, a small part of me wished I were below.

I imagined the music, cheering and shared excitement below. I had travelled partly to celebrate New Year’s Eve somewhere new. I was there—but separated from the crowd by height, distance and tiredness. For a while, I called that decision a regret.

But looking back, I see it differently. I had been hungry, dizzy, cold and exhausted. I had listened to my body. Perhaps part of my regret was simply that I had not carried warmer clothes and prepared myself to stay outside longer. Even so, I did not miss the night. From my balcony, I watched the city become light and welcomed the year quietly. Both things can be true: I can wish I had stayed with the crowd, and still be grateful that I knew when I needed to leave.

Beginning the Year With Prayer

On 1 January, I looked for a church. There was no Mass that day, but the doors were open, so I went inside and prayed.

I thanked God for the year that had passed and for the simple fact that I was still here to begin another one. I prayed for everyone’s health, success and happiness.

Afterwards, I explored more of Haikou and ate Hainanese chicken—the pale boiled chicken with such a gentle flavour that, to me, it was almost tasteless without its sauces. Later, I returned to the spa for a second massage and fell asleep during it, which may be the clearest evidence that the trip was doing its job.

My flight left early the next morning. At the airport, I took an affordable business-class upgrade for one practical reason: sleep. I slept for almost four hours on the way to Dubai, and would not exchange that decision for anything.

What China Gave Back to Me

I took more photographs than usual, yet posted almost none. Life became busy before I could decide where to begin. The memories stayed in my phone: breakfast bowls, hot springs, mountain views, an empty church, film streets, candied fruit, fat chickens, fireworks—and my own face smiling back at me.

Perhaps this story is where I begin.

China did not give me one grand revelation. It gave me a collection of ordinary moments that slowly returned me to myself. It reminded me that I am curious. That I still like being surprised. That I can travel alone without being lonely. That rest can be quiet, but it can also taste like noodles, smell like herbs, look like a movie set and sound like strangers laughing in a language I do not understand.

I went because I needed a break from routine. I returned with gratitude, memories I still wanted to share, and the feeling that I had become human again.

If there was regret, gratitude grew larger around it.

And if I have the chance, I will return—not to correct the trip, but to live another version of it.

Be-Bulb Reflection

Sometimes we travel somewhere new not to become someone different, but to hear again the parts of ourselves that routine has made quiet.

Rest did not arrive in one grand moment. It came through breakfast noodles, warm herbal water, conversations I could not understand, a mountain view, a guide’s helping hand when my legs hurt, an empty church and a city becoming light across the water.

I may still wish I had stayed with the crowd that night. But a journey does not need to be perfect to become precious. Regret can remain—and gratitude can grow larger around it.

Be Curious. Be Exploring. Be Grateful. Keep the Faith.