From red rooftops to crimson sunsets: Walking Qingdao's hills of memory

My second morning in Qingdao began with a simple plan – to trace the city's layers of history, from the leafy calm of Badaguan to the shadowed halls of the former German Governor's Residence, and finally to the windswept heights of Xiao Yu Hill and its pavilions.

I didn't know then that this gentle route would turn into something far deeper, up winding hills, echoes of the past, and a quiet lesson in perseverance. 

Wandering into Badaguan, with its leafy boulevards and foreign villas, felt like slipping into a different century. Each street held a different architectural voice – German gables, Russian turrets, French balconies – like a patchwork of distant homelands now rooted in Qingdao.

From there, it was an hour-long walk uphill, through shaded streets where vines crept over old stone walls and time seemed slower. At the top of one such street stood the Former German Governor's Residence – a remnant of the empire staring down at a modern Chinese city that has long outgrown it.

The mansion stands with a kind of austere grandeur, its heavy yellow stone walls and steep gables almost out of place on a Chinese hillside. Inside, the rooms are preserved with polished wood, chandeliers, and velvet chairs, yet walking through them felt as if I was trespassing in someone else's silence.

The air seemed heavy, as if the walls themselves remembered what had been plotted and decided there, when the city was not its own.

As I moved from one room to the next, I kept catching myself glancing over my shoulder, as if someone, or something, might be following just out of sight. The carved staircases, the dim corridors, even the polished banisters seemed to echo footsteps long gone, and I couldn't shake that sense of presence.

It would be later that I'd realize this presence was of everyone whose lives were altered by decisions made at these tables. The house is beautiful, yes, but unsettling, a reminder that architecture holds memory, and sometimes that memory refuses to rest.

I left with the strange sensation that I had not simply visited a museum, but walked through a threshold where the past is still unwilling to release its hold.

The wind outside felt fresher, and I followed it upward through narrow streets that wound toward Xiao Yu Hill Park.

The path to Xiao Yu Hill (Little Fish Hill) began with the crunch of gravel underfoot. Around me, the air buzzed with life – students climbing together, locals greeting one another as they made the slow ascent, and street vendors selling flutes carved from bamboo and seashell trinkets glinting like small pieces of the sea.

On my way, I came across a small street alive with murals, scenes from comics and Miyazaki's dreamlike worlds splashed across the walls. The alleys hid little shops with handmade trinkets, old postcards, and weathered antiques – a haven for thrifters and for those who still know how to see magic in ordinary things. Having by now learned the art of bargaining, I left one antique shop with a few curious treasures and gifts for my loved ones.

At the top, the pavilion stood waiting – its wooden railings polished smooth by time and countless hands of curious visitors like me. From the third floor of the pavilion, a mesmerizing view unfolded in rippling layers: red-tiled houses spreading across the hillside like the scales of a sleeping dragon, the yellow sand coastline of "Number 1 bathing beach" dissolving into soft gray mist in the distance. 

I lingered there for a while, feeling that familiar rush of dopamine followed by stillness after a satisfying hike, and hoped for a pretty sunset, but the clouds hung heavy and the sea started to blur into gray.

So I began my descent, slow and reluctant, the last light slipping quietly behind me. However, as my taxi pulled away, the horizon suddenly ignited – a vast red sun breaking through the clouds, setting the sea ablaze. 

Ah that pang of disappointment… I had left too soon.

And in that fleeting ache, I understood the quiet lesson the hill taught me: Sometimes, life only asks us to hold on a little longer, to persevere through the uncertainty because what we seek might be arriving in the very moment we choose to turn away… right after we've decided it never will.

*This article is part of China, Soft Focus – a slow journalism series that offers textured, human-centered glimpses into China through measured pace and intimate storytelling.