Inner Mongolian grasslands

When I read the word 'grasslands' I didn't think much about it. It conjured an image of an open grass field speckled with trees and some livestock … bounded by villages, highways or industry. In China I've got used to the feeling of being constantly surrounded by people or their endeavours. That's what I imagined when I signed up for a hiking tour of Inner Mongolia. But for once I am so so glad I was wrong.

Grasslands are not just a few miles of grass. The grasslands of far north Inner Mongolia are hectares and hectares of green as far as you can see. The hills are soft and smooth, like an artist has painted them on, and they sit calmly resting on the landscape as if they had never and will never have any purpose other than to bask in the summer sun. The grasslands aren't even marred by small groups of trees or tufts of cow pat-induced weed. It's like a children's book background - perfectly rounded, soft green grass against a baby blue sky with cuddly looking egg shell clouds.

I wonder what geological and political miracle has allowed these serenely fertile fields of plush green carpet to remain untouched!

I suspect it's something to do with the cruel winter, which begs an even more scholarly question about how the hell all the beautifully fragile wildflowers—and the equally delicate butterflies, grasshoppers and (unfortunately for those with hot blood in them) mosquitoes—survive under several feet of snow for half of the year. Where's a good botanist when you need her!

The industry that does dot the pristine natural landscape ('wilderness' doesn't quite fit somehow) is almost as beautiful as the grass itself—golden ribbons of canola (rapeseed) crops are, just now, flowering in thanks to the warmth of the few months of sun they will get this year. The little villages that support them are poor, hard working towns full of low houses and fences built from the thin, long logs sourced from local forests (one of the other big industries of this region). But the farming equipment is sophisticated and the farms are incredibly large. I guess when there's no natural barrier to end your field, then you just keep driving that plough until you hit someone else's farm! And the villagers seem as happy as their crops are to be waking up to a glorious sunlit morning, even of they do have to spend the majority of daylight hours tending to their land or animals.

At the end of our trip, a quiet Belgian lady in our group who had lived in China for the better part of 20 years turned to us and said "What a rare gift to see such untouched natural beauty in China. It's good for the mind".