We had one last viewing of the rice terraces before heading back to Kunming. An enterprising old Hani man had taken up a seat guarding the entrance to a viewpoint on his land, and had settled in with his shuiyandou (water tobacco pipe) for the day, asking 20p a look, with a photo of himself thrown in.
On the way to Kunming we stopped at a village populated by the descendants of Mongolian soldiers who overran the place centuries ago, in the days of Kublai Khan. We found a gaggle of old ladies gossiping, with wonderful faces.
Lucy had to dash off after we arrived, as her son (9) had been knocked over at school and had been taken to hospital for stitches. Tomorrow morning I set off Northwards by train for Dali, about a 6 hour journey up into the mountains.