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Up on the East Gate, under tinkling bells and rotund lanterns, men had come to sip tea, puff cigarettes and play draughts. Families sat on steps and gazed across the rooftops, restfulness borne on a cool breeze. Couples posed stiffly for portrait photographers. And yet all were fascinated by the tall, hairy foreigner ƒ{ myself ƒ{ for here in Jianshui we are a rare but interesting species.

Jianshui lies just 160km southeast of Kunming, capital of Yunnan Province, but in time and texture it seems more remote. It was once a garrison town, a market centre and an important seat of learning in the Heavenly Kingdom¡¦s far-flung southwest. Above all else, the huge Confucian temple is second in size only to that in the sage¡¦s hometown far to the east. Yet before even reaching the gracious Confucian complex, my attention was caught by the East Gate for it resembles nothing so much as the iconic gate at the head of Beijing¡¦s Tian¡¦anmen Square.

Built in 1389, this one precedes Beijing¡¦s by thirty years, and has always been used by commoners. While Jianshui¡¦s walls and three other gates are long gone, the town and its surroundings still boast an unusual stock of venerable architecture. Most of it lies tucked away in alleys and side streets where you might glimpse the odd pagoda soaring out of someone¡¦s courtyard. Old women sit by their thresholds knitting or pulling noodles, and a few ancient communal wells ƒ{ with odd names like ¡¦Four-eye¡¦ ƒ{ are still used with buckets slung across bamboo poles.

As China modernises at full tilt, one senses (if not actually sees) much of this is destined for the wreckers¡¦ ball rather than the restorers¡¦ touch. Just when you despair at the thought, salvation comes in the form of the Zhu Family Garden. The name is misleading for this is an imposing traditional mansion ƒ{ 20,000 square metres, 42 courtyards, over two hundred rooms and, until the communists seized power in 1949, owned by one family. Today it¡¦s what some countries might call a ¡¥heritage hotel¡¦, a concept almost unknown in China.

Many visitors ƒ{ almost all Chinese ƒ{ simply come to look around but I chose to stay. The staff chuckled at my poor navigation, my fumbling at a mistaken door or shrugging at the wrong courtyard for they all look similar to the novice guest. But soon I found my bearings and, at the small museum, learned more about this remarkable building.

The Zhus were an extremely successful 19th-century merchant family, involved in country stores, property, textiles, opium, tin and silver. Having passed the imperial examinations some also became local officials, and power and prestige demanded a residence to match. Begun in 1875, it took around thirty years to complete. But the Zhus slowly fell from grace. China became a Republic and various scions were politically wrong-footed; they were a spent force long before the communists arrived.

Down the years the latter used it as an agricultural exhibition hall, a school dormitory and a hospital ward. Only in 1988 was it recognised as an ¡§historical relic¡¨, and millions of yuan were spent on a fine restoration in 1999 in concert with Kunming¡¦s Horticultural Exposition.

I wandered from one courtyard to another like a child. Decorative brackets clenched broad eaves shading stone-paved arcades. Grey bricks, some with dragon motifs, were surmounted by wooden screens, vivid lattice and slender doors. In one quadrant lies an ancestral hall with an altar, its wood ƒ{ like that of the guest rooms¡¦ furniture ƒ{ dark and heavy. Gilded carvings of the noblest hue framed red banners, the colour of luck. Alongside ripples a dainty pond with a ¡¥water stage¡¦ on which poets and opera stars once performed, and where local worthies attended festivals or sacrificial ceremonies.

But even in that long gone age the Zhu house was exceptional, renowned throughout Yunnan from its inception. I was curious about less ostentatious homes, the middle class take on the good life, so the next day headed for Tuanshan village, 13km west.

Tuanshan lies in a broad valley of paddies cradled by low hills. My driver paused at Twin Dragon Bridge, a striking seventeen-arch structure with pavilions built in the 1700s. The ¡¥twin¡¦ comes from the original three arches being mocked by the river changing course; the subsequent fourteen seem to have revived it. By the time we left the main road and made for the village¡¦s shallow rise, even Jianshui¡¦s modestly bright lights seemed of another time and place.

Six hundred years ago one Mr Zhang arrived, settled and farmed. His family grew and prospered, became educated and respected. Much like the Zhus, it was silver from regional mines that enriched the Zhang clan in the late 19th century so the entire village set about trying to outdo each other with spacious and ornate homes. The building spree didn¡¦t last long. Bankruptcy fed off China¡¦s chaos, and soon villagers were struggling to pay their debts. It was a reverse from which they have never recovered.

Today more than half of Tuanshan¡¦s families are Zhangs. And virtually the whole village is a crumbling, living museum. Upon arrival I was directed to an office and urged to buy an entrance ticket, a new scheme sanctioned by the county government to aid maintenance. A guide beckoned me to follow. I understood not a word but that was immaterial; she knew its paved and muddy lanes, the private areas and, vitally, those householders who permit visitors.

So I was led down blind alleys beneath high upturned eaves, through circular gateways and past piles of drying chillies. Many homes have name boards ƒ{ Scholar¡¦s Home, General¡¦s House, Imperial Bounty Home ƒ{ and despite the dust and grime and unintentional neglect it¡¦s clear this is a special place worth saving. Real craftsmen embellished most of their garths. Pillars sit on sculptured stone pedestals; elaborate screen doors and shutters writhe with horses and birds, flowers and insects. Calligraphy and paintings echo references to feng shui, mottos, feudal ethics and philosophy.

Tuanshan has not spoiled by poverty alone; decorative gold foil, for example, was scraped off during the Cultural Revolution when gold was bold and metaphorical red not merely in but indispensable. Now, with a dragon head from the Zhang ancestral hall having been stolen, it is rumoured art smugglers are on the case. No one offered me relics or heirlooms but opportunity still knocks at the door of misfortune. There¡¦s a sharp-eyed old lady who totters about insisting you buy her wares ƒ{ little handmade shoes that seem dinky until you notice they¡¥re barely smaller than those on her grotesque bound feet.

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