Stargazing, grazing animals and yurts — there is no wrong turn for those looking to escape from modern life, Fang Aiqing reports in Ulaanqab, Inner Mongolia.

I was born and raised in Jiangnan, which encompasses the southern regions in the lower reaches of the Yangtze River. The picturesque freshwater lake and mountain views of my hometown, and the lushness and moisture I've grown so accustomed to often have me dreaming of exile in a grander landscape — the boundless sea, a desert or a grassland, to name a few.

Years ago, I visited the Gobi Desert in Northwest China. As I ventured resolutely toward the outskirts of the scenic area to grab an ephemeral moment of being enveloped by the wilderness, I realized the sand and wind evoked a similar feeling to the ebb and flow of sea waves, which made me hear Sergei Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No 2 in C Minor, Op 18, particularly its third movement, in my head.

Then it was the grassland's turn. Earlier in July, I spent a week in North China's Inner Mongolia autonomous region, traveling with colleagues to Ulaanqab, Hohhot and the Xiliin Gol League.

I was only able to explore a tiny fraction of the vast land, yet the long hours on the road conjured in my mind a carnival of voices and thoughts parading through the limitless green expanse.

Endless grassland spread beneath the sky's blue embrace, where clouds seemed to drift just above my head, casting moving shadows that my outstretched hands welcomed. Despite the possibility of ascending, I had no desire to ride the clouds because my thoughts remained tethered to the earth.

Things were ever-changing — at times, when we raced along the way, dark clouds loomed on the left side of the road while the clear sky stretched for miles to the right.

We rarely lamented rectifying our wrong turns and finding the right path.

During one of these wrong turns, before backtracking, I encountered one of the most stunning views. An untamed meadow sprawled before us with the dual-lane highway extending through to the horizon. No other people or vehicles came into view, only spinning wind turbines.

Free spirits were everywhere. Once a storm arrived, raindrops would decide their own path and bestow a blessed water source upon a variety of grassland species.

Washed clean of their sun-scorched wilt, the grasses perked up. Although they appeared similar, closer inspection revealed remarkable diversity. I was tempted to take a bite of one particular variety that held a sweet fragrance — and I could hardly blame the grazing cows, sheep and horses, who seldom bothered to meet my gaze.

Following a stormy night, as we resumed our morning journey, we were almost held back by a large puddle. A herd of sheep passed by unobstructed, completely indifferent to our concerns as we hesitated, fearing our vehicle might become trapped in the pooled water.

Two sheep then sped toward us, rushing to witness our cowardice as we found ourselves in a prolonged standoff with oncoming vehicles, each waiting for the other to take the lead and scout the way.

We won the patience competition. The puddle's depth rose above the door of our car, and muddy water covered our vehicle like a badge of honor.

I was still savoring the previous night spent at the stargazing camp from which we'd just left. There, one can enjoy a distant view of the Ulanhada volcanic geopark in Ulaanqab's Qahar Right Wing Rear Banner.