The groves, dark green and weathered, form a natural canopy where residents gather, recall childhood stories and share local wine whose sharp fragrance carries the weight of history.
The village, rooted in Gò Sành, once known for famed pottery kilns, bears physical traces of time in its moss-covered homes and centuries-old soil. The region has witnessed the legacy of Champa towers, the rise of the Tây Sơn era and the echo of horses from the Hoàng Đế Citadel, yet it remains defined by the slow rhythm of rural life and the scent of rice wine aging quietly in earthen jars.
Many villagers link their identity to these landscapes. One elder recalls hamlets, wells and the small river winding behind the bamboo, describing them as coordinates of memory that remain unchanged despite shifting times. He often urged friends to gather beneath the bamboo grove in Gò Sành to drink Bàu Đá wine, moments he considered the purest form of returning home.
Under this shade, countless gatherings unfold over small glasses of rice wine that burns at first sip before settling into a steady warmth. The drink, locals say, keeps one just sober enough to remember: chasing cicadas at noon, wading through floodwaters for firewood, or listening to stories during blackout nights before running off to children’s games.
Such memories often return during Tết, when the scent of homemade candied fruits and cakes drifts through old homes. For some, the strongest recollections are of sitting beside elders, watching mothers knead sticky dough as wood fires infused the air with the fragrance of holiday treats.
One late Tết afternoon, three longtime friends, calling each other “brother” despite age gaps of more than two decades, met again under the bamboo grove. They shared hoàng hoa wine, made by steeping December chrysanthemum petals in Bàu Đá wine and aging the mixture in sheltered jars. When opened, the drink blended floral sweetness with sharp rice undertones, evoking moonlit nights over cold yellow blossoms that mark the arrival of early spring.
As dusk deepened into night, the group alternated between quiet conversation and reflective silence. The rustle of bamboo and a chorus of insects accompanied their sips, while moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting shadows across weathered faces and uneven garden soil.
By the time the moon rose high, a gentle sense of homecoming settled over the gathering. The bamboo grove remained steady in the late-night breeze, and the land of Gò Sành, silent, ancient and familiar, held their swaying shadows as the village’s enduring spirit lingered in every drop of wine.