Beijing

Beijing is built on an idea drawn in ink before it was laid in brick: a straight line eight kilometers long, running through gates, throne halls and drum towers, with the Forbidden City nested at its heart like a box inside a box inside an empire. The rings of highway remember the vanished walls; the hutongs remember everything else. Few capitals have organized this much history along one axis and then filled it with this much breakfast.

The sensible traveller enters the Forbidden City from Tiananmen at opening and walks the axis north, hall by hall, to climb Jingshan at the far gate — the one hill that explains the whole plan at a glance; gives an afternoon to the hutongs around the lakes, where courtyard life continues at bicycle speed; makes the Great Wall pilgrimage to Mutianyu rather than the nearest gate; and treats Peking duck as the ceremony it is: pancakes, scallions, patience.

The Guide's honesty: book the Forbidden City days ahead — it sells out, and the passport is the ticket —; distances lie: 'next door' on a Beijing map is forty minutes of city, so take the metro and let the traffic argue with itself; the air has good and bad days — check it like you'd check rain —; and hutong rickshaw tours price by enthusiasm: agree the number before the pedals move.