Finding Da Hong Pao

 

Da Hong Pao is the undisputed heavyweight champion of Wuyi rock tea. Walk through San Gu Village in Wuyishan, and it’s everywhere—those big, bold characters stamped on tea boxes stacked outside every shop, daring you to ignore them. Even if you’re not a tea person, the name hits you like a deep gong, resonating with a kind of unshakable authority. You don’t just drink this tea; you reckon with it.
Over time, Da Hong Pao has earned its title as the “King of Rock Tea,” but like any monarch worth its salt, the story isn’t so simple. Da Hong Pao isn’t just a name—it’s an idea, a legacy, and, let’s be honest, a bit of a marketing maze. There’s the fabled Mother Tree Da Hong Pao, the holy grail of the tea world; its extended lineage, the distant cousins riding on that fame; and then there’s the Da Hong Pao most of us are drinking—commodity blended Da Hong Pao. So, what’s the deal? Let’s unpack this tangled web of tea royalty.

Big red robe: origins of a legend

The story kicks off in 1385, deep in the Hongwu reign of the Ming dynasty—a time when tea wasn’t just a drink; it was life, culture, and status all wrapped into one. Picture Ding Xian, a young scholar hustling his way to the imperial exams, only to get blindsided by a crushing illness near Wuyishan. Enter the monk, a robed savior from Tianxin Yongle Temple, who brewed him a pot of something extraordinary. A single sip, and Ding was back on his feet, like he’d never been sick in the first place.

But this isn’t just a story about survival—it’s about triumph. Ding didn’t just pass the exam; he obliterated it, becoming the top scholar, the zhuangyuan. Grateful and intrigued, he retraced his steps back to Wuyishan to thank the monk and learn the tea’s origins. The monk pointed to a cluster of tea trees in Jiulongke. Overwhelmed, Ding tore off his red robe, circled the trees like a man possessed, and draped it over them in a gesture that was equal parts reverence and gratitude. Just like that, Da Hong Pao—Big Red Robe—was born.
But wait, it gets better. Fast-forward to Ding’s rise in the capital. When the Empress fell gravely ill, with every court physician stumped, Ding stepped up. He offered her the same tea that had saved his life. Slowly but surely, she recovered. The Emperor, ecstatic and clearly impressed, handed Ding a red robe and ordered him to return to Jiulongke to honor the tea trees once more. Guards were stationed to ensure every leaf from these sacred bushes made its way to the palace.

Another version of the tale goes even bigger. Every year, crimson-cloaked officials would journey to Wuyishan for the harvest, hanging their red robes on the tea trees as part of a ceremonial tribute. Whether you believe the monk’s red robe or the annual imperial theatrics, the result was the same—Da Hong Pao wasn’t just tea anymore. It was royalty in a cup.

Now, here’s the kicker: no one can say where the original Da Hong Pao trees are—or if they even exist anymore. Some say Jiulongke, others Beidou Peak or Zhuke. Zhao Dayan. A former Party secretary of Wuyishan, famously said, “The real Da Hong Pao is still in Jiulongke, but no one can say for sure—no one’s ever seen it.”

And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Da Hong Pao isn’t just about the leaves or the taste. It’s about the chase, the myth, the larger-than-life story that keeps tea lovers coming back. Because sometimes, what we can’t have is exactly what keeps us thirsty.

The Legend of the Mother Tree Da Hong Pao

If you want to find the real Da Hong Pao mother trees, head to the sheer cliffs of Jiulongke in the Wuyishan Nature Reserve—six ancient trees, barely clinging to life but standing as the ancestors of all Da Hong Pao tea. These trees are rumored to be over 360 years old, holding a kind of sacred power. On the same cliff, there's an inscription carved into the rock—"Da Hong Pao." Legend says a monk from Tianxin Temple did the honors back in 1927. It’s not just a mark on a stone; it’s a silent witness to the trees' ancient history and a little extra mystery to boot.

So why carve those three words into this particular cliffside? Here's the theory: the monks at Tianxin Temple, ever the protectors of their sacred trees, planted these six in an almost impossible-to-reach spot. Then, to keep the real trees hidden from prying eyes, they carved the name into the rock, letting visitors believe these were the originals. A clever little sleight of hand to keep the true mother trees safely out of sight. But trust me, there’s another version of the “real” Da Hong Pao story that’s just as intriguing.

Tea and diplomacy – half a kingdom as a gift

Fast forward to 1972, when President Nixon made his historic visit to China. As part of the state gifts, Chairman Mao handed him a small but intriguing offering—four taels of Da Hong Pao tea. Nixon, a little puzzled, took the gift but couldn’t help thinking, just four taels of tea? How valuable could that possibly be?

Premier Zhou Enlai, ever the master of the moment, saw Nixon's confusion and flashed a knowing smile. “Mr. President,” he said, “this is no ordinary tea—this is half of China’s treasures!”

The room fell silent, everyone leaning in. Zhou continued, “Da Hong Pao is a royal tribute tea, and the entire annual yield is just eight taels. Chairman Mao has given you half of it—quite literally, half of the kingdom!”

It hit like a punchline. Nixon laughed, the whole room followed suit, and just like that, Da Hong Pao wasn’t just tea—it became a memorable chapter in the story of diplomacy. and, to celebrate that, here is 3% discount code on your next Wuyi oolong tea purchase : 3%OFFWUYI.

Turning myth and fame into marketing gold

Back in the day, when folks from Wuyishan wanted to move their rock tea to other provinces, they didn’t sell the tea—they sold the story. And the story, of course, was the legendary “Half of the Kingdom”. So, most customers, those eager tea drinkers from across China, had heard of Da Hong Pao, but had no clue what Wuyi rock tea actually was. Even today, you’ll find countless novices who know the name "Da Hong Pao" but couldn’t tell you it’s part of the larger rock tea family if their lives depended on it.

In many ways, Da Hong Pao became the golden ticket to the Wuyi rock tea market. Not too long ago, varieties like Shuixian, Rougui, or the famous Four Bushes were practically invisible outside Wuyishan—or even the Fujian-Guangdong-Hong Kong-Macau region. The simple solution? Slap "Da Hong Pao" on the packaging, and suddenly, you had a best-seller.

The "Half of the Kingdom" story may have thrust Da Hong Pao into the limelight, but in turn, its rise to fame helped push all of Wuyi rock tea into the global spotlight.

The mother trees of Da Hong Pao stopped yielding their leaves back in 2006, but they’ve never truly stopped giving. As the very face of Wuyi rock tea, a national treasure, and a kind of sacred pilgrimage for tea lovers, they’ve taken on a weight far beyond what their leaves ever provided. Anyone who’s made the trek to the mother tree site might raise an eyebrow at the sight of those six scrappy bushes, hanging on by a thread to the cliffside. Hardly the picture of grandeur, right? But here’s the thing: their looks mean nothing. These trees aren’t about beauty—they’re about legacy. They represent the heart and soul of Wuyi rock tea, standing as a living testament to its deep-rooted legend.

Da Hong Pao's Relatives

Bei Dou

There are five places in history where Da Hong Pao is said to have grown, each with only one tree. Think of it like the original VIP list: Jiulongke, Tianyou Rock, Shui Liandong, Beidou Peak, and Huoyan Peak. In the 1940s, Lin Fuquan, a renowned tea expert, gained the trust of a monk from Tianxin Temple, who took him to one of these trees at the base of Jiulongke’s cliffs—not where you’d expect, but in the shadow of the rocks.

Fast forward to the 1950s, when Lin’s disciple, Yao Yueming, under the guidance of tea master Wu Juenong, trekked up to Beidou Peak. There, he found the first mother tree of Da Hong Pao. With great care, he snipped a few tender shoots and planted them in his garden. The plan was to study them further—but fate had other ideas. The land was snatched up for an airport, and the young plants were uprooted, just like that.

In the 1960s, with the Cultural Revolution in full swing, Yao was forced into rice farming. But the man was relentless. When no one was watching, he snuck off to Beidou Peak and Jiulongke to take more cuttings. He called them “Beidou No. 1” and “Beidou No. 2,” continuing the legacy of Wu Juenong’s naming system. After a year of care, only three of the Beidou No. 1 cuttings survived—descendants of the legendary Da Hong Pao mother tree itself. From that point, Beidou was officially the “true” Da Hong Pao, and its influence spread to tea plantations across the major mountains.

So, here's to the old masters who fought to preserve these living legends. They’re not just tea trees; they’re the heart and soul of Wuyi rock tea’s signature “rock bone and floral fragrance.” A tribute to persistence, and to the stories that still grow, one leaf at a time.

Qi Dan

The "Da Hong Pao Mother Trees" on the cliffs of Jiulongke are still there, six in total. But don’t be fooled by the simplicity of their numbers—this story isn’t as straightforward as it seems. Originally, there were just four. It wasn’t until the late 1970s, when the government established the Jiulongke Famous Tea Garden, that two more trees were added to the mix. Since then, these six trees have taken on personalities of their own. Different leaf shapes, different budding periods, different maturation times. Intrigued, specialists tested them and found the surprising truth: these trees weren’t all cut from the same cloth. According to experts at the Fujian Academy of Agricultural Sciences, though their fragrance and taste were similar, these six trees actually belonged to three different varieties. To give them a uniform identity, the local government branded them all "Da Hong Pao."

Meanwhile, the Fujian Tea Research Institute in Fu'an wasn’t sitting still. They sent their own team to Wuyi Mountain, where they clipped a few tender shoots from Jiulongke and took them back for cultivation and study. Twenty-one years later, a man named Chen Dehua, known as the "Father of Da Hong Pao," was attending a meeting in Fu'an. Having long been obsessed with Da Hong Pao, he saw his chance and snagged five of the seedlings. He brought them back to Wuyi Mountain, where they quickly took root in the fertile soil. These five plants grew and multiplied, and Chen named them “Qi Dan” to give them a distinct identity, setting them apart from other Da Hong Pao descendants. Qi Dan, the "purebred" Da Hong Pao, was born and carved its own legacy in Wuyi Mountain. Chen Dehua’s name is now etched in the annals of tea history, forever tied to this journey.

Xiao Hong Pao (Litte Red Robe)

And then there’s the story of Xiao Red Robe. A tea farmer—his name lost to time—quietly scaled the cliffs of Jiulongke one day and snipped a few tender shoots. He took them home, planted them in his garden, and waited. After several generations of careful cultivation, he found that the leaves of these new trees were smaller than those of the mother tree. But the color stayed the same. Every spring, the buds would bloom with a brilliant red, like fire igniting in the sky. Mesmerized by the sight, the farmer named the tea tree “Little Red Robe.” It grew, spreading slowly in his small garden, carrying its own quiet story.

The name of this tea farmer is lost to history, but in the world of Da Hong Pao’s descendants, he’s an unsung legend. His quiet act of cultivation left a lasting mark on the legacy of Wuyi rock tea.

Zi Hong Pao (Purple Red Robe)

And then there’s the Purple Red Robe. Born out of Wuyishan’s cutting-edge tea science, this new breed of Da Hong Pao came to life through a careful, calculated dance of pollination. These tea scientists worked their magic, creating a more robust variety, one that could withstand the harshest of conditions—cold, drought, pests. Its father? None other than the legendary mother tree of Da Hong Pao, from one of Jiulongke’s three famous clumps. They named it Jiulong Pao, a tribute to its birthplace.

But when it hit the tea farmers’ hands, something was off. The new shoots, when they emerged in the spring, didn’t match the fiery red of the mother tree’s iconic leaves—those red buds that looked like the grandest crimson robe hanging over the tree. No, Jiulong Pao had a different look. Its young leaves sprouted deep red, with a tinge of purple creeping in. And so, the people, ever observant, dubbed it the “Purple Red Robe.”

Today, the purebred Da Hong Pao that flourishes across Wuyishan includes varieties like Qi Dan, Bei Dou, Little Red Robe, and of course, Purple Red Robe. All are direct descendants, each carrying a piece of the mother tree’s legacy, nurtured through pruning and care.

There was a time, not long ago, when teas like Shui Xian, Rou Gui, and the famous Si Da Ming Cong Bushes were practically unheard of outside of Wuyi. Back then, the quickest way to get those leaves into the hands of outsiders was simple—slap the name "Da Hong Pao" on the box, and watch the sales numbers climb. It was quick, easy, and it worked.

But as Wuyi tea gained more respect and recognition, more varieties started stepping out from under Da Hong Pao’s massive shadow. No longer relying on its famous name, these teas began to carve their own identities, showing the world that they too had something unique to offer.

The Significance of Blended Da Hong Pao

Da Hong Pao—it’s more than just a tea. It’s a legend, a name that’s become synonymous with history, culture, and tradition. But even legends evolve. And in the case of Da Hong Pao, that evolution comes in the form of blending.

Blending sounds simple enough, but it breathes new life into the old guard, pushing Da Hong Pao into endless new territory. Some blends dance with floral and fruity aromas, light as a spring breeze carrying the scent of freshly blooming flowers. Others are rich, like a jar of preserved fruits, sweet and vibrant. And then there are the deep, smooth brews—so rich, it’s as if you can taste the wisdom of the old trees in every sip. No matter the blend, they all carry Da Hong Pao’s spirit, but each has its own twist, its own voice—impossible to replicate.

Blended Da Hong Pao is like an artist's palette—each tea added is a stroke of genius, a re-imagining of the original. Shui Xian, Rou Gui, Tie Luo Han, Huang Guan Yin—all relatives of Da Hong Pao, mixed in endless ways, creating flavors that come close to, or even surpass, the legendary original. Blending is more than a technique—it’s a way of paying homage to the past while creating something fresh, something new.

This new take on Da Hong Pao doesn’t just expand the flavor spectrum—it lets the tea adapt to the modern palate. With technology fine-tuning the blending ratios, different "schools" of Da Hong Pao have popped up. Some focus on keeping that original fragrance intact, others highlight a rich, powerful brew, and some try to balance both. Each choice is a nod to the history, but with a twist of innovation.

Blended Da Hong Pao isn’t just about bringing this iconic tea to the masses. It’s about making it personal. It’s about connecting with tea drinkers across time and place. It’s not just a reconstruction—it’s an elevation. It’s Da Hong Pao made for the world today, but still rooted in that deep, ancient tradition. Blended Da Hong Pao is the bridge, linking us to the past while allowing us to taste the future of tea.