China -

hina's tourism industry likes 'top five' lists: top five famous mountains, top five famous shopping streets, top five places for eating barbecued chicken, that sort of thing. The town of Li Ling in Hunan Province features in none of these lists. That is its charm. It is a place that offers no reason for visiting – and that, in my book, is reason enough to have a look around.

It was Christmas Eve, it was raining, and it was very, very cold. I was pedalling west on the G320, the epic road that runs through the heart of China from Shanghai to the Burmese border, when I hit a pothole. Hard. My rear wheel took the punishment. The result: a badly cracked wheel rim. A wheel in that state does not last long. It might give you another fifty kilometres, or it might only give you five before dumping you unceremoniously, leaving you with a unicycle and a sore backside.

I dug out my map and assessed the situation. Nearest town: Li Ling. Distance: about 25 kilometres. It was touch-and-go. I got back in the saddle and pedalled, gingerly, wincing at every bump and rut.

An hour later I rolled into Li Ling, where Christmas was in full swing. All the shops had 'Merry Christmas' sprayed on their windows, except one which cryptically proclaimed 'I Love Gloria' instead. The season's must-have was a red and white Santa hat with flashing lights. A pavement merchant could hardly open boxes fast enough to keep up with demand. They were selling so quickly that the local hot-cake seller had packed up and gone home early. Pretty much every head in town, from babes-in-arms to their doting grandmothers, was decked out in red and white.

Meanwhile, I had a problem. I was cold and my bike was broken. I checked into a guesthouse.

Mr He's place was pretty comfortable, or it would have been if it hadn't just started snowing outside. The hotel is authentically Hunanese and that means a heating-free zone. Heating is for wimps, foreigners, and people who live north of the Yangtze. Li Ling has a warm climate, explained Mr Hu, as snow started to drift into the lobby through the open door.

In fairness, the Hunanese approach to heating has a certain logic. Why heat the whole house when 99 per cent of it is empty space? It's not the house that needs heating, it is the people in it. The solution: a ceramic bowl the size and shape of a chamber pot, in which a couple of lumps of charcoal burn feebly. To get warm, you get as close to that pot as you can without setting your trousers on fire. In a large family – or a small hotel – you might be competing with a dozen others for prime pot positions. If you're lucky or pushy you might find space for a finger or two in the melee of hands and feet being dangled above the fire.

In these circumstances, the only viable option is to retreat to bed under a layer of blankets about six feet thick, and wait for morning.

The next day, when it came, was colder still, but brought good news: a friendly bike shop manager had arranged for the best wheel rim in Hunan to be express-freighted down from the provincial capital, Changsha. What's more, he's a friend of 'The best wheel builder in Li Ling'.

"That sounds like my man," I said. "Take me to him."

The best wheel builder in Li Ling works in a dark garage-cum-warehouse-cum-workshop up a narrow alley at the end of a back street. I felt instantly at home in his treasure-trove of bolts, bells, spokes, saddles, tyres, inner tubes and tools of every description. The little master sat on the floor of his Aladdin's cave and set to work building my new wheel. He promised me that he would "work like Lei Feng", the famous Chinese model worker and propaganda icon, to ensure it would be as strong and true as any wheel in the land.

And there must be some pretty strong wheels out there. One of the joys of cycling in China is meeting other cyclists whose loads put my meagre 35 kilos of clothes, tools and camping gear in the shade. One man came cheerfully whistling past, his bike weighed down with five large caged dogs. And then of course there are the cargo-tricycles which ply the roads between small towns and villages all over the country, on which a fridge, a large sofa, a new wide-screen TV, half an ox, and grandma perched on the top would amount to a pretty standard load.

With my bike roadworthy once more, I was ready to get moving again, but with snow and temperature both still falling, the prospect did not appeal. Besides, I was starting to like Li Ling.

Mr He at the hotel invited me to join his family for dinner, which we ate in the lobby, hovering around the fire-pot. Afterwards Mr He took me to Li Ling's ping-pong club, where I thought I was giving him a decent run for his money until he switched to playing right-handed and thrashed me mercilessly.

The next day I met Mr Wen, a fireworks salesman, who insisted that no trip to Li Ling would be complete without a visit to the Li Ling Fireworks Factory.

The tour was not a resounding success. Thanks to the cold and snow, the factory's workforce had failed en masse to show up. The whole place was lifeless and devoid of anything to inspect but for a couple of chilly-looking ducks. Mr Wen looked embarrassed. We stood around in the snow looking at our increasingly hypothermic feet. It was hard to know what to say. "It must be a busy place when people do come to work," I tried, half-heartedly.

"Yes," answered Mr Wen, not exactly warming to the theme. "Are you cold?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, very much warming to that theme.

"So am I," said Mr Wen. "Let's go home."

To make amends for the firework factory debacle, Mr Wen suggested he show me round some of the town's other sights. Don't misunderstand me, I've nothing against Li Ling. In fact I'm rather fond of the place. But it doesn't do sights. It's just not that kind of town. Mr Wen tried. We went past a shop that sells trousers. "That is a trouser shop," he explained, striving for but never quite attaining enthusiasm. What to say in these circumstances?

"Do you buy your trousers there?" was the best I could manage.

"No," answered a downbeat Mr Wen.

To pursue, or to let it drop? That was the question. I chose pursuit. "Where do you buy your trousers from, then?"

"The Number 3 Department Store."

A department store! This was an exit strategy that would allow both parties to go home, pride and honour satisfied. It works like this: I display great eagerness – within the bounds of dignity – to visit said department store. Once inside I head for the biscuit counter, seize a packet of biscuits, announce that these are the very things I have been looking for, and buy them. The sightseeing expedition is thus instantly transformed into a great success, and we're free to go home. It worked a treat. Mr Wen looked very pleased.

Li Ling is down-to-earth, honest, a little rough maybe, but without pretension. It's my kind of town, and, for my money, it's in places like Li Ling rather than the swanky metropolitan cities that you will find the true soul of China.

Riding a bike in China is rarely dull. The joy of it is that you wake up each morning never knowing what you'll see that day, or where you'll be spending the next night. At this time of year the countryside is taking it easy, rice stubble idling in flooded fields. Fat-bellied ducks waddle and squabble, watched by dark-eyed, melancholic water buffalo. Old men drive pigs along the road to market, while old women carry heavy loads on bamboo shoulder yokes, a bucket hanging from each end. When the sun shines everybody sits outside for a game of mahjong.

Neurotic chickens peck and strut on the road, flapping and squawking each time they are near-missed by a careering minibus. A streak of shimmering, iridescent blue flashes in front of me – a kingfisher bringing some welcome colour to the murky browns and greys of the winter landscape.

Cycling in China gets you to places that other forms of transport cannot reach. So throw away your credit card, hop on a bike, and head for the nearest place that doesn't get a mention in your guidebook. But one request: please don't all go visiting Li Ling – we don't want to ruin its unspoilt charm....

Edward Genochio is cycling from Shanghai to Hong Kong to raise funds for the Wheelchair Foundation and Shanghai-based charity Tse Kong Wellness Centre for Children. To follow his progress and find out how to contribute to the charities, visit www.2wheels.org.uk/shanghai.