Winter Notes from South Korea

From Seoul's frozen palaces to Jeju's windswept shores, my January voyage through South Korea is about warmth in restraint, routine and unmatched human kindness; writes Vinod K

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I landed in Seoul in January with my breath already visible in the air and my expectations shaped by a decade of pop culture exports.

I knew the cold would be real, the food fiery, the cities efficient. What I didn't expect was how gently the country would reveal itself—through routines, silences, and moments that felt less like sightseeing and more like being allowed into a rhythm.

My first morning began near Gyeongbokgung Palace, where winter pares everything down to its essentials. The palace roofs looked sharper against a pale sky, the courtyards rang with footsteps, and the guards in their bright robes felt like splashes of colour on a muted canvas. A group of schoolchildren passed me, laughing, breath puffing like speech bubbles. History here doesn't ask for reverence; it shares space with everyday life. From there, I wandered into Bukchon Hanok Village, where tiled roofs sloped into narrow lanes and the wood of old houses seemed to absorb the cold. An elderly woman swept her doorstep slowly, pausing to nod at passersby. I lingered longer than I planned, partly because my fingers needed the break, partly because the quiet felt earned.

Seoul announces itself fully underground. The subway is warm, spotless, and almost meditative in its order. People line up without being told; help arrives before you ask. Once, fumbling with a ticket machine, I felt a presence beside me—an older man who pressed the right buttons, stepped back, and nodded. No words, no smile. Just help. It set the tone for the city: courtesy as action, not performance.