The bell at Jeondeungsa doesn't ring so much as it opens. At six in the morning, with the mountain still in shadow and the air cool in a way August has no right to be, the first strike rolls down the valley like a slow tide. I'd slept on a thin mat in a temple stay room, and I woke up to that sound, and for a moment I genuinely forgot where I was. Then the second strike came, and I remembered: day five on Ganghwa Island, and I had a whole mountain to climb before the heat came back.
I'm Minjun, and this is day five of seven in Ganghwa-gun. The plan for today was simple, and I'd been looking forward to it since I arrived. Morning at Jeondeungsa, the oldest active temple in Korea, founded, they say, back in 381. Then a hike up Manisan, the sacred peak where Dangun himself supposedly made offerings to heaven. Then an afternoon of doing nothing much, because the heat at the end of monsoon season doesn't mess around. I had a bowl of porridge at the temple for breakfast, paid about 70,000 won for the night's stay, which covered the mat, the meals, and the quiet. There are cheaper ways to sleep on the island, but not many with a 600-year-old ginkgo tree outside your window.
The temple stay itself had been a last-minute decision. I'd booked it on the ferry over from Incheon, mostly because I wanted to see what the inside of a working temple felt like when the day-trippers had gone home. And it's a strange thing, being on a temple schedule. You eat at set times. You walk slowly. You don't look at your phone. The monks here have been doing this for over a thousand years, and there's a kind of gravity to that. Around eight in the evening, I sat on the wooden floor of the main hall and listened to the evening chanting. It wasn't music, exactly. It was more like a steady rain of syllables, and it did something to my brain that I hadn't expected. It slowed me down. I slept better than I have in a month.
After breakfast, I packed my single bag, thanked the monk at the office, and stepped back into the day. The mountain was already in full sun, and the path up Manisan starts right behind the temple. It's not a gentle walk. The trail is steep in places, all stone steps that the locals say were built by hand, and the humidity wraps around you like a damp towel. But the payoff comes in stages. First, the view of the Han River estuary opening up to the west, all mudflats and channels. Then the sea breeze, which arrives around the halfway point and makes the last kilometre almost pleasant. I passed a few older hikers coming down, already sweating through their shirts, and we exchanged the universal nod of people who are all doing the same foolish thing. The summit, Chamseongdan, is a stone altar that's been rebuilt more times than anyone can count, and it sits at the top of 469 metres of effort. Standing there, with the island laid out below and North Korea somewhere across the water, I understood why Dangun picked this spot.
I stayed at the top for a while, just breathing. The air was actually clear, which is rare in August, and I could see the whole sweep of the island. The mudflats on the west coast, the green patchwork of ginseng fields, the grey smudge of the fortress walls along the strait. On the far side of the Han, past the line of hills, is North Korea. It looks closer than it is. That's the thing about being up here. You're not in a museum looking at a map. You're on a mountain that has been a border for a thousand years, and the country you're looking at is right there, just beyond the water. I checked my phone and found a message from the county's emergency alert system. A reminder: landmines detected on the northwest coast. Avoid the mudflats above the tide line. I'd seen the news back in Incheon, the monsoon having washed down a dozen or more suspected mines from the north, but seeing it as an official alert while standing on a border mountain gave it a weight I hadn't felt before.
The hike down took about half the time, and by the time I reached the temple carpark, the heat was fully back. I bought a cold drink from the little shop there, about 1,500 won, and sat in the shade for a while. There's a cafe near the temple called Amoene Cafe, perched on the cliffside, and I'd been told it had good views. I walked over and got a seat on the terrace. The coffee was about 6,000 won, which felt steep for the island, but the view of the strait and the sound of the tide below made it worth it. I sat there for an hour, watching the water change colour as the sun climbed, and thought about the day so far. I'd woken up to a bell, climbed a sacred mountain, and now I was drinking coffee and looking at North Korea. Not a bad Tuesday.
But the island wasn't done with me yet. I'd been meaning to get to the Ganghwa Peace Observatory, the one in the north, past the Civilian Control Line. The first time I tried, a few days ago, I'd hit a checkpoint and realised I didn't have the right paperwork. This time, I'd come prepared. I drove north from Jeondeungsa, through the town of Ganghwa-eup and up into the hills, and the landscape changed fast. The ginseng fields gave way to overgrown rice paddies, and the road got narrower, with more fences and guard posts. There's a permit process for going past the line, and you need your passport or ARC card. I had both. The soldier at the checkpoint looked at my ARC, scanned it, and waved me through with the same resignation as a ticket inspector on the subway.
The observatory itself is a concrete building that feels like a bunker with a viewing deck. Inside, it's all tinted glass and coin-operated telescopes. For 500 won, you get about three minutes of magnification, and I pointed mine across the Han to the North Korean side. What I saw was mostly fields and trees, a few low buildings, a flagpole with a flag I couldn't quite make out. It was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. The observatory played a recorded narration in Korean and English, telling the story of the armistice and the boats that still get lost on the river. There was a gallery of photos showing the history of the border, and a gift shop selling postcards and snacks. I bought a postcard, about 1,000 won, and wrote a note to a friend in Seoul. I didn't know what to say, so I wrote 'It's quieter than you'd think.'
By the time I came out, the afternoon sun was starting to soften, and I had one more thing on my list. The Hwagae Garden Summer Festival is coming up on the 22nd, over on Gyodong Island, and I'd heard the county was putting on concerts and a flea market. I drove over the Gyodong Bridge, which is long and low and crosses a wide stretch of mudflat, and found the garden mostly empty, just a few workers setting up stalls. I walked through the flower beds, which were heavy with summer colour, and looked at the stage they were building. It was strange to see the empty space where a thousand people would be standing in nine days. I sat on a bench by the garden's pond and ate a snack I'd bought from a roadside stall, some kind of fried fish cake, about 3,000 won, and watched the sun descend toward the Yellow Sea.
The sunsets here are a big deal, and I wanted to see one from the west coast. I drove back down the island, past the dolmens at Bugeun-ri, which I'd already seen, and found a quiet stretch of coast near Dongmak Beach. This is the same mudflat where I'd dug for clams on day one, and it looked completely different now, the tide retreating to leave a wide, dark plain of mud. I knew about the landmines. Everyone here knows. The county has put up signs, and the emergency alerts are hard to miss. But there's a difference between knowing something and feeling it. Standing at the edge of the mudflat, watching the last light catch the rivulets of water, I felt a tension I hadn't had on day one. Not fear, exactly. More like respect. The mudflat is a beautiful thing, and it is also a thing that can hurt you, and the island is asking you to hold both truths at once.
I walked along the top of the sea wall, staying well above the tide line, and thought about the week so far. Incheon was all about getting my feet under me as a resident, the ARC card, the bank account, the phone plan. Ganghwa has been the opposite. It's a place that simplifies you, strips away the normal infrastructure of a life and leaves you with a mountain, a tide, and a border. I'd come here for the slow summer sweep down the West Sea, and the island had delivered more than I expected. I'd slept in a temple, climbed a sacred peak, looked at North Korea through a telescope, and learned that a mudflat can be both a larder and a threat. I'd also spent about 85,000 won today, the temple stay taking the biggest chunk, and the coffee and postcard and snacks filling in the rest. Not bad for a full day.
The sun went down around 7:31, right on schedule, and the sky turned orange and pink and then a deep purple that I can't describe without sounding like a postcard. The tide was still going out, and the mudflat gleamed in the dying light. I stood there until the first stars came out, and then I walked back to the car. I'm sleeping tonight at a pension called Ganghwa Sweet House, a little place near the coast, and the room is about 120,000 won a night. For that I get a double bed, a small kitchen, and a balcony that faces the sea. It's more than I'd usually spend, but it's my last night on the island, and I wanted a soft bed and a view. Tomorrow, I'm heading south, down the coast toward the archipelagos. But first, I'm going to sit on that balcony for a while, listen to the tide, and let this day settle.
A note on the landmines, before I go. This is a real, current situation as of early August, and the county has been issuing alerts about suspected mines washed down by the monsoon. If you're planning to walk the mudflats, check the local news or the county's alert system first, and don't go above the tide line without permission. It's not a reason to skip Ganghwa. It's a reason to be careful, and that's true all along this border coast. The island is worth the caution.
Jeondeungsa, Manisan, the Peace Observatory, and a sunset over a landmine-scattered mudflat. That was day five in Ganghwa-gun. I'm Minjun, and I'll be back tomorrow from somewhere further south.
Good night.