On the crest of South Korea’s tourism wave

In about five hours’ time, I will be lying on a bed in central Seoul as an ultrasonic cleansing device sucks away repeatedly at my pores, just a gleaming pane of glass away from dozens of women wrapped in cling film and plastic surgery bandages who’ve come here in the hope of a new face. For now though, I have an altogether different kind of dystopia to consider.  

I am standing on an observation deck peering through a pair of stationary binoculars across an utterly vessel-free river at three North Korean farmers walking through golden-yellow paddy fields in the grey morning mist. Eldritch droning siren sounds blare out of huge rectangular loudspeakers on the North’s side, an effort to drown out the sound of the K-pop being broadcast from the South — itself a retaliation against the thousands of balloons carrying rubbish that North Korea has sent across the border in recent months.

On the low hills behind the fields stand rows of uniform one- and two-storey houses and a few dilapidated apartment blocks, all of them apparently lived in — including the one with no roof. A military observation tower, partially hidden by trees, serves as a reminder that I am probably being watched too. 

This is the view from the Odusan Unification Observatory, an intensely eerie, surreal and voyeuristic tourist attraction, though also an undeniably thrilling one for anyone remotely interested in this part of the world. Looking out over the Imjin River that flows from the North into the South — known in the latter as the “River of the Dead” because of the number of corpses found floating down it from the former — the observatory is less than two miles away from North Korean shores and yet exists in an entirely different reality.

On the hour-long bus ride here from Seoul, our tour guide pointed out rows of enormous television studios that produce the K-drama series that have captivated audiences all over the world. A mile away, a vast shopping mall sells luxury western fashion brands such as Prada and Mulberry.

The observatory is one stop on a tour that also takes in Imjingak, a park and cultural centre established in the 1970s as a way of consoling the South Koreans who’d been separated from their families in the North. We are shown various remnants of the Korean war, such as the rusty bullet-riddled military train that was the last to cross the border in 1950, and a fence tied with millions of prayer ribbons for the reunification of Korea.

Once our group has had permission from the South Korean military, we take a gondola that carries us above layers of coiled barbed wire into the “Civilian Control Zone”, a buffer area before the Demilitarised Zone (DMZ) proper. Red triangular landmine signs line the pathways like bunting, while Harry Styles and K-pop play out of the speakers dotted around the park, in case we are not sufficiently entertained. In the gift shop, DMZ-branded mugs are sold alongside sweetened tea made with green tangerines from Jeju Island, and delicious deep-fried honey-and-cinnamon yakgwa cookies.

It makes for a rather disorienting and yet exciting start to my trip: 10 days travelling around South Korea, organised by specialist operator InsideAsia. The trip is largely self-guided but there’s a carefully planned itinerary, as well as several days of expert-led tours in destinations along the route. The company says it has seen interest in the country soar over the past few years. Some 7.7mn foreign visitors came in the first half of this year, according to the Korean Tourism Organization, 73 per cent up on the same period in 2023, and it is hoping to attract 30mn annual visitors by 2030.

Just as Japan experienced a tourism boom in the early 2000s in the wake of Sofia Coppola’s love-letter to Tokyo Lost in Translation, and Studio Ghibli’s Spirited Away, it appears that the huge international success of K-pop acts like BTS, K-drama series such as Squid Game and critically acclaimed films like the Oscar-winning Parasite is translating into a real eagerness to explore South Korea. 

And the “Korean wave”, or hallyu — as the Chinese have dubbed the explosion in the popularity of Korean culture — extends well beyond the realm of entertainment. The country is increasingly influential in the world of fashion, art, and cuisine too (last year it exported some 44bn tonnes of kimchi). “K-beauty”, meanwhile, has become a thriving multibillion-dollar market as women around the world try to emulate the “glass-skin” appearance of Korea’s international stars. 

So it is to sample the latter that I visit the glitzy, absolutely heaving PPeum Clinic in Myeongdong, Seoul’s main shopping district. It’s easy to see why people travel here from all over Asia: Botox is on offer for less than you would pay for a posh salad in London — prices start at 30,000 won, roughly £17. But I go for a somehow more expensive (100,000 won), though non-invasive, “waterglow peel” that is meant to simultaneously deep-cleanse and deep-moisturise my skin. 

Alas, I am not sure my skin looks any more glass-like afterwards (apparently you need a course of treatments to really notice the effect), but it is a fun and unusual tourist experience. It’s also an opportunity to doze off some of the jet-lag before a night spent drinking cocktails and somaek — beer mixed with soju, South Korea’s national spirit — in some of the city’s many buzzy drinking holes with a brilliant guide, Meggie Yu.

After several strong drinks at Myeongdong Sookhee, a speakeasy hidden behind a vanity mirror, its walls adorned with antique mother-of-pearl and black lacquer cabinet doors, we dive into a tiny spot in a back alley for some barbecued mackerel, before hopping around a few more bars until the early hours. 

Koreans, sensibly, don’t believe in drinking without something to eat, so all sorts of anju (any food served with alcohol) are presented: various varieties of packaged seafood-flavoured snacks (cuttlefish and shrimp seem to be particularly popular), home-made vegetable crisps, savoury pancakes, the ubiquitous kimchi and, my favourite, a delectable combination of the latter two to form kimchi-jeon. 

Anyone who has visited Tokyo will have a sense of familiarity in Seoul: the stacked neon signs, the karaoke bars, the 7-Elevens, the big zebra crossings, the temples juxtaposed with skyscrapers, the mountains always visible in the distance, even the izakaya bars, which South Korea is full of. In the springtime, there’s also a great deal of excitement about the cherry blossom, or beot-kkot, much of which was planted by Japan in an effort to instil “cultural refinement” during the brutal 1910-1945 colonial period.

But it strikes me that while there is a kind of nostalgia to the vision of the future that Tokyo presents — with its hectic pachinko parlours and its vending machines and its train jingles — Seoul deals less in futurism and more in a kind of nowness. There’s a palpable buzz that comes from visiting a place that’s right in the middle of having its moment, and that knows it. 

Seoul has plenty of history to offer too, however, and on my second day there it’s time to sample some of that, courtesy of a Korean guide called Hong Yoon-sik, who insists I call him Stefano. From my hotel opposite the colourful Jogyesa Temple, he takes me to Bukchon Hanok Village, a neighbourhood in the historic Jongno District, a 10-minute walk away.

Bukchon’s hilly streets, with their picture-perfect houses and views over the city, provide a wonderful setting for an invigorating morning stroll and an artisanal coffee. (Seoul has more coffee shops per capita than any other city in the world, so you never have to look far to find one.) But while most of the village’s 900 restored hanok — traditional Korean dwellings featuring distinctive curving tiled roofs — are still lived in, the sheer number of sightseers in Bukchon even early in the morning makes it feel more like a theme park. Signs written in Japanese, Chinese and English ask visitors to please talk quietly; a curfew and other restrictions will soon be introduced to deal with the recent influx.

The tourism boom is again immediately apparent at our next destination: Seoul’s historic crown jewel, Gyeongbokgung Palace. Here hundreds mill around dressed up in traditional hanbok dresses, hired out for the day from specialist shops nearby, taking elaborate photographs of themselves and each other. 

After Seoul, it’s time to take a luxurious intercity bus ride — fully reclinable seats, individual TV screens — 100 miles north-east to Sokcho, on the coast of the East Sea (or as most of the rest of the world calls it, to Korea’s chagrin, the Sea of Japan). I am here not to marvel at this curious fishing town-cum-beach resort, but to use the city as a base for a trip to the stunning Seoraksan National Park, one of 22 such parks in South Korea. It’s a superb place to slow down after the commotion and clamour of Seoul. 

Yeah, the Korean seafood experience gets very squiggly — that’s kind of part of the gig’

The day I visit is Hangul, a national holiday celebrating the introduction of Korea’s phonetic alphabet in the 15th century. I have no guide today but, in the model of America’s national parks, there are all sorts of marked-out trails and suggested routes, making the whole thing very easy and accessible.

Unfortunately, not only is it a national holiday but October is high season, meaning that the walking trails are packed. On the plus side, my timing also means that the leaves on the maple, oak and ginkgo trees on the mountain slopes have started to turn, forming a magnificent tapestry of yellow, orange, red and purple.

The morning after a feast of red snow crab in a strip-lit all-you-can-eat spot in Sokcho’s harbour — rubber gloves, industrial scissors and a bucket all provided for de-shelling purposes — I’m taken 100 miles south to spend a few hours at the delightful Hahoe Folk Village, which dates back to the 14th century and is one of South Korea’s 16 Unesco World Heritage Sites.

Along dusty, flower-lined paths are several dozen stone-walled, thatched houses, most of which are still inhabited. Pops of bright orange persimmons light up the trees like lanterns; the daisy-like lilac Korean starwort provides a backdrop for many a selfie-stick picture. 

From there, I head south again, to the ancient city of Gyeongju, capital of the Silla kingdom that ruled two-thirds of Korea between the seventh and ninth centuries. Known as the “museum with no walls” because of how stuffed full it is with artefacts, the city contains several dozen royal tombs that rise up as much as 23 metres into the air, carefully mown grass mounds that give the place the distinct feel of Tellytubbyland. 

Gyeongju is not only a very beautiful and excitingly historic city; it also feels vibesy and up-and-coming, with all sorts of cool and newly opened bars and boutiques, and it ends up being my favourite place outside of Seoul. I stay for two nights in a charming restored hanok in the old part of town, where I wake up to a magical view out over the sloped rooftops to the mountains beyond.

South Korea offers many opportunities for fine dining, but street food is where it really excels. In Busan, South Korea’s second city, whose high-rises, yachts and sandy beaches give it a Miami-ish vibe, I am taken on a Bourdainesque food tour. We wander down the “Haeundae Traditional Market”, a pedestrian street whose stalls’ offerings at first appear comfortingly familiar to someone who has spent a week in South Korea: fishcake skewers, tteobokki — dense, chewy rice cakes soaked in a thick spicy sauce — and sweetcorn-flavoured ice cream (Koreans seem to be obsessed with sweetcorn). 

But then we get to the septuagenarian-and-upwards women — ajumma — who stand skinning hagfish alive, while the fish (they look like faceless eels, but uglier) continue thrashing around on the blood-and-slime-soaked chopping boards. I decline to try it. Instead, we step off the street into a little hole-in-a-wall, where we tuck into some very odd dotori-muk (acorn-jelly) and a sensational spring onion-and-squid pancake, all washed down with Korean beer. 

After more beer on the beach, it’s time for further seafood shocks. On plastic chairs on decking overlooking the sea, we are served raw apricot-coloured sea squirt and pale pink sea snails, both of which I dutifully try, dunked in a healthy amount of gochujang sauce. Then we’re served a local speciality: chopped up raw baby octopus, served with minced garlic, sesame oil and green chilli, that is still moving around, a lot, on the plate. I’m told it continues to move around once you put it in your mouth; luckily I have the excuse of being an avowed non-octopus-eater. 

“Yeah, the Korean seafood experience gets very squiggly — that’s kind of part of the gig,” my American guide Chris Tharp tells me, chomping happily. 

We take a cab to the other side of town to close out the night in a pojangmacha, or “drinking tent” as it tends to be called in English: essentially a food cart covered in tarpaulin or plastic, where you squeeze yourself on to a bench or stool and are served alcohol and anju. It is a thoroughly enjoyable experience (with no squiggly surprises) and despite the fact that I am utterly stuffed by now, I just about manage some lovely gyeran-mali — Korean rolled omelette — drizzled in ketchup, whipped up for us on a single stove by an ajumma who will be working until the tent winds down around 2am or so. 

The next morning, it’s time to take the high-speed train back to Seoul. The rather unscenic journey through tunnel after tunnel is a reminder that mountains cover almost three-quarters of this country of 52mn people. The total of two-and-a-half-hours it takes to get to the opposite side of South Korea, meanwhile, demonstrates just how small it is: at 38,750 square miles, this cultural colossus is only about a quarter the size of Japan, and smaller than the state of New York. 

And then, at Seoul’s central railway station, a sight that brings all of the country’s contradictions and contrasts into stark relief: huge LED screens welcoming home BTS star J-Hope, who is about to return from a year and a half of military service — obligatory for all able-bodied men over the age of 18. This might be a country that is thriving thanks in part to its wholehearted embrace of capitalist modernity, yet it cannot fully escape its fraught past. Some 71 years since an armistice was signed, South Korea is still, officially, at war with North Korea. 

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