the main citadel through the massive gate to find a circular earthen embankment with a low stone rampart on top, we drove to Ganghwa’s southeastern tip to visit Choji Fort, where the U.S. infantry and marines first came ashore in 1871. Again, the parking lot was packed with tour buses and in a large square adjacent, masses of chattering elementary school kids were gathered. Gift shops offered tacky back-scratchers and toy bows and arrows.
We attempted to talk to some of the kids about what they had learned on their field trips, and several could not recall anything they had seen. Two veteran media-savvy kids defiantly refused to grant us their time and walked off. Others complained they were tired. One decried that the walk up to the fort at Gwangseong Citadel was a bit difficult.
Giving up on getting the student perspective, we strolled over to the hard-clay shore, which was strewn with rocks. The day was overcast but windless. Just south of us, the imposing Choji Bridge crossed over the channel. A smattering of visitors stood along the bank looking out over the water. I wanted to speak to a group of five senior women who had wandered over to the water’s edge.
We introduced ourselves and asked the women where they were from.
“Seoul,” they replied.
“Gwangseongbo gabwasseoyo?” (“Did you have a chance to visit Gwangseong Citadel yet?”) Heju inquired.
There were puzzled looks all round. “Gwangseongbo mwuo?” (“Gwangseong what?”) one asked Heju in a perplexed and indignant tone.
“Gwangseongbo … the citadel,” Heju explained.
One shook her head and irritably announced, “Urineun daehakgyo an gasseoyo!” (“We didn’t go to that university!”).
A third interjected: “Naneun Gwangseongbo an salyayo. Seoul salyayo.” (“I don’t live in Gwangseong. I live in Seoul.”)
We tried a new tack, suggesting there had been a battle here at Choji, during which the Americans had pounded the fortification with cannon fire from the channel.
They were not familiar with it at all. “Urineun mollayo! Uriga eotteoke alayo? Uri yeogi an salyayo. Amado palsip neomeun saramdeuli museunili isseoneunji algyeoyo!” (“We wouldn’t know about that! How would we know? We don’t live here. Maybe eighty-year-old people would know what happened then!”)
Heju and I took our leave of the ladies and strolled back up the path to the fort, which had been built the same year as Gwangseongbo (1656) and had also undergone restoration work. On the path, we came across a large board displaying several black-and-white photos of American soldiers from the battle. In one photo, the soldiers were standing next to the fort, and the caption read: “On the afternoon of June 10, 1871, the U.S. ship fired cannon for two hours at the fort. The Americans reached shore but no shots were fired by the Koreans.”
Throngs of school kids streamed by with their teachers. I could hear the latter exhorting “Bali! Bali!” (“Hurry! Hurry!”)
Bali is a commonly heard word. This is an energetic, ambitious society where people want to get things done quickly. None of the classes stopped to check out the photos or read the information. The teachers simply rushed their charges along, likely to keep them on schedule.
It was not at all relaxing for us in the centre of this swirl of motion, so Heju and I retreated to the car and headed to our next destination: Mani-san (san means “mountain”), at 469 metres, is the tallest mountain in the island’s five ranges. There was a trail that led to the top, to a reportedly five-thousand-year-old stone shrine. We headed west into a swath of agricultural plains, passing a few concrete farm shacks with galvanized tin roofs, a rusting apartment building, and smatterings of small industrial units.
We parked at the base of the broad Mani Mountain and got out. A wide path led onto the mountain and into the woods, past a souvenir shop, a small restaurant, and the public toilets. It was late afternoon, and it seemed we were the only ones setting out on the trail that day; we didn’t see anyone coming down either, for that matter. We started off along the forested path, a small creek running alongside. It was very quiet and serene and the air was fresh.
After about twenty minutes we came to a small clearing where the path became narrower and steeper, though it was still quite an easy ascent. Only the sounds of chirping birds, gently rustling tree branches, and the distant barking of a dog reached us. There was a tranquility and harmony up here.
It’s not hard to understand why hiking is so popular in Korea, what with so many mountain trails available across the peninsula. But despite the beauty and peacefulness, I must admit that Korean terrain is some of the most aggravating I have ever encountered. A preponderance of steep hills and mountains cover much of the country, and even the smallest ones are often rugged and steeply sloped. An officer in the U.S. military once referred to it as “dinosaur hump country” for its up-and-down terrain.
The west coast has its plains, of course. But to navigate them means traversing around a complicated patchwork of earthen banks that separate millions of little rice paddies and countless agricultural plots. And even country roads aren’t always amenable to walking. Most don’t have shoulders, requiring sometimes trudging alongside the pavement through weeds or briar. So it is to mountain trails such as this one on Mani Mountain that hikers, particularly adults, flock on weekends.
I gravitate toward easy rolling hikes like those Bill Bryson experienced while trekking in the Lake District in England. In Notes from a Small Island, he describes mile after mile of happily wandering along winding paths through undulating green meadows and fields lined with stone fences, and on coastal paths overlooking the sea. I prefer this type of topography, as you can move briskly. But it’s a terrain you won’t find much of here on this peninsula, and lugging my 250 pounds of flesh up Mani Mountain was not really my idea of a good time.
Heju and I came to a trail sign, which informed us that Mount Mani was one of the ten best energizing places in Korea, a reference to feng shui and geomancy, the Asian philosophy espousing the belief that the Earth produces a positive energy life force.
“I feel great from the mountain’s energy — that’s why I’m not tired!” enthused Heju. She was a big believer in feng shui.
“I feel like shit,” I moaned despondently. “My thigh muscles ache.” Mani Mountain is obviously capricious about who it dispenses fortuitous feng shui to.
Ironically, Heju was in a positive frame of mind physically that day, while I was the one complaining. It was usually the other way around, with Heju lamenting about various aches, pains, ailments, and things like blood clots, stiff muscles, palpitations, and headaches, of which no doctor could find any trace. Eastern medicine doctors that she visited, however, would prescribe expensive herbs and potions, which Heju steadfastly believed would alleviate her many symptoms.
“Hurry up!” Heju urged impatiently. “We better be off the mountain by dark. I can’t see the path at night.”
We were about three-quarters of the way to the summit when we were afforded a slim view north, out over a swath of alluvial plain, into which were carved out thousands of small, orderly, rectangular plots bordered on the north by a low wooded mountain. Today’s Ganghwa was formerly four separate islands, but over time and after millions of tons of silt and mud have been washed along the Han and Imjin Rivers to the Yellow Sea, the space between the four was filled to form a singular island, thirty kilometres long and fifteen wide. Ganghwa’s narrow plains, scattered between the low mountain ranges, contain rich soil. It was an arresting view. We pushed on.
About ninety minutes after starting out, we
