Walking Jeju Island

A once-schlocky honeymoon destination reveals deep natural charms

When, many years back, I first heard Jeju Island referred to as the “Hawaii of Korea,” I’ll admit to rolling my eyes. After all, I’d been in the country long enough to know that the tourism boards won’t think twice about overhyping their local landmarks by comparing them to much more famous international attractions, with often cringe-inducing results.

My first trip to the island in 2008 did little to disabuse me of this notion; while certainly a beautiful piece of real estate, I found Jeju overdeveloped and annoyingly commercial, with hotels shaped like pirate ships erected next to teddy bear museums and “sex parks” featuring logs carved into the shape of immense phalluses. The tourist infrastructure all seemed haphazardly thrown together in a mad dash to make a buck, and while the island’s natural splendors were obviously very real, the schlock and souvenir shops took precedence over everything else.

I was also traveling with my girlfriend at the time, and she was (unsurprisingly) in charge of the itinerary, which ended up being a checklist of what most everyone else does when they go to Jeju.  

While initially underwhelmed, over the years I heard that I was missing out, that Jeju Island was so much more than a tacky honeymoon destination. With white sand beaches, azure waters, and extinct volcanoes—it actually did have things in common with Hawaii—and if you avoided the tourist traps and dove a bit deeper, you would have a much more fulfilling experience. Of course this is true of most anywhere, so I decided to give Jeju another shot.

Last February I grabbed my pack and headed back with the purpose of walking along the Jeju Olle Trail. Inspired by Spain’s Camino de Santiago, this 437-kilometer (272 miles) path circles the whole island, following coastline, winding through villages and tangerine groves, as well as up and down the little extinct volcanoes called oreum, of which Jeju boasts around 360. Combining shore roads, village lanes, dirt tracks, and forest paths, the Olle Trail was designed to highlight the island’s unique natural features, as well as give its walkers an honest look into both village and urban life. 

Despite the fact that Jeju is culturally, geologically, and linguistically distinct from the mainland, its uniqueness doesn’t present itself right away, at least in Jeju City, the island’s biggest population center. Korean urban cores tend to have a uniformity that at times makes them indistinguishable: bland apartment blocks, gray buildings, and the same CU and GS25 convenience stores on every corner.  As I followed the red and blue ribbons that marked the Olle Trail’s way through the city streets, I could have been in Seoul, Daegu, or Busan. At first glance it was just another generic Korean burg. However, as I proceeded, Jeju’s City’s particular charms began to unveil themselves.

For one thing, the city has a slightly tatty, older look; While it is home to a few of the shimmering new apartment complexes being thrown up at a fevered pace all over the country, central Jeju City possesses a working class patina that I found disarming. It’s a very approachable place where residents live in brick homes or units in four or five-storey buildings bizarrely called “villas” everywhere in Korea. And while roomy and practical, these are not very sought-after housing, as they tend to appreciate in price very slowly, if at all. 

What also sets Jeju City apart is its public folk art: a bridge spanning a stream in front of the bopping central market features stone-carved figures of topless village women supporting the railing, while a nearby alley is adorned with vivid murals featuring dancing shamans and women sending offerings into the sea. The fact that women are represented as powerful figures should come as no surprise, since they’re the backbone of Jejuin society. This is especially true of the female free-divers known as haenyeo, who—often into their 80’s—brave the cold dangers of the deep to harvest the seafood central to the local cuisine.

After climbing up and over the rise of Sarabong Park, I made my way into the eastern edge of town, where things got grittier, with blue-roofed industrial compounds churning out mysterious products, and lofty white towers near the seashore serving as refrigeration units for seafood. Still, the countryside began to bleed in: the urban clusters were now interspersed with small lots dedicated to farming, and I also spied the first tangerine trees of the trip, heavy with bright orange fruit. Jeju’s citrus fruits are legendary in Korea and were to become a welcome perk to walking this time of year.    

The main star of Jeju Island is Hallasan, the extinct volcano that is also the country’s highest point. This 1,947 meter rise (6,387 feet) dominates the landscape, and is often smothered with snow in the winter. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the majestic mountain, but my arrival in Jeju had also coincided with my least favorite thing about living in this part of the world: bad air¹. 

The island was smothered in fine dust, which cloaked Hallasan beneath a miasma of haze. I’d have to wait for things to clear up before beholding her form, so instead I chose to focus on what I actually could see, which soon took a turn for the better.

The city had dissolved into the rugged coastal and bucolic surroundings that Jeju is famous for. The path now took me along the shore, where spines of black volcanic rock stretched out into the surging surf. A crisp breeze whipped off the surface and I came across my first sculpture of a haenyeo (one of many) perched atop a massive smooth stone. Reaching out with her right arm and resplendent in fins and a snorkeling mask, she seemed to be flying above the waves. 

Jeju is an island well-acquainted with rebellion², and I learned how Jeju was instrumental in the struggle against Japanese rule when I came across a monument to the Hangil Movement, whose placid, sweeping grounds added a welcome taste of history before I headed back toward the coast.

Any comparisons the island gets to Hawaii were likely inspired by the aquamarine waters and white sands of Hamdeok Beach. Punctuated by clumps of black volcanic rock, Hamdeok is likely the island’s nicest stretch of sand, though in the years since I’d last visited, the village around had been built up into a proper tourist town, with high-rise hotels, cafes, convenience stores, and restaurants galore. Still, I couldn’t help but be taken in by white-capped waves rolling in from Jeju’s remarkably clear sea waters, along with the verdant, gentle rise of Seoubong Peak at the beach’s far end.    

The path left the beach and climbed up the little mountain. To my left a cluster of people were launching into the wind on colorful paragliders, and once I bagged the peak and came down the other side, I immediately knew that I had entered a quieter part of the walk, as buildings and roads were largely replaced with fields, rocky coastline, and trees. The trail then led inland for many hours, taking me through a thick pine forest before winding through miles of citrus orchards penned in by Jeju’s signature fences made from volcanic stone.

In the early evening I found myself fading. I was also very thirsty as I’d drunk all of my water, but luckily I came across a stack of tree limbs that had recently been pruned and stacked by the side of the little road. Best of all, they still held their fruit: hallabong, a fat satsuma orange hybrid named for the island’s iconic mountain. I helped myself to one, and was treated to a sharp explosion of flavor that was like a fireworks show in my mouth. This was the juiciest, most citrusy fruit I’d ever bitten into, and after taking two more down, I was replenished with enough fuel to finish the walk.  

It was after dark when I reached the village of Gimnyeong, the end of the course and the day’s destination. I had covered nearly 40k (25 miles) and was exhausted, as well as famished. I also had no idea where I would stay, but as I stamped my Olle Trail passport at the station at the end of the course, I noticed a lit-up sign for a guesthouse just a few feet down the road. They luckily had one more room, and, after a much-needed shower, I soon found myself chatting with a middle-aged couple, who were relaxing on the sofa while eating from a box of chicken after a long day on the trail. They were from Seoul and had walked for a few days but were heading back in the morning.

“Do you want some?” the woman, Kyeong-mi, asked. “We ordered way too much.” 

It’s almost a cultural requirement that Koreans insist on sharing food (perhaps their greatest trait), and soon I was diving into a pile of sweet, spicy, and tangy marinated fried chicken. It was another stroke of trail luck since the local restaurants were now all closed, which meant I was looking at the sad prospect of a cold meal from the town’s single convenience store. That said, I ended up visiting the store,anyway, courtesy of a lift by the guesthouse’s owner. After all, a long day on the trail calls for cold beer, though I only managed two cans before the tendrils of sleep pulled me into my soft, warm bed.

I got an early start the next day. The sun poured its honey over the sea while a sharp wind pummeled the shore. This was proper bundling up weather, but as long as it was clear and dry, I wasn’t going to complain. After growing up in the Pacific Northwest—where the coldest months are dark, dreary, drizzle fests—I immediately took to winters in Korea. Despite the punishing, frequent Siberian winds, it’s almost always sunny and bright. This also makes winter a great season to walk, as long as you have a good coat, hat, and gloves.

After meandering through the picturesque, alabaster alleys of Gimnyeong, the path followed the rugged seashore before alternating between villages and local farm plots growing carrots and white radishes. The sharp wind, barren surroundings, and ubiquitous stone fences gave the place an almost Celtic feel. In fact, in Simon Winchester’s Korea: A Walk through the Land of Miracles, he interviews an Irish priest who called Jeju home for decades. The priest says he fell in love with the island precisely because it reminded him so much of his homeland.

While inarguably picturesque, Jeju is also a place where people live and work, and the Olle Trail provides a window to the island’s day-to-day commercial side. Much of this is small-scale agriculture and, of course, fishing, though aquaculture is also widespread. During my walk I passed countless industrial-looking buildings situated near the seashore that pumped seawater in and out. I’ve seen many of these on the East Coast as well, and while I’ve never had a look inside, it’s clear they’re raising sea-creatures that end up in the grocery stores and raw fish restaurants around the country. 

Korea—and particularly Jeju—has also embraced wind power. During my first two days on the Olle Trail I passed through several wind farms, whose turbines dominated the otherwise bucolic landscape. These white towers have always looked like science fiction come to life for me, and while they do provide a kind of “clean” energy, they happen to ravage bird populations by acting as gigantic blenders in the sky. Many people also consider them eyesores, though I can’t help but be awed by both their scale and engineering. Still, each time I walk under one I’m afraid the blades are going to snap off and take me out in one bloody smear. 

Long-distance walking is an activity that some people can’t understand, since by nature it requires hours of seeming monotony. I recall arriving at a friend’s bar in the city of Pohang after making my way there on foot from Busan (a five-day trip) and not only was he incredulous, but he simply couldn’t wrap his head around why I would choose to do such a thing. Rather than being impressed, he seemed to take me for a fool. 

However, despite the hours of trudging along, I am sometimes rewarded with a moment so sublime that it reminds me why I walk. In Jeju this happened the morning of my third day. The night before had seen heavy, frigid rain, but the sky was beginning to clear up as I set off. The path took me out of the village and up a sizable, pine-blanketed oreum whose summit offered a 360-degree view of my side of the island. 

Spread out below me was a mosaic of farm fields, the turquoise sea, and in the distance, the mesa-like form of Seongsan Ilchulbong. Known in English as “Sunrise Peak,” this 180-meter (600 feet) tuff cone volcano rose out of the ocean during an eruption 5,000 years ago, and is one of Jeju’s most iconic formations.

The night’s rain had cleared the air of dust, and I could taste salt and kelp on the wind, mixed in with the sweet smell of pine. The bruised, lingering clouds swirled and slipped across the sky until there was finally an opening for the sun: in an instant it blasted down onto the water in incandescent slats, transforming the surface into a tapestry of diamonds.

And when I turned and gazed across the orange groves and wind farms on the other side, my eyes locked onto the sight I had been anticipating since my arrival on the island. Hallasan had finally appeared, her stoney crown looming above us all like a snow-capped sentinel. As I took it all in I was possessed with the impulse to get it on video, before realizing that such moments cannot be adequately recorded on a phone. In the end I had to be satisfied with a few pics that, as I suspected when I snapped them, still failed to capture the real wonder at hand. 

That night I got a room at a guesthouse in the town at the base of Seongsan Ilchulbong, which had been a sleepy village during my first visit some fourteen years back. My ex and I had actually climbed to the top of the peak one morning, which was pretty much the only real physical exertion of the trip. I choose to skip it this time, in favor of getting as much of the Olle Trail done as possible.

An icy, wicked wind lashed the town before sunset, and I soon found myself tucked away in a wine bar, of all places. It had been a long day and I was craving a drink and for a change, cold beer wasn’t going to do the trick. The fact that this one time fishing village could now support a bourgie wine bar tells you everything you need to know about the gentrification of Jeju. Mainland money has moved in, resulting in chic cafes and boutique hotels in even the most podunk of villages. The owner of this place was from Busan, and by the look of the spanky Benz he drove, wasn’t hurting for cash.

Still, the place was nice and the staff very friendly, and after a couple of glasses I was chatting with people on both sides of me, in Korean, which—while comfortable and familiar to a certain level—still takes a bit of work. So when a Western guy sat down a few chairs down and addressed the staff in English, my curiosity was immediately piqued. Before long we were talking across two small groups of Koreans, until I eventually joined him.

His name was Ryan, and he was from California. He lived in Jeju and taught at one of the international schools based on the island, and spent his free time driving his little van to prime spots to surf, hike, cycle, and rock climb. He was an outdoors fitness freak and was smitten with the place, describing it as a kind of paradise for anyone looking to physically engage with nature. And like me, he was walking the Olle Trail, doing it in chunks over weekends and days off.      

He became my walking buddy for the next couple days, as we tackled the circuit on nearby Udo Island, as well as a couple of coastal courses leading to my final destination of the southern city of Seogwipo. While I certainly enjoy walking alone and the meditative state it brings on, it’s also great having company, and Ryan was not only a great walker (he was in marathon shape), but also a decent conversationalist, eventually opening up about his life abroad.

Like me, he’d been here for over a decade, but unlike me, he was in the midst of a divorce. He also had a very young daughter, which complicated the situation.

“My wife gave me an ultimatum,” he said. “Move back home to California to ‘settle down,’ or… hasta la vista. I chose to stay.”

Expat life can be intoxicating—and endless vacation of sorts—especially if you have a plum job and are really down with your surroundings. Ryan was clearly in love with Jeju and the lifestyle it offered him. I get it. During my first year in Korea I used to have nightmares about going home, and still can’t imagine any kind of life for me back in the U.S.. Luckily I married a woman who has no desire to live there as well, but things worked out differently for Ryan.

Jeju’s two actual cities sit diametrically opposed on the north and southern coasts of the island, and Seogwipo, the slightly smaller of the two, is also slightly more charming, with buzzing side streets, cool cafes, galleries, and a central market with a street food plaza serving up cuisine from around the world, along with quality craft beers on tap. My kind of place. Like Jeju City, it also has a dated feel. The grungy streets feature forlorn karaoke bars, plenty of musty “love motels,” and old-school coffee shops called dabang that serve only sweet instant brew, though the middle-aged women that staff them are said to offer, ahem, other services, if you’re willing to pay.

I went to Seogwipo early because of a nasty rainstorm that forced Ryan and me to call an early end to our third day on the trail; he headed back to his van to drive home, and I caught the first bus into town, where I hunkered down in a business hotel before finishing the two courses left on my itinerary the next day, in reverse order. In six days of walking I had completed about half of the Olle Trail, while more importantly seeing what Jeju honestly had to offer. It was a terrific walk that featured both urban and rural highlights, while never far from the enchanting power of the sea. 

After a day spent retracing my route via local bus³ and stopping off to get a couple passport stamps I’d missed, I found myself back in Jeju City. For dinner I sought out a hole-in-the-wall restaurant I’d stumbled on my first night in town. Rather than specializing in seafood or black pig like most every other joint on the island, this place just served up good old-fashioned gamjatang, the spicy and ultra-savory pork spine soup that is also the national hangover cure.

This restaurant was pure spit and sawdust and absolutely slammed, with groups of people waiting outside for a table. Since I was rolling solo, I got seated at one of the two tops, and soon found myself lost in the deep porky goodness that is gamjatang ⁴. The woman who served me was no-bullshit tough, but cracked me a sly smile when I ordered a bottle of Hallasan soju to wash down my meal. This island hooch is known for packing a punch, and after downing one, I decided to celebrate the end of my walk by drinking another.

A lady at the table of four across from me—red-faced and beaming—flashed me a thumbs up and informed me that I “must have become a Korean,” a common compliment proffered to foreigners really getting down with local food and drink.

“I just love this food… and Hallasan soju,” I told her, draining my little shot glass. “It’s tough to find in Busan, where I live.”

“Then buy a few more bottles!” she howled. “Take them with you! It will be something to remember Jeju by.”

At this point the firewater was going to my head, and I almost acted on her directive before realizing that I’d be back soon enough to finish the other half of the Olle-gil. After all, it was only a 45 minute flight. In the meantime, Hallasan—both the soju and the mountain—wouldn’t be going anywhere.   

(Originally published in 2023 as a guest post at Chris Arnade Walks the World.)

1. I’d noticed it as we landed the day before—a puke brown blanket smothering the island and the ocean around it—as far as the eye could see. While at times pristine, the air in South Korea can also be dreadful, especially in the winter and spring. Locals like to point to nearby China, whose smoke-belching factories and Gobi desert sands certainly contribute to the problem, but recent analyses have determined that South Korea itself is responsible for perhaps half of the smog and dust. Much of the country’s electrical grid—and subsequent industrial output—is still powered by coal plants. This fact, plus the existence of a gargantuan, perpetually-polluting neighbor, makes for a cocktail of nasty air when wind and atmospheric conditions aren’t on your side. 

2. Separated from the Korean peninsula by 83 kilometers (51 miles) of open sea, the people of Jeju haven’t been easily tamed. The most recent troubles date back to 1948, when up to 30,000 were massacred during an uprising against the military government of the time. The Hangil Movement kicked off in 1918, when more than 400 Jeju citizens—including a lot of very pissed off Buddhist monks—attacked and set fire to a Japanese colonial administration building. This was the largest act of anti-Japanese resistance until the March 1st movement swept the country one year later, a fact that Jejuites are very proud of.

3. South Korea’s transportation system is world-class, even outside the major cities. Almost any town or village deep in the countryside will boast some kind of bus service. Jeju Island has local buses running along the coast between Jeju City and Seogwipo that come with amazing frequency. While many visitors rent cars when visiting the island, it’s very possible to get around just on public transport.

4. Gamjatang is just one variety of haejang-guk, Korea’s hangover soup. While gamja means “potato” in Korea, the soup is actually named for the cut of pork used—though these days most restaurants will chuck in a few slices of spud for good measure. Other varieties of haejang-guk employ bean sprouts, beef bones, and huge chunks of congealed cow blood called seonji.