The summer of 2025 in East Asia was long, relentless, and heavy —
the kind that clings to your skin and fills the air with stillness.
I had forgotten how fierce an East Asian summer could be.
This year, for the first time in a long while,
I had almost lived through all four seasons — January to now, mid September.
To mark the slow turning of the year,
I left for a short trip north — to 철원(Cheorwon),
a place where the landscape begins to quiet itself
and time feels slightly out of step.
After an hour and a half on the road,
I arrived at the 한탄강(Hantan River),
a UNESCO Global Geopark where ancient basalt cliffs
rise in rhythmic columns — the columnar joints
that tell stories of fire and cooling,
of time measured not by clocks,
but by the slow breath of the real earth itself.
The walk from Sundam to Deureuni
Even for someone born here,
the names 순담(Sundam) and 드르니(Deureuni) sound unfamiliar like something half-remembered from a childhood book.
The trail runs for about 3.6 kilometers,
hugging the Hantan River’s curve between these two quiet places.
Decks cling to the cliff walls,
suspended above water that moves with patience.
From above, the river looks still,
but when the light hits just right,
you can see the faint current —
a reminder that everything, even stillness, is moving.
A bowl of noodles and a pause in time
Along the way, such a beautiful view, indeed, rice fields leaned heavy with grain.
The colour of late summer — pale gold, they were almost ready.
Soon the farmers will come!
(I bought a small bottle of perilla oil and fresh rice before heading back —
souvenirs of a season nearing its end.)
By the time I reached Deureuni,
the afternoon heat had begun to fold.
I found a place called 드르니 국수(Deureuni Guksu), located near Durumi Bridge (see photo above).
It wasn’t much — quite a nice, simple interior,
a quiet hum from the kitchen.
I ordered the 명란 들기름국수(myeongran deulgireum guksu) —
cold buckwheat noodles tossed in perilla oil and salted pollack roe.
Clean, very fragrant, and deeply comforting.
The kind of simplicity that leaves nothing to hide behind.
It cost around only 12,000 won —
and somehow, that small bowl felt like the most honest meal of the trip.
The way back
From Deureuni, we took a taxi back to Sundam —
a short ride, maybe 5 or 6 pounds by fare.
Outside the window,
the fields stretched wide and silent,
the river catching the light in thin silver threads.
It was one of those rare afternoons
where time seems to loosen its grip.
Nothing grand happened —
only the quiet act of walking, eating, returning.
But probably that’s what travel is meant to be:
not escape, but attention.
A way of noticing.
A way of being, briefly,
exactly where you are.