My Korean Summer - Jennifer Barclay

We passed through a gate, and halfway up a forested mountain arrived at the monastery under darkening skies. Imposing buildings in traditional style rose from the hillside at intervals: long, black-tiled roofs, the eaves painted in delicate pinks and greens, decorated with flower and animal carvings; sturdy red wooden pillars, delicate trellised doors with paper windows.

We stopped and the monk disappeared into one of the halls, asking me to wait.

I watched the mist rise from the trees. I couldn’t help thinking he was going to emerge embarrassed, having discovered I had no invitation, no right to be here.

Instead, he invited me in and asked if I wanted to eat. When I said I wasn’t hungry, a boy of about twelve gave me an umbrella and two monks led me across the sandy courtyard, skirting puddles, past a stone pagoda and towards the Hall of the White Lotus.

Sliding wooden doors were drawn open on a bright, bare room. I left my shoes outside as was customary and from behind more sliding doors the monks brought out pretty, satin quilts and a pink, seed-filled pillow, and I was left alone with a bow and a smile.

Incredulous, I spent the evening sequestered in that perfect, simple space, listening to thunder in the hills and the ceaseless splashing and crashing of the rain as it poured off the eaves. Opening my wood-and-paper shutters, which were held back by carved wooden turtles, I looked out into the semi-dark and smelled the fresh air. Lightning floodlit the courtyard from time to time, revealing gnarled trees and, sheltered by a wooden pavilion, a giant iron bell and a hanging log in the shape of a fish.