Cheonggyesan

Two and a half years after the first time: the same mountain and — this is a tradition now — gimbap in the bag. This time I went all the way to Maebong, 582.5 metres, and raised a fist beside the stone as if I’d won something. I had: a clear September afternoon.

From the ridge the south of Seoul lies wide open. Lotte World Tower stands alone like a needle, the apartment blocks run to the horizon, and mountains ring it all. Seoul has always been a city held in a bowl of hills; it’s part of why Joseon’s founders chose it as their capital in 1394.

One week earlier it was Samseongsan and Namsan on the same Saturday. This Saturday, Cheonggyesan. The log keeps getting longer, and I keep finding more mountains in this city.

Hiking day starts in the kitchen. Seaweed on the bamboo mat, rice, a whole layer of perilla leaves, tuna, a ribbon of mayonnaise; roll, slice, pack. By the time the last roll was done it was half past ten.

Cheonggyesan sits on the southern edge of Seoul, and in early April its ridges were still bare except for the azaleas — jindallae, the flower Kim Sowol scattered at the centre of the most famous farewell in Korean poetry. Late in the afternoon I reached Maebawi, the hawk rock, at 578 metres, a hundred metres short of Maebong.

Legend says Mangyeongdae, Cheonggyesan’s highest point, takes its name from a Goryeo loyalist who climbed it to gaze toward the fallen capital at Gaegyeong. I mostly gazed at my gimbap.