Graham Reid: Good Korea moves

The middle-aged man appeared upset I had woken him at the unacceptably early hour of noon. But I guess that's the kind of inconvenience he had to expect if he runs a yogwan, one of the cheap travellers' inns in South Korea, which are easily identifiable by the sign which is like a U with three wiggly lines coming out the top.

I had seen his sign - which represents a bath - as I wandered the streets of Kyongju, a city of about 300,000 near the east coast.

The man grumbled and blinked in the light, then led me past his hammock slung across the small kitchen and down to a tidy room at the back.

By the time I had unpacked a few things for a day in this historic city he was in a better mood, and so we shared tea on the steps and he told me how to get to see the famous 8th-century Buddha at Sokkuram Grotto in the mountains, undiscovered until the early 20th century.

Kyongju - and the nearby Pulguksa temple below the grotto - are in the most pretty and historic part of the country.

Kyongju was the capital during the Shilla dynasty until about 1000 years ago and dates back to the century before Christ.

It had been a single photograph that had made me want to come to this region I knew nothing about - an exceptional painting of a Buddha on a wall at Pulguksa.

At the bus station in Kyongju a young student had pointed out for me the way to Tumuli Park where the Shilla tombs were - silent mounds in manicured gardens with trim walkways snaking between them - and also where I might find a yogwan, which was my priority.

The man at the yogwan, fortified by his tea, suddenly became very animated and was keen to show me to his brother's shop which sold the best arts and crafts in town, apparently, and also to guide me to an exceptionally fine restaurant which I took to be owned by another family member.

I would get a good bargain in each, he said, and wrote something on a card for me to show.

I assured him that after seeing Tumuli Park I would go shopping and eating, and headed off.

He waved me a furious farewell until I rounded the distant corner.

Tumuli Park is a huge walled area containing about two dozen tombs, one of them internally opened in cross-section to reveal display cases of ancient armour and weapons, jewels, pottery and other material belonging to the 5th century king who is buried here.

The park is restful, but it was the Buddha in the hills that brought me here, so after wandering back through town I had a meal in the recommended restaurant (if a discount applied I hardly noticed it) and then a long bath in the yogwan.

The following morning I tiptoed past my sleeping host, caught the bus to Pulguksa and spent a cool autumn morning under bright paper lanterns strung between the multicoloured temple buildings which stagger their way up the hill on a series of stone terraces cut into the surrounding forest.

Pulguksa, one of the great sights of the world and largely untrammelled by tourism in any season other than summer, is a place to sit and have your breath taken away by the sheer beauty of the architecture and the Buddhist art. Dizzyingly colourful images of the Buddha and various bodhisattvas line the walls. Beams and arches shimmer with yellows and blues. In the gardens are huge statues or small piles of stones built by the faithful.

I found the Buddha from the photograph which drew me here. Words fail.

Carpentry is art here and buildings are constructed without nails. Massive beams interlock in a dozen places and support rooms the size of small palaces.

Most of my day was spent in wonder, and then I took the bus up the mountain to Sokkuram Grotto to see the enormous seated Buddha who gazes out to the Eastern Sea in the distance.

The air is chill here and in some places crisp residue of snow lies in the shadows.

The Buddha, now restored after centuries of neglect and behind glass, breathed a mysterious quiet on this chilly day. There was no one else here other than a young monk who smiled briefly then went off to light incense in a nearby temple.

The silence enveloped me.

Everything here takes on a different kind of scale. The Buddha is ancient, the traditions older, the mountains even more so. We are so high that the mountain range between here and the sea - only vaguely discernible, perhaps it's that line of light blue - seems to fold like so much brown paper sprinkle in autumn greens and golden reds.

I spent the day doing nothing but looking, thinking and sitting.

That afternoon I took the bus back down the mountain, connected to Kyongju and made my way back to my yogwan.

I wanted to assure my host that tomorrow before I leave for Seoul I would buy some carvings from the shop he recommended. But it was dusk and he was asleep in his hammock. Again.