A Moment of Pause: Korea’s Tea Culture

A Quiet Tradition Reborn

There’s a certain stillness that comes with tea in Korea, a silence that feels alive. It’s not about ceremony or rules, but a small, daily ritual that asks you to pause. One sip, one breath, and the noise of the world fades for a moment.

Tea 차 arrived here more than a thousand years ago, carried by monks who believed it could clear the mind. Over time, Koreans made it their own — not as a symbol of prestige, but as a way of living gently.

The word for Korea’s traditional tea ceremony, darye 다례, simply means “etiquette for tea.” But it’s less about etiquette, more about presence. A clay teapot, a wooden floor, an open window and a person who pours with quiet care. Every movement, no matter how small, carries intention.

The Slow Beauty of Korean Tea

Across the country, tea houses have quietly returned. You find them in old hanok courtyards, on misty hillsides, or tucked inside Seoul alleyways which are little spaces where time moves slowly. Some serve roasted barley tea, some flower infusions, others green leaves picked by hand that very morning.

And then there’s Jeju 제주. This island feels made for tea. The soil is volcanic, dark and porous. The air is heavy with salt and wind. The mornings are long and silver. Tea grows here the way stories do quietly, but with depth.

Jeju green tea has started making its way into the world, praised for its clean flavor and earthy aroma. But for those who’ve stood in its fields, it’s more than taste. It’s the feeling of the land itself which is steady, generous, and patient.

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Ahn Hangja at Seogwi Daewon

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Drive past the tangerine farms on Jeju’s southern edge and you’ll find a small gate with a hand-painted sign: Seogwidaewon. There’s no entrance fee, no gift shop, just rows of tea bushes swaying in the wind.

An elderly woman greets you with a smile that’s both shy and proud.

“My husband is ninety-one, and I’m eighty-six.”
“We still work the fields every day. We farm because we love it which feels like what we’re meant to do.” she says.

For decades, they grew tangerines. But after a trip to Kagoshima, Japan, they decided to plant tea instead. That was twenty-three years ago. Since then, the couple has tended their tea trees by hand — no machines, no pesticides, just time and patience.

“Our customers say they feel calm here” she tells me,
“Maybe because we do everything slowly. The tea grows the same way.”

Standing here, you can feel what she means. The farm sits high enough that you can smell both soil and sea. The wind moves softly through the leaves. Everything feels deliberate — even the silence.

Inside the small wooden teahouse, the couple pours you a cup. They hold the pot with both hands, the steam rising between them like a soft curtain. The tea tastes fresh and round, like rain and sunlight mixed together. Nothing about this place feels designed for visitors, and that’s what makes it beautiful. It’s simply their life — shared without pretense.

The Art of Stillness

At Seogwidaewon, time seems to unfold differently. Work follows the weather, not the clock. The couple doesn’t rush to harvest or sell; they wait until the leaves tell them it’s time. Watching them, you begin to understand something about Korean tea that it’s not really about what’s in the cup, but about how it’s lived.

It’s a conversation between generations, between humans and the land. Every leaf carries the patience of the people who grew it. Every sip feels like gratitude.

Travelers come here expecting to see a farm. They leave feeling like they’ve been let into a way of life, one where simplicity is not a trend, but a truth.

At Goodmate Travel, we believe the soul of Jeju isn’t found in guidebooks. Book our Jeju’s Hidden Wonders tour and step into this living legacy. Watch, learn, and share a cup of Korean tea with extraordinary people.

Come slow. Sip deeply. Because some moments are meant to be shared, not just seen.