Lost in Honam: Hwasun’s Hidden Shrines and Fortress Ruins

Hwasun’s Hidden Shrines and Fortress Ruins

By Isaiah Winters

In the last two issues of the Gwangju News, this column went island-hopping through Sinan County to a coastal cave and a far-flung peninsula, both located at extreme ends of their respective islands. This month, we’ll turn to the interior for a visit to Hwasun County, located just southeast of Gwangju. There we’ll visit a pair of abandoned family shrines and the ruins of a mountain fortress dating back to the Goryeo era. Contrary to the island locations, there’s nothing extreme about our Hwasun sites save my extreme oversight: I’ve known them for years but only recently discovered just how unique they really are. So, this article is a long overdue mea culpa of sorts that aims to give these two places the attention they deserve.

To reach this part of Jeollanam-do, you simply head south of Gwangju and continue down past the city of Hwasun, where eventually you’ll reach a small, riverside township by the name of Chunyang. If you’ve got a keen eye, you’ll spot a good amount of traditional architecture along the way, especially old ancestral shrines. Called sadang (사당), these shrines often look like small, traditional hanok (한옥) houses except with more detailed tilework, ornate paintings, and thick walls on all four sides. In fact, they’re more akin to micro-temples, especially when they’re decked out in the standard red-andgreen color motifs seen at temples and hermitages. Spotting these shrines along the roadside always fills me with excitement, and from my anecdotal experience, Hwasun County seems to have the most, with adjacent Naju having quite a few, too.

The two shrines featured in this article have been on my radar for at least seven years, and I drive by them from time to time to snap photos and see how they’re holding up. This month, I noticed a critical change: Someone had left the gate wide open, so I just walked right in – more like lurched, actually – as the moment I crossed the threshold, a pheasant darted from the bushes and into the air. If you’ve ever been startled by one of these birds, you’ll understand just how large, loud, and abrupt they can be. Once inside the courtyard, I was a bit disappointed to find the shrine doors locked. After peeking through tears in the doors’ paper, however, I realized that getting inside wouldn’t be a problem: One whole corner of the shrine had collapsed in the back. Thrilled by what I might find, I rounded the back and cautiously approached the massive crosshatch of loose beams teetering dangerously overhead. What I found inside floored me.

Along the shrine walls were high wooden chairs – five to the left and five to the right – each with a box resting on top. These boxes are known as sinju ( 신주) or spirit tablets, and they’re meant to contain the spirits of a family’s ancestors. Interestingly, only one chair was turned backwards to face the wall – maybe a crazy uncle put in time-out. Standing before each chair was a table-like platform, likely for holding some sort of symbolic offering, and beneath each platform was a small stool carrying a chrome incense holder. What floored me about all this was the combination of seeing spirit tablets for the first time inside a shrine I’d visited for years without ever being able to enter. It was like learning a shocking secret about someone I thought I knew well – a new detail that forever changes their image.

Equally impressive was the paintwork inside the shrine. Rather than the vivid greens and dark reds commonly seen in such buildings, the inside was almost entirely painted white, save the thickest beams holding up the walls and roof. These bore beautifully preserved paintings of chickens with technicolor tailfeathers on one side and a pair of wispy dragons – one yellow and one blue – clutching their dragon balls on the other. Given the shrine’s function as a place for performing ancestral rites to remember the dead, I’d guess using white for most of the interior has to do with mourning, as white was traditionally the color worn by Koreans in grief. I simply can’t think of any other such shrine I’ve come across that had so much white paint inside – even the highest roof beams were all painstakingly painted white.

Yet another thing about this shrine that makes it special is that it’s about a three-minute drive from a Goryeo-era mountain fortress that few ever visit. The fortress, known as Yeseongsanseong (예성산성), was built with the mountain’s unusually formidable geography in mind. Though it’s a small mountain under 400 meters, Yeseongsan is unique in that one of its peaks features a massive stone slope with a narrow, craggy valley running up the middle. It’s hard to explain this rock feature in detail without referring to female anatomy, but you’re free to use

▲ One of the dragons painted on a beam inside the ancestral shrine.

▲ Looking out at the valley from Yeseongsan. Those taking shelter in the fortress would have shared this view.

your imagination. Protected by high, narrow walls, the valley up the rockface blocks the wind and collects moisture better than the rest of the mountain, so the flora found along the valley floor is extra mossy with lots of ferns and bamboo, while the rest of the mountain is dry and dominated by trees. Every time I hike this crag in fall or winter, it feels like I’ve stepped back in time a few weeks, as if seasonal changes seen on the rest of the mountain are delayed here.

As for the fortress itself, today there’s little one can discern from its ruins, as its builders used as much of the natural topography as possible. I did, however, find an obviously manmade wall about halfway up the valley that now sits under a thick blanket of moss. Tile fragments can be found scattered around here and there, too. According to the Hwasun County website, the fortress dates to the Goryeo era and used to be about a kilometer in circumference. It was a place where grains and weapons were stored in times of peace, and during times of invasion, people living in the valley below would hike up to take refuge behind its walls, which were then manned by soldiers. During extended periods of attrition, like during the Imjin War (1592–1598), this fortress saved many lives. Then the Japanese army thought it could sustain its siege of the area long enough for provisions to run out, but the fortress at Yesongsan held firm and supplies weren’t depleted before the invaders finally withdrew.[1] It’s amazing how much history is packed into this one tiny crag.

And there you have it, dear readers. These two sites reminded me that there’s always so much more to the world than meets the eye. I hope you find similarly humbling revelations in the various recesses of your own lives. And by the way, if you’re interested in seeing the video version of this article, I encourage you to visit the Lost in Honam YouTube channel. Thank you!

Source

[1] Choi, I. (n.d.). 예성산성 [Yeseong mountain fortress]. Digital

Hwasun Culture Reference. http://hwasun.grandculture.net/ hwasun/toc/GC05600676

The Author

Born and raised in Chino, California, Isaiah Winters is a pixel-stained wretch who loves writing about Gwangju and Honam, warts and all. You can see some of his unique finds on Instagram @d.p.r.kwangju and YouTube at Lost in Honam.