Busan: Where Ancient Temples Meet Urban Cool

Haedong Yonggungsa Temple

Most Korean temples seek the quiet of mountain peaks. Haedong Yonggungsa chose the ocean instead. Built in 1376 during the Goryeo Dynasty, this temple clings to the cliffs where land surrenders to the East Sea – a stunning marriage of human devotion and natural grandeur. I walked the approach at sunrise, descending those 108 stone steps (each one representing an affliction of the human heart in Buddhist teaching), past twelve golden statues of the zodiac animals, past weathered stone lanterns that have marked this path for six centuries.

Then the temple itself emerged: red-columned pavilions perched impossibly on the rocks, waves exploding against the foundations below, the great golden Buddha serene above it all, facing the endless water. The Japanese destroyed this temple during their occupation, but it has been meticulously rebuilt – not as a museum, but as a living place of worship. Monks in gray robes moved through morning prayers, their chanting barely audible above the thunder of surf.

The sunrise here has earned its legend. If your ship's schedule permits an early start, make the effort – watching first light gild these ancient pagodas while waves crash below is a gift I'll carry always. Even midday, when tourist buses arrive and the grounds fill with visitors, the power of this place holds. The ocean doesn't care about crowds. The temple knows its purpose.

Allow ninety minutes minimum, longer if you want to wander the coastal paths that wind along the cliffs. Getting here takes about forty minutes by taxi from the cruise terminal, or you can combine public transport (bus 181) with a short scenic walk. Many organized cruise excursions include this stop – sometimes paired with Gamcheon Village for a full day of Busan's highlights.

Gamcheon Culture Village

They call it the "Machu Picchu of Busan," and while the nickname oversells the scale, I understand the impulse. Gamcheon Village cascades down the hillside in a riot of color – houses painted every shade of sky and sea and sunset, connected by steep alleyways that twist and climb and reveal new vistas at every turn. What moves me most isn't the Instagram-worthiness (though yes, it's spectacularly photogenic), but the story beneath the paint.

This neighborhood began as a desperate refuge. When the Korean War tore the peninsula apart in the 1950s, people fleeing the North built improvised shelters on this steep, unwanted hillside. For decades, Gamcheon remained a poor, overlooked corner of the city – the kind of place that tourist maps didn't bother marking. Then, starting in 2009, something remarkable happened. Through community art projects and government initiatives, residents and artists began transforming the neighborhood. Murals appeared on concrete walls. Quirky sculptures popped up in tiny plazas. Houses received coats of exuberant color. Abandoned spaces became galleries and cafes.

Today, Gamcheon thrives as a living art installation, but here's what matters: people still live here. These aren't movie-set facades – they're homes. Walking the narrow alleys, collecting stamps for the village passport, hunting for the Little Prince statue that overlooks the rooftops, I felt the tension between preservation and tourism, between a working neighborhood and an attraction. Local shops sell handmade crafts. Small cafes offer stunning views. Elderly residents watch the daily parade of visitors with expressions that mix pride and weariness.

Budget two to three hours to explore properly. The village rewards slow wandering. Take the stairs (there are many), lose yourself in the alleyways, and remember you're walking through someone's neighborhood. Keep voices down. Don't climb on private property for photos. The transformation of Gamcheon from refugee settlement to cultural landmark is a story of resilience and creativity – honor it with respectful curiosity.

Jagalchi Fish Market & Food

If you want to understand Busan's soul, come to Jagalchi. Korea's largest seafood market has sprawled along this waterfront since the Korean War era, when women vendors – the ajummas who still dominate the trade – began selling the daily catch from makeshift stalls. Today it's a modern seven-story complex surrounded by outdoor vendors, but the energy remains gloriously unchanged: loud, pungent, alive with the rhythms of the sea.

I wandered the ground floor, overwhelmed by tanks of octopus unfurling their arms, sea squirts pulsing like alien creatures, abalone clinging to glass, fish I'd never seen and couldn't name. The vendors – weathered women in rubber aprons – called out prices, wielded knives with casual expertise, and offered samples with gap-toothed grins. The system is beautifully simple: point at what you want, they'll weigh it and name a price, then prepare it on the spot. Often it's still moving when they hand it to you.

I confess I tried the sannakji – live octopus, a Busan specialty that arrives as chopped tentacles still writhing on the plate. The vendor demonstrated: grab a piece with chopsticks, chew thoroughly (the suction cups can stick to your throat – this isn't a joke), swallow quickly. It's less about flavor than experience – the sensation of something actively resisting being eaten, the briny freshness, the bragging rights. If raw, moving seafood doesn't appeal, the upper floors offer cooked options, and they're exceptional.

Jagalchi Market stands as an iconic symbol of Busan's fishing heritage, a living link to the city's identity as Korea's maritime heart. But beyond the market, Busan's street food scene deserves its own pilgrimage. Hunt down hotteok – sweet, chewy pancakes – and especially ssiat hotteok, the seed-filled version that's unique to Busan. Try tteokbokki (spicy rice cakes that glow nuclear orange and taste like heaven). Sample Korean fried chicken in its dozens of variations. Around BIFF Square near Nampo-dong, food stalls proliferate like a delicious fever dream. Come hungry. Come ready to point and nod and trust.

Beomeosa Temple: Mountain Sanctuary

Where Haedong Yonggungsa chose the drama of oceanside cliffs, Beomeosa Temple embraced the ancient tradition: sanctuary in the mountains. Founded in 678 AD during the Silla Dynasty – when Buddhism was spreading across the Korean peninsula like wildflowers after rain – this temple has clung to the slopes of Geumjeongsan Mountain for nearly fourteen centuries. It's one of Korea's major Buddhist centers, and stepping through its gates feels like crossing into another era entirely.

I took the local bus from the city (number 90 from Seomyeon station), watching Busan's urban sprawl gradually surrender to forest as we climbed. The temple sits nestled in a valley thick with ancient trees, reached by a path that follows a mountain stream. Unlike Haedong Yonggungsa with its ocean views and tourist buses, Beomeosa maintains a quieter presence. This is a working monastery where monks study and pray, where the rhythms of temple life continue as they have for over a millennium.

The main hall, Daeungjeon, showcases classical Korean temple architecture – sweeping tile roofs with upturned eaves, brilliant paintwork in traditional dancheong colors (the blues and greens and reds that ward off evil spirits), weathered wooden pillars that have supported these prayers for centuries. I arrived during afternoon chanting, and sat outside the hall listening to voices that seemed to rise from the earth itself, resonating in the mountain valley. No words, just the sound of human devotion meeting the silence of stone and timber.

If you have time beyond the "must-see" coastal highlights, consider Beomeosa. It's perhaps an hour from the cruise terminal, and the temple grounds reward unhurried exploration. Walk the trails behind the complex – they lead up into Geumjeongsan's forests, past smaller shrines and meditation hermitages. The contrast with Haedong Yonggungsa fascinates me: one temple shouts with waves and wind, the other whispers with leaves and bells. Together they show the range of Korean Buddhist practice, the different ways humans have sought the divine in this landscape.

Haeundae Beach & Modern Busan

For all its temples and markets, Busan is thoroughly, vibrantly modern. Haeundae Beach stretches white-sanded and gorgeous, backed by a forest of high-rise hotels and apartments that lights up like a constellation at night. In summer, the beach fills with Korean families and couples, umbrellas packed so dense you can barely see the sand. Even in cooler months, the beachfront promenade draws walkers and joggers, and the surrounding district pulses with shopping, dining, and nightlife.

This is where you'll find Busan's contemporary face: sleek department stores, K-pop blasting from fashion boutiques, coffee shops on every corner (Koreans take their coffee seriously), and seafood restaurants serving both traditional preparations and modern fusion. The Busan Cinema Center – a stunning architectural achievement with the world's longest cantilever roof – hosts the annual film festival and stands as a symbol of the city's cultural ambitions.

I mention Haeundae not because it's essential for a day-visit cruiser (your time is probably better spent at temples and markets), but because it rounds out the picture. Busan isn't preserved in amber. It's a living, growing metropolis of 3.4 million people, Korea's second-largest city, a place where centuries-old Buddhist practice coexists with beach culture and K-pop and international film festivals. That complexity, that refusal to be just one thing, is what makes Busan unforgettable.

Port Map

Tap markers to explore Busan's highlights