Walking through Daereungwon Tomb Complex, in the heart of Gyeongju, feels like entering a landscape suspended between history and nature. Enormous grassy mounds rise gently from the ground, their perfectly rounded silhouettes resembling small green hills. There are no imposing monuments, marble statues or elaborate inscriptions celebrating the dead. Instead, the ancient kings and aristocrats of the Silla dynasty rest beneath layers of earth, surrounded by trees, walking paths and the quiet rhythms of a modern Korean city.

The Silla kingdom ruled southeastern Korea for nearly a thousand years, from 57 BCE to 935 CE, eventually unifying much of the Korean Peninsula in the seventh century. Gyeongju, its capital, became one of East Asia’s great cultural and political centres, a prosperous city connected through trade and diplomacy to China and the wider Asian world. Beneath these apparently simple hills, archaeologists have discovered extraordinary treasures: gold crowns, elaborate jewellery, ceremonial weapons and objects revealing the wealth and sophistication of Silla’s ruling elite.

One of the most remarkable discoveries came from the Cheonmachong Tomb, the Heavenly Horse Tomb, excavated in 1973. Its burial chamber contained thousands of artefacts, including a magnificent golden crown and a painted birch-bark saddle flap depicting a white horse. Such discoveries transformed our understanding of a civilization whose political power disappeared more than a millennium ago, but whose cultural influence remains deeply embedded in Korean identity.

What makes Gyeongju particularly fascinating is the absence of any clear separation between its ancient past and contemporary life. The tombs are not isolated in a distant archaeological park. They occupy the very centre of the city, where families stroll, young couples take photographs and elderly residents walk beneath trees that have grown around centuries of history. The former capital of a powerful kingdom has become a peaceful provincial city, yet its ancient rulers remain physically present in the landscape.

Perhaps this is the most striking impression Gyeongju leaves behind. Civilizations rise, accumulate wealth, build political power and eventually disappear. What survives is not necessarily their grandeur, but the quieter traces they leave in the places where ordinary life continues. In Gyeongju, history does not stand above the city. It lies beneath the grass.

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It has been more than fifty years since I began traveling across the world — and the seven seas — for work or for pleasure, always with a Leica M camera close at hand. The camera has never been an accessory; it has been a constant companion, a way of observing, remembering, and making sense of the places and people I encountered along the way. I started keeping this kind of journal some time ago, not as a diary in the traditional sense, but as a space where images and words could meet. This is not a publication driven by schedules or algorithms. At times I disappear for long stretches; then, inevitably, I return with semi-regular updates. Publishing, for me, is a mirror of my state of mind and emotions. It follows my rhythm, not the other way around. You have to take it exactly as it comes. Every photograph you see here is mine. They are fragments of a life spent moving, looking, and waiting for moments to reveal themselves — often quietly, sometimes unexpectedly. This blog is not about destinations, but about presence. About what remains when the journey slows down and the shutter finally clicks.

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