I am temporarily back in Italy, away from my tea and teaware. On the upside, I have been able to visit a dear friend and mentor in tea: Nicoletta Tul, owner of La finestra sul tè in Padua — once under the rule of the Republic of Venice, and the setting of The Taming of the Shrew — and to share in her most recent arrivals from Táiwān and South Korea. The Korean parcel, in particular, was an especially compelling and lively cluster of teas from Cho Yun-seok 조윤석 of Jukrocha 죽로차, in Hwagae-myeon 화개면, Hadong-gun 하동군. Sold under the familiar labels woojeon 우전, sejak 세작, and jungjak 중작, they were in fact harvested within barely a week of one another, beginning on 5 April 2021. In other words, rather than three neatly separated “flushes”, they read more like a tightly spaced sequence of plucks — variations on a single spring moment, tracked day by day as the leaves and weather shifted.

Among these three exquisite green Korean classics, a more enigmatic gem from the same maker also found its way to me: a balhyocha 발효차, harvested in that same spring. Soon after receiving this treasure, I realised I still had a few grams left of a possibly even more special 2018 balhyocha from the same terroir, acquired from Nicoletta two years earlier, and aged for a year in cool storage inside cedar-wood crates. Hence I decided to compare the two. I shall attempt to recount the experience.

Hwagae-myeon 화개면 is the northernmost administrative division of Hadong-gun 하동군. «Surrounded by Jiri Mountain (Jirisan 지리산), the total area of Hwagae-myeon is composed of mountainous regions 100~1,000 m high».¹ Environmental conditions in this area are close to ideal for tea growth: relative humidity tends to hover around 90% (often higher) throughout the year, temperatures range from -4.4 to 32.7 °C with an annual mean of 14.3 °C, annual precipitation is about 1,711 mm, and the average soil pH is roughly 4.6 to 4.8.¹ No wonder this is the oldest and largest tea-producing area in South Korea.

In 2017 the Hadong County Administrative Office submitted the «Traditional Hadong Tea Agrosystem in Hwagae-myeon» to the FAO’s Globally Important Agricultural Heritage Systems (GIAHS) programme, and the site was designated in 2017.¹ Their proposal is a rich source of information on the variables that make these teas so distinctive:

«Thanks to its particularly favourable environment to grow tea plants, Hwagae-myeon alone produces 20% of the nation’s total tea production. As it is a mountainous region, tea fields are located 220 m above sea level on slopes of 10-40˚ facing south in the silty loam of pH 4.6 acidity and low clay composition. Moreover, the cold wind in winter is blocked by Jiri Mountain and its steep mountain pass while the warm wind blows in from Seomjin River [섬진강] and the South Sea, resulting in less frost and early budding of tea leaves. The daily temperature range is quite big at 15.4°C and the abundant water of Seomjin River and Hwagae Stream [화개천] provide a long period of foggy days. The wet fog formed along the Hwagae Stream flowing from north to south cools the heat of the earth and keep the soil moist, providing the optimal condition to grow tea. Moreover, bamboo and other plants growing along with tea plants control sunlight exposure and contribute to the production of high-quality tea. Recognizing such climatic conditions, the residents of Hwagae cultivate and manage tea through natural agricultural methods that do not harm the ecosystem. As a result, the tea fields around Hwagae Stream and the foot of the mountain exist in harmony with the surrounding natural environment, maintaining excellent biodiversity.»¹

«It is a nature friendly agricultural system and manages the land with minimum human intervention in symbiosis with nature. Instead of using artificial fertilizers to manage the soil and tea trees, residents of Hwagae used pulbibae [풀비배], the region’s traditional natural compost made of the by products from the adjacent oak forests and the branches and old leaves gained during gaengsin [갱신] (the region’s unique pruning process) in fall. Furthermore, they also prevented the damage to the tea leaves from harmful insects by maintaining the weeds on the lower part of the tea tree without cutting them. In traditional tea fields in particular, various kinds of fruit trees (chestnut trees, apricot trees, etc.) and forest products are grown along with the tea trees. They helped to control the sunlight and maintain the soil’s composition and fertile ground. This contributes to the production of traditional tea leaves with various tastes in even a single field.»¹

«Traditional tea fields serve as an ecological axis which connects the habitats of various animals and plants living in or around Jiri Mountain, both as an accommodator and supplier of the species. Traditional tea fields of Hwagae-myeon is different from that of China and Japan. Tea fields together with other trees, crops and plants consist of a colony of lush vegetation carpeting over rocks on the rocky slopes. Its diversity is so evident in the different scenery the system offers every season. The locals cultivate other crops in traditional tea fields as well as another important means of living for the residents and contributing to enhancing agrobiodiversity of the system.»¹

The fertile terroir of Jirisan 지리산 made this region one of the earliest centres of tea cultivation in Korea. Ssanggyesa 쌍계사 temple, founded in 722, stands at the heart of these traditions; tea trees were planted in its vicinity, and the story is often told in terms of seeds or cuttings brought from China. Because of this, «Hwagae has Korea’s oldest tea tree as well as the First Tea Farm».¹ Given that much South Korean tea today is made from plants closely related to the Japanese Yabukita やぶきた cultivar — as well as some Japanese zairai 在来 material imported relatively recently — it is easy to realise that the genetics of Hadong’s wild tea trees, of older Chinese origin, are a distinctive feature within the country.^{5, 6} A few different versions of the “arrival story” of tea in the Korean peninsula also circulate.

«In the December of the third year of King Heungdeok’s reign (828 AD), an envoy was sent to the Tang Dynasty China to offer tributes. Emperor Wenzong of Tang received the envoy in the Royal Hall and held a banquet, granting the envoys with royal gifts according to their ranks. Kim Dae-ryeom, the envoy to Tang, came back with tea seeds, which the king ordered to plant near Jiri Mountain. Tea was present in our country since the day of Queen Seondeok, the 27th monarch or Silla, but this is when it truly became prevalent.»¹

«According to tradition, the tea plant was introduced from China into Korea during the Kaya Dynasty by Empress Heo in 48 A.D. but there is not sufficient historical evidence to support this. According to Korean historical records, Daryum, who was an envoy of the Silla Dynasty, introduced tea seeds from China to Sankuksaki in 828 A.D. The king of Hungduk ordered the cultivation of the seeds on Mt. Jiri. However, historical records indicate the use of tea in Silla long before 828 A.D. Tea culture saw prosperity in the early era of the Silla (57 B.C. — 935 A.D.) and the Goryeo (918 — 1392) Dynasties. Entering the Joseon Dynasty (1392 — 1910), it was oppressed by the policy of anti-Buddhism and pro-Confucianism. However, it has survived even though it has encountered many difficulties such as excessive tea taxation, lack of interest from the court or the government, severe cold, tea-goods scandals and competition from the alcohol and coffee industries. The Korean tea culture also survived during the Japanese imperialist rule (1910 — 1945) and the National Liberation and the events thereafter.»⁷

Much has also been written on the question of what Korean hwangcha 황차 / balhyocha 발효차 are, and about their tendency to resist neat classification within modern Chinese categories. For example, from the point of view of fermentation/oxidation/enzymatic browning — that is, “balhyo 발효” — one common framing is:

«Korean tea producers typically ferment their ‘hwangcha’ balhyochas between 50% and 85%. However, you will find Korean balhyocha’s fermented at all percentages between 15% to 100% depending on the producer. »³

Balhyocha can also be classified as a bubun-balhyocha 부분발효차, partially fermented tea, when oxidation is minimal; as a ban-balhyocha 반발효차, semi-fermented tea, when oxidation is around 60%; and, finally, as a wanjeon-balhyocha 완전발효차, “perfectly” fermented tea, when oxidation approaches that of red teas (around 85% and above).³

The production of Korean hwangcha 황차 was made famous during the Joseon dynasty 대조선국 • 大朝鮮國 by the scholar Jeong Yakyong 정약용 • 丁若鏞 (1762—1836), often simply known as “Dasan” 茶山, the mountain of tea. Nokcha 녹차, green tea (also bulbalhyocha 불발효차, non-fermented tea), being the most renowned and sought-after Korean style, for centuries balhyocha was largely made and consumed at home by tea-producing families, often for medicinal purposes.⁴

Unable, for the moment, to reproduce my usual water recipes, I brewed these two Korean teas with the perfectly balanced original Sant’Anna.

The first balhyocha I taste here was harvested on 20 April 2021, around the sejak 세작 window, from wild bushes in Hwagae-myeon 화개면, Hadong-gun 하동군, Gyeongsangnam-do 경상남도, South Korea. The picking standard follows jakseolcha 작설차 (雀舌茶): one bud and two leaves. This already suggests an intended style: not simply “more oxidised”, but more articulated — built from tender material whose fragrances are easy to draw out, and just as easy to flatten if the process is pushed without finesse.

As Nicoletta Tul noted at the Nomad Tea Festival⁴, there is no single, universally standardised protocol for balhyocha; makers steer it in response to leaf feel, weather, and — above all — the trajectory of moisture loss and return. She places this kind of balhyocha in a broad band (roughly 60 — 65% up to 85% oxidation), between many wūlóng 烏龍/乌龙 families and hóngchá 紅茶/红茶, red tea. What matters, though, is not an abstract percentage so much as how oxidation is guided: the choreography of water movement, pressure, resting, and heat.

Here, that choreography begins with a full first night of indoor withering, a long, quiet stage of wēidiāo 萎凋, withering, in which the leaf slowly loses water, softens, and becomes chemically “available”. In the morning the leaves are moved outdoors to continue withering, and — if weather and remaining moisture demand it — may return indoors for a third, corrective wither. This emphasis on staged wither is not merely preparatory. It is already flavour-making, because time and gradual dehydration change what later rolling can express. In Chinese craft language, this primacy of moisture management is often framed as zǒushuǐ 走水, moving the water: letting moisture migrate, exit, and re-balance through the leaf so that subsequent bruising and oxidation do not develop as a blunt, uninterrupted slide into brownness.

Once pliable, the leaves are shaped by rolling. The first rolling uses soft, circular pressure, only a touch firmer than many green-tea rolls; after enough sap has surfaced, the leaf is left to rest so that enzymatic oxidation can proceed in a controlled way. A second rolling follows with stronger pressure, still short of the heaviest working associated with fully oxidised hóngchá. The striking feature is the pulse of the method: work the leaf, then rest it; work it again, then rest it again. That pulse points directly towards the Chinese lineage of leaf-setting, because this is precisely the logic of zuòqīng 做青, leaf-setting, in many wūlóng traditions: alternating deliberate agitation with repose so oxidation builds in layers rather than as a single, unchecked drift. Depending on region and school, the agitation itself may be described with different verbs — yáoqīng 搖青/摇青, shaking; pèngqīng 碰青, bumping/bruising; làngchá 浪茶 or làngqīng 浪青, tossing/flipping — while the resting intervals are often framed as liángqīng 晾青, resting/airing the leaf. The mechanics differ here — rolling, róuniǎn 揉捻, is doing much of the physical work — but the intention is recognisably related: to shape oxidation spatially and temporally, concentrating transformation where bruising is strongest and letting the interior catch up more slowly, so aroma and texture become stratified rather than merely “darkened”.

After the final rolling, oxidation is arrested not simply by “drying eventually happens”, but by repeated short passes of steaming and drying, with rests between them. This is an important taxonomic clue. It implies that heat is treated as a series of interventions — each pass stabilising what has formed, preventing the oxidation curve from running away, and preserving the particular balance of softness and lift that the earlier zǒushuǐ-style moisture handling made possible. A cautious parallel may be drawn here with the Chinese expression zǒushuǐbèi 走水焙, moisture-moving bake, which in some contexts names an early, low-heat moisture-driving step used to consolidate leaf after active handling: the point of contact is not a claim of identical technique, but the shared principle that staged heat can be used to manage water and stabilise chemistry, rather than serving only as a single terminal “finish”.

The finish is best described as wok-drying / pan-drying, a moderate-temperature completion that drives off remaining moisture and sets the aromatics without implying any separate high-heat finishing identity. In other balhyocha, the last dehydration may instead be longer and slightly cooler, sometimes using heated floors known as ondol 온돌 (溫突), which can favour a slower settling of fragrance and texture^{4, 9}.

The resulting dry leaves of this tea are unevenly beautiful and shy; they quite clearly belong to the xiǎoyèzhòng 小葉種 • 小叶种 varieties. Their smoky dark brown appearance is freckled with many auburn details, revealing all of the charming heterogeneity of the hand-processing. The rolling is also made apparent by the tight knot that folds the curvy leaves longitudinally, slowly opening afterwards with the brews. The first infusion has a delicate golden colour that softly diffuses the light it catches; when mildly over-steeped, it is tinged with red notes and acquires a subtle oily opacity.

Amid the forward notes of this balhyocha, the dominants are especially revealing of the terroir of Hadong 하동군: a robust, lively and umami oily body that reminds me of scorching olive oil, steamed fragrant edamame beans, the juice of the bell pepper and white sesame.

In a close second moment, a woody presence makes its way to the palate, revealing tones of bark and cork and through retro-nasal return, hints of the sweet sap of the birch tree. Behind these, undertones of leather and the mellowness of the stewed shiitake mushroom complicate the texture. In the bitter spectrum, the flavour of the cacao bean is the main character. The final drying is said to play a key role in enhancing these notes.⁴ Interestingly enough, as I try to focus on the dark chocolate, that note almost evolves into a spiciness recalling white pepper.

Meanwhile, a background component slowly moves to the front, and a contrasting acidity resonates with the rest, completing it. It is a very interesting, rare sourness for a tea, but not at all disturbing. It puzzled me for a while. At the second infusion, I had to make quite an effort in order to isolate and describe it: the only thing I know that somehow compares is the Asturian sidra, that is connected with many happy memories I hold of my years in Oviedo and the north of Spain. This atavistic kind of cider dates back at least two millennia in this region, as witnessed by Greek geographer Strabo in 60 BC. It is a pre-industrial, ancestral beverage, chemically non-stabilised and thus nothing like a modern cider. As proof of that, the way it is consumed: el escanciado. The sidra has to be poured in a special kind of flat-bottomed glass from a high distance: it is quite impressive to see waiters holding with one arm the bottle high over their head, and with the other, the glass as far down as they can; then instinctively hitting the target with the liquid every time, not even needing to look at it. As entertaining as this can be, it is not just for show. This ritual is actually aimed at volatilizing as much as possible of the acetic acid naturally present in the drink, and at improving the organoleptic and refreshing properties of the cider by incorporation of a small amount of carbon dioxide.^{13, 14} The Asturian sidra feels really alive in the mouth, and this kind of raw, lively, unusual sensation finds its way among the splendid richness of this balhyocha 발효차.

The finish and the persistence on the palate of this tea do not disappoint: lengthy, complex and delightful. A long-lasting citrus note that recalls bergamot lingers on the tongue, while tones of eucalyptus honey, young Allium tuberosum shoots and sage timidly start creeping on the back-sides of the mouth, enhancing the “bitter spiciness” of the cocoa. There is a distinct, enjoyable pungency to this tea that I rarely encountered before.

The second balhyocha was harvested in the 2018 woojeon 우전 flush and processed by a different, highly idiosyncratic family of producers. The picking standard is again one bud and two leaves, taken from old wild shrubs growing at around 800 m above sea level. Nicoletta bought this tea directly from the family in 2019, during one of her journeys through Korea. Their garden is said to descend largely from cuttings taken long ago from the ancient tea trees traditionally tended by the monks of Ssanggyesa 쌍계사.

The most apparent difference from the previous tea is not in the pluck, but in what happens afterwards: this balhyocha was aged for a full year inside cedar-wood crates, kept in a cool cellar. Low temperatures — sometimes merely cool and stable rather than dramatically cold — have long been used as a way to let tea settle: to soften edges, to knit flavours together, to allow time to do quiet work without the accelerations (and losses) of summer heat. The Japanese custom of kuradashi 蔵出し comes to mind first: spring teas rested in storehouse conditions and released later, not as a stunt, but as an alternative timeline for maturation — an idea that modern Japan has also extended into carefully controlled cold storage. A different, more contentious parallel surfaces in the Chinese sphere with tuōsuān 拖酸, “dragging out the sourness”, a processing style associated with some modern takes on Ānxī tiěguānyīn 安溪鐵觀音: by delaying decisive heat at the wrong moment (or deliberately stretching the “waiting”), the leaf can drift into an acidulous register that certain markets enjoy, though it remains, for me, a style that rarely ends happily.

The family who produced this tea have cultivated tea for eight generations, and they are said to have been among the first to make this peculiar category in their area. Two generations ago, the grandfather of the current owner reportedly developed their signature method of cool, wooden ageing — cedar as the standard, with a sibling version aged in bamboo crates instead. I still regret not having asked Nicoletta for that “brother” tea as well. I did, at least, taste it in 2019 during an evening session at La finestra sul tè, but my memory has retained only a faint sketch: slightly more fragrance, and a more explicitly balsamic tone.

The dry leaves are bigger, slightly darker, and more tightly rolled than those of the tea I brewed before; the coppery details are also scarcer. It must be noted that there were only 8 g left in the sachet, so fragments and broken pieces are more frequent. To make matters worse, I forgot to photograph the leaves I used for brewing; in the photo you can see only the last couple of grams at the very bottom of the bag. The point should still be clear enough. The first infusion has a saturated amber colour with delicate red reflections, and becomes properly red-amber when I slightly over-steep it.

The first impact of this balhyocha is similar to that of the previous one: a reactive, mineral, high-quality olive-oil essence that calls to mind the Mediterranean. With time — compared with the 2021 tea — notes of pulses and sapid vegetables have become mellower, thicker, and even more umami: fresh soybeans have become cannellini beans, and the lively bell-pepper juice is now more like the pulp of blistered padrón peppers (though it becomes fresher again in the following brews). These notes are smoothed by a starchy flavour and a texture that remind me of sweet-potato skin; I suspect both are partly attributable to the tiny buds present among the leaves.

Of course, in the two years since its wooden ageing — despite my best efforts to preserve it — many volatile notes I remember have unfortunately faded. Still, in the vapours rising from the hot teapot, a lovely, intense freesia fills the nose, supported by laurel, a peppery spiciness, and again the sweet sap of birch. Apart from a distinct plum note, absent from the previous tea, I can now find only echoes of these aromas in the brews.

The bitterness here arrives later, probably mellowed by time. Alongside the cocoa bean, a quinine-like flavour diffuses its sharpness. There is a rebound of bitter notes, however, in the very long finish, recalling cucumber skin. The persistence of this tea is even more complex than that of its already intricate 2021 cousin. The mellow sweetness of ageing has the pasty quality of dried fig and the liveliness of sun-dried tomatoes. Later — in the third and fourth infusions — the cucumber-like vegetal note evolves into a sourness that again reminds me of Asturian sidra.

I have been researching these teas for a few days, brewing them with different parameters and drinking them under different conditions, while I carry on with my busy schedule in this summer-stricken 3,000-year-old town — whose unbearable humidity sometimes reminds me, in a small way, of tea country. I have been waiting for the teas to reach me, trying to discern their logic, their inner significance, their mood. And yet I cannot entirely say that they did reveal themselves to me. They retain — I am happy to write — the excitement of a new experience. Both these balhyocha have a warming nature, which I can only ascribe, in my mind, to the oily richness typical of the terroir of Hwagae-myeon and Jirisan, but please do not take my word for it. Their qì 氣 • 气 is light and fuzzy, permeating, as it goes, both up to the temples and down the back and the chest.

To find some inspiration — and hoping for serendipity — I have been reading the occasional traditional Korean poem while brewing, unfortunately in translation. Two of them impressed me particularly. One seemed almost to be speaking of the self-sufficient, aloof agro-biodiversity of Hwagae-myeon — a landscape that can feel virtually indifferent to modern tea agriculture, and to the passing of time, like an island that somehow survived from a much older age. The other spoke to me more directly, offering words for how it feels to be back in Italy after the lockdowns and the many changes of the last year and a half.

THANKS

Many thanks to Nicoletta Tul for always helping me to find new ways to reframe my impermanent Weltanschauung of tea, and for providing to me patiently and generously the key information to understand the unique leaves she finds all over Asia. Another special delight of being back in Italy is the chance to visit my dear chárén Andrea Ghion, whose help in deciphering these teas has been an indispensable gift.

REFERENCES

1. Traditional Hadong Tea Agrosystem in Hwagae-myeon; GIAHS PROPOSAL, 2017 — Hadong County Administrative Office
   • Traditional Hadong Tea Agrosystem in Hwagae-myeon — Globally Important Agricultural Heritage Systems (GIAHS), Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations
2. Song, Y. S., & Park, K. H. (2017). Jiri Mountain, Korea: A window into the deep crust. The Journal of the Petrological Society of Korea, 26(4), 385-398.
3. Balhyocha Revisited: Embracing Korean Tea Terms — Tea at Morning Crane Tea
4. Balhyocha – Nicoletta Tul, La Finestra Sul Te’ — Nomad Tea Festival Korea 2021 – YouTube
5. Ikeda, N., & Park, Y. G. (2002). Morphological characteristics of Korean wild tea populations. Breeding Research (Japan).
6. Park, Y. G. (2001). Study on the origin and the transmission of Japanese and Korean tea plants. 1. The morphological and genetic variation. J. Kor. Tea Soc., 7(1), 143-161. [in Japanese]
7. Chen, L., Apostolides, Z., & Chen, Z. M. (Eds.). (2013). Global tea breeding: achievements, challenges and perspectives. Springer Science & Business Media.
8. Hadong – thousand years of tea — Klasek Tea Blog, Klasek Tea
9. What Exactly Is Korean Balhyocha (Paryo cha)? — MattCha’s Blog
   • Part 1- An Introduction To Balhyocha and Some Problems With Translation
   • Part 2- A Detailed Look At The Production of This Uniquely Korean Tea
   • Part 3 — How Do We Classify Balhyocha? Is It Red, White, Yellow, or wūlóng 烏龍/乌龙 tea?
10. Boseong Sejak Hwangcha | Korean Balhyocha — Curious Tea
11. Mr. Cho’s Korean Balhyocha 2021 — Spirit Tea
12. South Korean Balhyocha & Hwangcha — Tea Epicure
13. Escanciáu – Wikipedia
14. Cider – Wikipedia
15. Lee, P. H. (2002). The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Korean Poetry. United Kingdom: Columbia University Press.