Part 2: Spring in Seoul: Berries, Memories & the Price of Sweetness

As I wandered under the cherry blossoms, I couldn’t help but think of cherries, not the ornamental ones in Seoul, but the real, fruit-bearing trees I used to climb as a child in the Czech Republic.

Those memories stirred something deeper, the freedom of childhood summers, the taste of fruit picked straight from the branch, and the shock I felt when I moved to Korea and saw how expensive fruit was here.

From nostalgia to supermarket shelves, spring brings it all up, sweetness, contrast, and childhood memories.

As I wandered through Seoul in search of dense cherry blossom trees, I realized that these trees are mainly cultivated for their breathtaking spring blooms, not for their fruit. Most cherry blossom trees here don’t bear edible cherries. However, in regions like Gyeongsangnam-do and Jeollanam-do, you can find actual cherry orchards where sweet cherries (Prunus avium) and sour cherries (Prunus cerasus) are grown. These are relatively rare, though, and the fruit is often expensive and not widely available.

In contrast, cherry trees in the Czech Republic, where I grew up, produce fruit in abundance. The sight and scent of cherry blossoms always stir a deep sense of nostalgia for me. The smell of those petals brings back memories, taking me back to a time when everything felt so innocent. That scent alone seems to open a door to a time when I was a little girl, playful, carefree, and seemingly without a worry in the world. I remember those long, golden July afternoons: climbing cherry trees with friends, eating the fruit straight from the branches, or stuffing our pockets to take home, sometimes to snack on later, other times to bake a cherry pie with Grandma. It was more than just a treat, it was a cherished ritual of summer.

But it wasn’t just cherries, I also remember climbing apple trees in my grandmother’s village. We’d sometimes wander around the houses and pick whatever apples were leaning over fences, just grabbing them as snacks. We were outside all day long, playing until sunset, and snacking on fruit was part of keeping our energy up to stay out longer. There were other fruits on offer too, we’d go around the village hunting for strawberries, raspberries and gooseberries, plucking them straight from bushes along the road or near fences. Sometimes the tastiest fruit was just over someone’s garden fence, and yes, we’d climb, grab and run, one of us climbing, the others keeping watch. It was a game, an adventure. In Czech, we even have a saying: "Stolen tastes the best."

But it wasn’t just about the fruit. It was about freedom, friendship, and the outdoors.

We’d play hide-and-seek, cards, and board games outdoors on a covered dwell. Ball games, traditional games, just running wild with our imaginations. That kind of outdoor play connects children across the world, whether in the Czech Republic, Korea, or elsewhere. It teaches independence, resilience, creativity, and even social skills. It’s as much a part of growing up as anything we learn in school. And I often wonder… how many children today still play that way? With urbanization and technology creeping into every corner of life, is that kind of carefree, outdoor childhood disappearing?

Back then, children were free, and so was fruit. My grandma and parents had big gardens overflowing with fruit and vegetables. We ate what was in season, freshly picked and full of flavour. It was a way of life.

Nowadays, that same fruit sits behind supermarket glass, individually wrapped and shipped from afar. It never quite tastes like the ones we plucked ourselves, warm from the sun. Something once so ordinary, a cherry eaten on a tree branch, a raspberry snuck from a neighbour’s fence, has become a quiet luxury.

When we first arrived in Korea and visited the supermarket, I was genuinely shocked by how expensive fruit was. For me, fruit had always been part of daily life, an everyday staple, full of vitamins and childhood comfort. I found myself wondering, How am I going to keep that up here?

Coming from the UK, where I was used to shopping at places like Asda or Lidl, the price difference was staggering. I had actually expected fruit to be cheaper in Korea, not the other way around. It made me realize how lucky we are in England when it comes to the affordability of produce.

So why is fruit so expensive in Korea?

One major reason is geography. Korea is about 70% mountainous, which means there’s limited space for large-scale farming. Fruit often requires very specific growing conditions, and with small plots of land and high labour costs, prices go up. Fruit in Korea is often considered more of a luxury, saved for weekends, special occasions, or given as elegant gifts, especially around major holidays like Chuseok and Seollal.

While cherries are mostly imported from the U.S. or Chile, Korea has its own rich tradition of fruit farming: Persimmons (감, gam), Apples (사과, sagwa), Asian Pears (배, bae), Grapes (포도, podo), and Tangerines (귤, gyul), a specialty of Jeju Island. Strawberries (딸기, ttalgi), grown in greenhouses, are a sweet winter and spring delicacy.

Spring in Seoul is about cherry blossoms, the smell of the petals and the sunny calm against a buzzing city. And the sweetness of memory stirred by a bloom and all the delicious fruit of my childhood. The sun-warmed skins, stained fingers, and trees we climbed like playgrounds. Back then, fruit wasn’t a luxury. It was part of our play, our freedom, our everyday joy.

These days, I buy fruit in plastic trays behind glass, and it never quite tastes the same. But under the blossoms, I’m reminded that some things, like the memory of a cherry eaten on a branch, or the feeling of summer in your bones, don’t need to be bought or bitten into to still be savoured.