Jennifer Barclay Books
(and more)
Meeting Mr Kim
First published in 2008 and excerpted in The Guardian. Re-released in 2021 as an e-book.
Available from 2021 in Bulgarian from Era Books.
Available in paperback in Australia from Wakefield Press.
‘One woman’s touching and humorous voyage to the very heart of Korea, a country of great diversity, spirituality and charm’ – Anna Nicholas
Exploring South Korea alone, I found myself in ancient tombs and strangers’ homes and Buddhist temples in forest-covered mountains. People seemed on a mission to ensure I left with happy memories.
‘The author’s joie de vivre and love of connection makes this book a joy to read’ – review on We Love Memoirs
‘I expected to read about pop culture, fashion and high technology, but it was even more interesting for me to read about ancient tombs, Buddhist temples and the homes of random people.’ – Emilia, Bulgaria
‘fresh, amusing and light-hearted’ – Simon Winchester
‘invaluable and entertaining reading’ – Margaret Drabble
‘an amusing, easy read with some fresh insights into Korean culture’ – Lonely Planet Korea
‘Barclay is revealed as an excellent guide, her personal experience of the country reaching into every corner’ – Publishing News
‘a revealing exploration’ – Shortlist
‘a warm and funny journey… an invaluable primer’ – Blue Wings magazine
‘she is excellent at painting word portraits of the people she meets’ – www.suite101.com
‘entertaining, endearing and educational’ – South China Morning Post
Excerpt:
…Incredulous, I spent the evening sequestered in that perfect, simple space, listening to thunder in the hills and the ceaseless splashing and crashing of the rain as it poured off the eaves.
Opening my wood-and-paper shutters, which were held back by carved wooden turtles, I looked out into the semi-dark and smelled the fresh air. Lightning floodlit the courtyard from time to time, revealing gnarled trees and, sheltered by a wooden pavilion, a giant iron bell and a hanging log in the shape of a fish. Monks ran around in robes and slippers, carrying umbrellas, avoiding the pooling water.
The two who’d brought me here returned a couple of times, once to give me a candle when the storm was too bad to have the electric light on, and again to check I was comfortable.
‘Breakfast is at eight,’ they said, then conferred. Wrong word? ‘No, sorry, six.’ Smiles, bows.