He underlined the last sentence: That was November 18 this year. And I think that’s the real answer.

That night, Minjun wrote in his journal: Winter in Korea starts three times—by tradition on November 7 or 8, by astronomy on December 21 or 22, and by weather on December 1. But for Harabeoji, it starts the moment you put on your first pair of long underwear and hear the ajummas on the street say, ‘It’s really cold now.’

Then, on December 22, they stood on a bridge over the Han River in Seoul. The thermometer read minus six Celsius. “And today,” Harabeoji said, “the sun reaches its lowest point. From now, the light slowly returns. That is also winter’s beginning.”

, the annual process of making large quantities of kimchi to last through the cold months. Households and communities gather to prepare this winter stock, with the best time historically considered to be around Ipdong (early-to-mid November). Story: The First Snow in Seoul The last of the crimson maple leaves had barely fallen in Namsan Park when the air in Seoul took on a brittle edge. It was late November, and the city’s vibrant autumn energy was giving way to a quiet, reflective atmosphere. Ji-hun, walking out of his office in Gangnam, adjusted his scarf. He felt it before he saw it—the sharp, piercing sting of cold that signaled the change. He checked his phone; the weather app showed a tiny snowflake icon for the coming weekend. "It’s time," his mother had said on the phone earlier that day, reminding him that the neighborhood kimchi-making event was scheduled for Saturday, right after Ipdong. It was a tradition as reliable as the cold itself. By the first week of December, the transition was complete. The bustling Myeong-dong street market now sold steaming cups of

Twelve-year-old Minjun lived in Seoul, where his science teacher had just taught him the astronomical seasons: winter begins on the winter solstice, around December 21 or 22. That evening, he proudly told his grandfather, Harabeoji, “Winter starts on December 22 this year.”

Winter in Korea is not just a season; it’s a mood that creeps in with the drying of the autumn leaves and solidifies with the first howling Siberian wind. It is a season of stark beauty, frozen rivers, and the comfort of steamy odeng (fish cake) soup on a street corner.

If you ask a meteorologist when winter starts in South Korea, they will give you a date on the calendar. But if you ask a Korean local, they will point to a specific sensation: the moment the biting wind cuts through your coat, or the first time you see your breath fog up in the morning air.

This wind is the true harbinger of Korean winter. It blows from Siberia, picking up moisture as it crosses the West Sea (Yellow Sea). By the time it hits the Korean peninsula, it transforms into a "dry, wet" paradox: the air is extremely dry (leading to static shocks and dry skin), but it dumps massive amounts of snow on the northern and western coasts.

In modern Seoul, winter often "starts" the moment the first Christmas carol plays in a convenience store or the streetlights are adorned with decorations. This usually happens abruptly in .

The coldest point of the season is traditionally associated with (the Great Full Moon) in late January or early February. This is when the "Ice Festival" season hits its peak in places like Pyeongchang and Hwacheon.