In search of yarn: Seoul has what China’s crochet wave lacks

Interior of Sevy Haus, a yarn store in Seoul's trendy district of Seongsu / Courtesy of Sevy Haus

When planning my stay in Seoul, the thing I was most looking forward to wasn’t the food or the K-pop concerts — it was finally being able to visit a brick-and-mortar yarn store.

Back in China, crocheting and knitting have gained traction in recent years. From famous actresses to lifestyle influencers, people are reclaiming the craft that was once considered something only our grandmothers did. However, this booming community exists almost entirely online.

Like many young Chinese makers, I learned to crochet through a screen. I watched tutorials on Xiaohongshu, China’s equivalent of Instagram, bought the exact yarns the influencers recommended via e-commerce links, and finished my first handbag without ever stepping foot in a craft store. It was highly efficient.

However, the moment I wanted to stop blindly following online patterns and start exploring the tactile possibilities of different yarns, I hit a wall. In Shenzhen, the bustling tech powerhouse I call home, there is only one dedicated yarn store. It mostly sells imported skeins so expensive — around $20 to $70 for a mere 50 grams — that making even a simple hat feels like a luxury. The vibrant craft I saw on my screen was entirely missing from my city’s streets.

It’s not only Shenzhen. In other metropolitans in China — except for Shanghai — physical yarn stores are still rare, and the yarns are mostly not cheap. Most yarn sellers are heavily reliant on e-commerce and influencer marketing. And since online shops can offer yarn for less than a dollar per 100 grams, with delivery in one to three days in most regions, consumers are naturally more inclined to shop online as well.

But in Seoul, physical yarn stores are woven into the very fabric of the city. From trendy areas like Hongdae, Seongsu and Gangnam to quieter neighborhoods like Jungnang District, you can find beautifully decorated boutiques. They cater to everyone, offering basic materials for just a few dollars alongside highly delicate, premium yarns.

Apart from yarn and related supplies, most stores display sample pieces made from their own products, providing customers with inspiration. Many also stock tutorial books that visitors are free to browse, creating a welcoming creative environment.

At Ancalls, a yarn store in Gangnam, southern Seoul, customers can find yarn, knitted samples and a range of supplementary tools. Korea Times photo by Alice Li

Beyond these modern shops, there is also the Dongdaemun Shopping Complex, a sprawling, old-school wholesale market. It is a labyrinth of stalls selling an overwhelming variety of yarns, buttons, bag chains and every other piece of hardware a maker could ever dream of.

These stores offer more than just a place to purchase materials, as some even feature knitting cafes inside. Take Banul Story, located in Seodaemun-gu near Hongdae, as an example. On the first floor, shoppers can browse yarn and crochet supplies. Meanwhile, the second floor features a cafe where consumers can grab coffee and sit down with other crafters. With warm desk lamps at each spot creating the quiet ambiance of a library, it offers an ideal place to enjoy knitting or crocheting in peace.

The emergence of these knitting cafes is a natural extension of Korea’s deeply rooted cafe culture. To put it into perspective: As of early 2025, the nation boasted more than 95,000 operating cafes. In contrast, China had around 254,000, less than three times the number, despite being roughly 96 times larger than Korea. In a society where coffee shops already serve as default "public living rooms," it is no surprise that Korean yarn stores have evolved to offer that same sense of offline community.

Furthermore, Seoul’s all-in-one yarn communities did not appear overnight; they are the result of decades of evolution. Many of these foundational brands were established long before the prevalence of social media, quietly shaping Korea’s crafting culture over the years. Nakyang Yarn, which now operates a store in Gangnam, has been in the industry since 1960. Banul Story and Seongsu’s Sevy Haus were founded in the late 20th century. Other staples like Ancalls in Gangnam established roots in the 2000s.

Their business models evolved over time, from traditional brick-and-mortar shops to online retail, and now to a hybrid model that combines e-commerce with carefully curated, multifunction physical stores.

The signature yarn wall at Banul Story / Courtesy of Banul Story

When photos of these Korean spaces circulate on Chinese social media, they often spark sheer envy. On social media platforms, domestic yarn lovers often describe these stores as an "offline heaven" or a "utopia." To them, these cafes represent something not found at home: a beautifully designed, tactile world spun entirely from yarn, completely isolated from the exhausting hustle of the metropolis.

The seeds of a public yarn community are finally beginning to sprout in China as the craft continues to trend online. Earlier this year, Xiaohongshu hosted a three-day offline festival in Shanghai — arguably the country’s most thriving hub for crocheters. The gathering allowed handicraft lovers to showcase and sell their works, while yarn vendors set up physical booths. The event even featured speed-crocheting competitions. According to domestic media, it drew a staggering crowd of around 20,000 attendees, proving the existence of a massive pent-up demand for offline connection.

Meanwhile, independent crochet workshops are gradually opening up in different cities, offering crochet and knitting courses.

However, these efforts remain scattered. For many Chinese crafters, the experience of yarn is still largely mediated through screens — ordered with a click, learned through algorithms and practiced alone.

Standing in a yarn store in Seoul, surrounded by shelves of textures I could touch directly and a room of people quietly making things together, I realized that what had been missing all along was not access, but presence. Not yarn itself, but a place for people to gather around it.

Back home, that kind of space is still rare. But if the crowds in Shanghai are any indication, it may only be a matter of time before China’s online yarn boom finally finds its way into the physical world.

Alice Li is a reporter with the South China Morning Post. She is currently based in Seoul, writing for both The Korea Times and the South China Morning Post under an exchange program.