Me, snapping photos in Yamaguchi's circa 1880 City Hall

 
Preceding from this rather depressing situation is a much nicer consequence though: because I’m leaving, I’ve seized upon the excuse to push up a lot of travel plans and work on crossing some things off my “Japan Bucket List” before I go. Early February was yet another trip to Kansai, introducing this semester’s crop of exchange students to the famous sights of Osaka and Kyoto. I’ve navigated Onomichi’s labyrinth yet again, and said farewell to my beloved empty houses, several of which are actually showing signs of life these days. Most interesting of all, this past week I made good on multiple past promises to my Japanese tutor to visit her home region in Yamaguchi Prefecture. Thanks to Keiko-sensei’s advice and the burgeoning spring weather, my friends and I had a wonderful three day roadtrip from Yamaguchi City to Tsuwano, onsen-hopping and taking in the historic and hidden treasures of Honshu’s far-Western tip. Highlights from Yamaguchi City as follows:

Rurikōji

Yamaguchi – both the larger prefecture and the city itself – have a fascinating history bound up in the raging wars of the Sengoku Jidai, Japan’s answer to the European feudal era. During this “Warring States Period” of the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries, the official Imperial capital of Kyoto was frequently being invaded, left in ruins, set on fire, etc. so the smaller, peaceful countryside city of Yamaguchi served as a much more stable center of culture and statecraft. At a certain point it actually was the chosen alternative capital; well aware of their city’s prestige, the area’s inhabitants and the noble families of the time intentionally mimicked Kyoto’s finest achievements, building numerous temples, gardens and palaces among the verdant green mountains of the domain.

 
The centrally located temple called Rurikoji contains within its sprawling grounds a number of monuments, gardens and museums, but the most famous sight is the city’s favorite symbol, a soaring pagoda based on Kyoto’s Toji. The rest of the area is well worth exploring too – don’t miss the tombs of the ruling Mori clan, built in a rare Shinto style (normally grave sites are associated with Buddhist tradition.) The stone walkway and staircase leading up to the graveyard’s main entrance have a curious echo effect on footsteps, said to resemble birdsong.

 
Joueiji and Sesshu’s Garden

Considered one of the greats of Japanese traditional art, the Buddhist monk Sesshu is closely associated with Yamaguchi City. While no one is absolutely certain about the provenance, he is said to have designed the standing-stone garden at Joueiji Temple, shown here:

 
Perhaps more curious though is the front garden, a raked-gravel plain at the entrance to the temple which is an obvious copy of Kyoto’s famous karesansui at Ryoanji.

 

The ceremonial altars facing out onto the undulating waves of pebbles are also fascinating, with dozens of mortuary tablets stacked up around statues of monks and Buddhas; tour groups regularly light the incense in the front hall and send the sweet smoke swirling through the open tatami rooms. Although this temple is actually quite small, it seems large due to the dual gardens, and one can hike up the low mountain behind the main building to a couple of ancillary shrines as well.
 

Yuda Onsen

Due to my personal obsession with all things vulpine, ever since I first heard mention of a hot spring discovered by a white fox, I’ve wanted to visit this onsen. While a bit isolated from the rest of the world, this countryside retreat has easy access to Yamaguchi City’s sights, and a package trip to visit both areas is highly recommended. With onsen retreats and weddings as its main attractors, Yuda is filled with dress shops, ryokan, and depictions of the town’s mascot Shirogitsune-kun (“Little White Fox.”) There’s a towering two-story statue of him right outside the main train station, along with a little plaque relating the legend of how a Buddhist monk spied the white fox healing his legs in a warm puddle, and thus unearthed the hot spring’s source some hundreds of years ago.

An outstanding example of why it’s so great to travel Japan during February’s winter off-season, our lovely Japanese-style room at Bochoen ran us only half of its usual 40000 yen – split between four people, we each ended up paying about $50 for luxurious accommodations and a hearty Japanese-style breakfast the morning of our departure. This hotel is small, but it has lovely rooms, very friendly service from the front desk, and great food at the restaurant on the first floor (you can even try Yamaguchi’s characteristic food, the poisonous fugu blowfish, although I actually recommend splurging on it elsewhere.) Best of all, because of its sister hotels right next door, guests at Bochoen get the run of three different onsen baths for no extra charge during their stay. Just ask for the wooden “Yuumeguri” pass at reception, grab your towel, and head less than a block down the street to either of the other ryokans’ bathing rooms.

On a personal note, I’m actually quite weak to heat – Dogo Onsen was hot enough to nearly make me pass out after about five minutes – but the water in Yuda’s baths was just a bare shade over my normal comfort zone; I was able to stay in a long while, enjoying the mineral silkiness which is supposed to be especially good for your skin. If you’re concerned about how some onsen just seem set on boiling you to death, give Yuda’s more gentle warmth a try!

When 2009 rolled over into 2010 last New Year’s, I was slumped across a couch at my friends’ house, eating osechi delicacies and watching TV specials in front of a brightly roaring little fireplace. I had a great time that night and I think I got a good sense of how most Japanese families spend their Oshogatsu holiday: the Kawakami mother probably put it simplest when she said, “We don’t do much of anything but eat.” Given the typical Japanese lifestyle – a mad rush from work or class to daily after-hours parties, weekends filled with sightseeing trips, extra studying, and intense personal hobbies – I can perfectly understand the impulse to just sack out during the long stretch of holidays from December 23rd to January 4th. Plus, Japanese New Years’ TV specials are pretty darn amusing – I loved 2010′s rendition of Hajimete no Otsukai, a show chronicling the trials and triumphs of preschoolers’ first solo errands.

But as I lay in front of the TV that night, we occasionally flipped through news footage of people queuing up in front of major temples and shrines across the country. They were huddled in protective knots and pouring cups of hot sake into the gaps of their multi-layered coats, scarves and winter wear, braving Japan’s invariably frigid winter weather in order to enjoy the evening festivals, hear the traditional 108 sin-absolving bell tolls, and finally see the first sunrise of the new year break above the horizon at dawn. Watching them from my dozy position in front of a roaring wood-stove, I admit to both pitying and envying these brave souls simultaneously: vegging out is all very well, and certainly the most comfortable and practical thing to do at this time of year in Japan, but to my mind it wasn’t nearly as significant, as meaningful as what those vigil holders at the shrines were doing.

Thus, this December 31st when my intended visit to another friend’s place fell through thanks to influenza in the house, I got to thinking. Miyajima has a famous night festival, hundreds of bell-ringing temples, and one of the most renowned sunrise-watching spots in the country; if I wasn’t doing anything else, I pretty much owed it to myself to try for a potentially once-in-a-lifetime experience of Oshogatsu in the outdoors. My enthusiasm was tempered by the certain knowledge that it was going to be cold, require a perilous hike to the top of the mountain, and entail at least ten hours in the open once I got up there (a poor student like me has nothing like the cash or advance planning required to get into a ryokan inn anywhere near the sacred island at this point in the holiday season, after all.) Nonetheless, a noon conference with two American friends feeling similarly hungry for a traditional Japanese New Year convinced us all that we were up for the challenge. We shoved blankets, cameras and emergency rations into backpacks and bags, and agreed to stick it out all evening, come what might.

The first and probably worst miscalculation was missing Chinkasai. I knew the fire festival began at six, but thanks to several misleading blog posts I was under the impression that it, and the accompanying food booths, would continue all night. Eddie wanted buckwheat soba noodles, another Oshogatsu hallmark, so I felt particularly bad there were none to be found. In any case, readers, take heed: if you want to see Miyajima’s most renowned matsuri, you need to be on the island before it starts. We arrived at 7:20 and everyone was hastily breaking down the last stalls, rushing to get out of the cold. The three of us retreated to one of the only eateries still open – a big tent that I suspect actually did do business until dawn – and started to regroup while gulping down hot grilled meat and takoyaki. Thanks to the hasty nature of our enterprise’s organization, we found out none of us had brought a flashlight, and decided that braving the hike up Mt. Misen was going to depend on how well illuminated the trail was. This entry at Gethiroshima seemed to imply the walk was easy enough in the dark, although I did check elsewhere to confirm that the climb was supposed to take about an hour.

Despite our practical agreement that we should scrap the mountain in favor of all-night karaoke if there weren’t any lights on the trail, once we made it up to the closed ropeway station, poked around, and finally found the trailhead leading into Misen’s primordial forest – “It’s a black hole!” as Cat commented – nobody was actually willing to quit. Eddie’s cell phone, an Ericsson of recent make, came equipped with an LED flashlight function, and we confirmed it shed enough light for us to improvise our way across Momijidani Park and into the woods. Moving slowly over the roots, stones and steps of the trail, we made careful progress by stopping at each of the numerous benches along the way; resting ourselves and the phone batteries at each pause gave us the chance to listen to the gurgle of the stream we were following, trickling water barely audible over the deep quiet among the trees. The stars shining through the gaps in the branches were the largest and most numerous I’ve seen since I came to Hiroshima, unobscured by either light pollution or clouds.

A fourth of the way up, perching together on the latest bench, Cat whispered to Eddie and me.
“You guys see that light?”

Earlier we’d been discussing the ghost of Taira no Kiyomori, which was once supposed to haunt Momijidani, so Eddie and I both laughed her off. But after a moment of watching, a searingly bright white point could be made out flickering through the underbrush, coming up the slope we’d just climbed. It was moving as fast as a bicycle, uphill, so I hardly believed it could be another person – but a few more seconds of waiting brought a man in a full-body weather suit, with two hiking sticks and a cluster of LEDs on his hat, into full view. He was just as surprised to see us sitting in the pitch dark as we’d been to catch sight of him after forty minutes alone on the mountainside. Incredulity that we’d gotten this far using only a cell phone, and self-professed loneliness on the solitary path, made the anonymous 30-something climber quite willing to accompany us the rest of the way to the top with his stash of flashlights.

Our Hero, as Eddie has since dubbed this dashing figure, was incredibly kind and patient – even though we slowed him down considerably, once the trail began to soar into fifteen-minute stretches of sheer stone steps at 85 degree angles. According to our rescuer’s knowledge, we’d actually taken the shortest but toughest path of three available trails up Misen; consequently our progress had to be broken up with frequent rest breaks, during which we all chatted and exclaimed over the city lights, which were finally beginning to become visible across the bay below. Obviously amused by our heavy blankets and plans to camp out all night, Our Hero stuck with us long after we reached the summit’s cluster of temples, showing us around the peak’s little circle of attractions until just after midnight. If you’re out there, Mysterious Mountain-climber, I hope you had a good rest of the New Year!

Once he had taken off, we were left with the difficult proposition of how to fill the rest of the night. When we stopped moving, it became painfully obvious how cold it was – literally painful, as far as our extremities were concerned, despite previous precautions like extra layers. We knew sunrise was going to be at around 7:15, and once midnight trundled past to the company of chanting and bells there wasn’t a lot to look forward to in the intervening hours. Originally, we had intended to camp out on the highest observatory platform, out of concern that there would be so many people there by morning that we wouldn’t get a good spot to see from. But a preliminary scouting of the area revealed no other souls brave (or foolish) enough to stake a claim on the exposed, wind-lashed metal structure just yet, and while the night view was spectacular it was quite simply too frigid to brave the weather in the open for that long. We snapped photos of the brilliant, scintillating cityscapes below – Hiroshima, Kure and Iwakuni were all visible, the lights on the shore ringing Miyajima’s dark bulk like a hoop of scattered pirate treasure – and tried to think what to do.

Ultimately, we ended up back at the Reikado, which we had investigated in passing on our way to the viewing platform. This small, square temple building houses a fire that has been kept burning for over 1200 years, since the great Buddhist ascetic Kobo Daishi first lit it to boil his tea. Although constantly filled with smoke, which has blackened the walls, rafters, and anything else not regularly polished within, this hall was by far the warmest place we had access to, being out of reach of the gale-force blasts that occasionally whipped across the peak and also housing the glowing coals themselves. Additionally, it seemed that the area’s priests – who were bustling about in force, pursuing the necessary New Years’ rituals for their sacred mountain outpost – didn’t mind if we took a semi-permanent seat next to Kukai’s gigantic, cast-iron teakettle. Thus the three of us broke out some of our blankets and huddled together on a wooden ledge for the next four hours, telling jokes and rubbing our extremities to distract from the omnipresent chill.

Somewhere around two or three we were treated to something unexpected which, for me, stands out as one of the highlights of that long, crisply frozen evening. A few monks had come in and out to light candles, shuffle ritual instruments on the altar and do some other general maintenance since we’d arrived, but when we noticed a young devotee with shaved head and full, flowing golden robes about to approach the suspended teakettle we all fell silent and watched. While I’m a bad judge of ages, this monk couldn’t have been more than twenty and had the kind of smooth, gorgeously androgynous face you see in the sort of anime I’m interested in (bwahaha.) And, I kid you not, his ears were pointed. Some kind of Buddhist elven creature, imprisoned on the top of a holy crag to work off his karmic ills through centuries of meditation? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, but even without my imagination’s embellishments the ritual he performed was serenely beautiful. Praying to the flame-enraptured statue of Fudo Myo in the altar niche behind the kettle, the priest went through a cycle of counting prayer beads, mixing tea herbs, chanting, and throwing sweet-smelling oil on the coals for almost an hour. Watching his single-minded concentration, which visibly seemed to repel the cold from around him, I had the thought that we had been taken back in time. No doubt this ritual had been performed in just this way for as long as the fire receiving the aromatic incense had been lit. If anything on the planet can accurately be described as “magic,” I think this would have been it.

The rest of the night is a blur of icy cold in my mind now: wrestling with blankets and uncomfortable dozing positions, grumblings and worries over how many other people might show up to take our viewing spots being soothed by sips of umeshu. Around four in the morning we did shift camp to the second story of the observation deck at the highest peak, in order to break out the drinks, food and additional blankets without bothering the monks at the Reikado. And somehow or other, despite potentially legitimate concerns about frostbite, we all managed to snatch scraps of sleep out of the howling wind, curled in a lump together on a bench of horrendously uncomfortable construction. The tramp of other sunrise seekers’ boots on the stairs – and a chance encounter with another group of English speakers, ALTs and teachers from Shiga Prefecture – brought us back to creaking consciousness around six. We eventually jockeyed into prime positions up on the top platform, facing out toward where the faintest brightening of the horizon suggested that dawn was actually was going to come.

I finally, genuinely understand why this tradition continues. At various points in the dark, I’m pretty sure all of us questioned both its reason for this practice’s existence, not to mention our own sanity for deigning to participate this year. But despite being physically and mentally more numb than I have ever been, reduced to an almost animal-like state by low temperatures and exhaustion, that morning I felt a sunrise in the depths of whatever passes for my soul. Watching the very first gleam crest above the low band of clouds on the horizon was, quite perfectly and primordially, indescribable. “Awe” has a meaning now, and I won’t ever forget it.

紅葉狩り literally means “leaf hunting,” using the same verb stem as the word for hunting live game. It’s an exciting word for an exciting pursuit in Japan, one that’s been practiced for several hundred years. While Kyoto is the most famous destination, Hiroshima’s most prominent city symbol is actually the Japanese maple leaf – indeed, the characteristic souvenir that tourists are practically required to take back from visits here is a small sweet bun baked in the shape of a momiji. This association is largely due to the fame of nearby World Heritage Site Itsukushima‘s fall colors, but up until this season I had never seen the island’s trees in their full autumn glory.

   

Horror stories are told by locals about the crowds that pack Momijidani Park at this time of year, and when I first arrived in Hiroshima that was enough to keep me searching for alternative foliage. Not that I have any regrets about those explorations – Mitaki Temple is still one of my favorite places in the entire city – but now that I’ve had the chance to view the shrine island’s offerings for myself, I can say that Miyajima’s fame has its justifications. (This is actually a rule of thumb in Japan: if there’s a crowd gathered for something, you might want to join, because it’s typically worth it.) Really, there were not that many people around when I visited, even though it was only two days after “peak” colors; like with most major visitor attractions, the morning of a weekday turned out to be a good idea.

I also went out of my way to stay off the beaten path for the most part. While Momijidani Koen’s two-hundred-plus maple trees were certainly on the agenda, I’ve been to Miyajima so often at this point I knew it would be more interesting to wander through some of the actual town, rather than following the well-marked tourist routes along the beach. Immediately after exiting the ferry port building, instead of turning right towards Ikutsushima-jinja and the famous “Floating Torii,” on this occasion I instead kept walking straight ahead until I was in amongst the houses and driveways of locals. On the left I noticed a mysterious staircase – and an equally mysterious cat – and decided to investigate.

The Miyajima Museum of History and Folklore is housed within an authentic period mansion.

This stone slab marks the previous location of a Nio (statue guardian) gate.

Continuing up, over, and down another steep shrine staircase on the far side of the hill, I eventually ended up on a deserted nature trail labeled “Yamanobe No Komichi,” which means “old path of the mountain neighborhood” according to the kanji. This little thread of dirt and pavement winds though the back streets of the town, passing numerous aged temples, tiny cafes, and art galleries before sloping up through the woods towards Momijidani Park. Very much “unseen Miyajima,” anyone with a bit more time and interest beyond Itsukushima-jinja should enjoy the gentle climb, with lots of pretty glimpses over the rooftops and into the back yards of the locals.                                                                                               

The Yamanobe No Komichi trail eventually merged with a road that meanders toward the Ropeway entrance and Momijidani Park. Dodging free shuttle buses going back and forth from the bottom of the valley, I walked up and joined the other maple hunters snapping pictures of bright red, orange and yellow leaves splashed across Mount Misen’s evergreen background. Cheerful serving ladies hawked hot shiruko bean soup and other warming treats to the stream of people craning their necks and cameras toward the tree canopy; it was almost more fun taking photos of people taking photos than just looking at the leaves themselves. As an interesting side note, one of my friends who lives near Miyajima says that Momijidani Koen has only become a major visitor attraction over the last couple of decades or so. Previously the valley was thought to be haunted by the vengeful ghost of Taira no Kiyomori, a historical warrior much involved in the court intrigues of the Heian era. As the person who gave Itsukushima-jinja its present building style, he is deified in a small shrine on Miyajima’s eastern coast, but his spirit supposedly guarded the ravine until a decision was made to purify the forest and turn it into the current maple park.

I finished up my momijigari with a swift tour of Daishoin Temple, just as it was beginning to get too dark for decent pictures. My apologies to the monks who were trying to sweep up around my feet as I grabbed these last shots! I had such a nice time “hunting,” it was hard to let the day end. I hope next fall I get a chance to see anything nearly as beautiful as Miyajima in autumn.

The flowers in the foreground are cosmos bipinnatus, just “kosumosu” in Japanese. Although they’re not native to Japan, they’ve become a symbol of autumn here over the past several centuries. Someone at the party told me that during World War II, when all things European and American were being cracked down on by the government, people still loved them and referred to them as “aki-zakura,” the ‘cherry blossoms of autumn,’ in order to avoid using the foreign-sounding name. There are whole flower parks devoted to them at this time of year, but I just enjoy finding them along the road and train tracks here in Hiroshima’s abundant countryside.

September’s lingering heat isn’t even a memory now, and along with the fall flowers and fruits local harvest festivals are bursting out to enjoy the crisp air. The maples aren’t showing any signs of turning yet, but there’s still plenty of color to go around: no Western Japan matsuri is complete without the costumed melodrama of kagura, the crimson lanterns of food stalls and game tents, and the shining roofs of mikoshi being carried around town. Fuchu, the little town just outside Hiroshima City’s limits which is famous as the wealthy home of Mazda‘s corporation headquarters, used the extreme height of their central shrine staircase to erect huge banner flags above tempura octopus and goldfish scooping booths (left). And while in Onomichi with a couple of visiting friends, we caught this sacred parade headed down the street right in front of a famous noodle restaurant, Shukaen 朱華園.

It’s easy to spot matsuri in the offing here – everywhere there’s a festival scheduled, there will be strips of white paper strung around the buildings on lines of straw rope. These fluttering barriers are called “shimenawa“, and as the Wiki says, they are normally found in and around Shinto shrines and are used to mark off sacred spaces or objects. But during festival season you can see them almost everywhere in and around Hiroshima Prefecture, as one neighborhood jinja after another holds their harvest festivities in rapid succession. Anyone who enjoys street food and kagura performances could easily spend every one of their October weekends – and a good number of their regular evenings as well – just hopping around the dozens of little matsuri all over the city.

Here in Ushita, I went out to take pictures of the shimenawa put up for Ushita-Waseda Jinja’s fall celebration. There must have been dozens of people who helped to weave these miles of handmade rope, not to mention making them appear like magic overnight, hung from every streetlight, bush, fence and building in sight. Not to mention the strings which were draped across high balconies and roof eaves which seemed completely inaccessible to a non-ninja like myself… The luminous tufts of white paper had a truly transformative effect when I saw them at midnight, softly whispering like tiny ghosts along the otherwise perfectly still streets of my neighborhood.

Given the amount of merry-making that’s been happening this month, I’m planning on posting at least two more entries concerning some of the live performances I’ve seen the last couple of weeks. Please check back for some photos/video and info on kagura, gagaku and Noh!

With each piece of fruit as gleaming and perfect as a jewel set in a royal crown, Osaka’s Cafe COMME ÇA ISM may be on the bleeding edge of cake design, but it’s certainly not out of place in Japan’s culinary landscape. Perhaps buoyed by the swelling population of young, liberated women with ready cash to spend on pampering themselves – and a tremendous appetite for sweets – bistros and specialty shops catering to “adult taste” confectionery can be found literally on every block of the typical Japanese city. That’s the key here: adults in Japan see no reason to waste good sugar only on children, and cultivating a refined taste in designer baked goods is a respectable female hobby from 14 years old onwards. In fact the “adult sweetness” label is a well-recognized advertising point, which appears on everything from cakes to candy bars trying to attract a more sophisticated audience (with deeper pockets: a slice of heaven from Cafe COMME ÇA ISM will set you back around 700 yen, about $8.50 with today’s atrocious yen to dollar conversion. As might be guessed from the following pictures, it’s worth every penny.)

 
If you’d like to sample the delights of Cafe COMME ÇA ISM yourself, there are multiple branches across Japan, in all the major metropolitan centers. The Osaka branch featured is on the 7th floor of electronics retail giant Yodobashi Camera in Umeda; click here for train info and a map. Cake heaven shares its home with another landmark of otaku interest, the Osaka Shonen Jump store, in this hive of commerce. Have a look at the astronomically upscale chain’s official website front page for more views of the sleek chic interiors (and more cake pictures, of course.)

 
So why is cake so popular with the post-adolescent set here? I suspect the answer may lie (as it so often does) with history. In the late 1800s after Commodore Perry bulldozed his way into Tokyo Bay and opened the country to the outside world, Japan realized that in order to avoid subjugation and colonization by foreign powers it was going to have to face the West on equal terms. Consequently it sent many formal expeditions to Europe and America to learn about all aspects of “modernity” – like the Iwakura mission, which toured Europe and America for two years gathering information about everything from English couture to Gatling guns (see more on Wiki.) Along with the countless professionals and students who also went abroad in the following decades for personal study, these observant government tourists no doubt had a chance to experience the best of France, Germany, Italy et. al.’s traditional pastry production, and could have easily attempted to replicate the results at home. Certainly by the late Meiji and Taisho periods, all things elegant and Western were in vogue and there would have been a vast market (particularly among the cosmopolitan elite) for the latest in curious new foreign imports, like dessert.

While this scenario is really just conjecture on my part, concrete observational evidence certainly seems to point in that direction: Japan’s baked goods and accompanying scenery resemble Europe far more than they do anything Asian or even American. The flavorings – vanilla cream, chocolate sponge, seasonal berries, etc. – are much more natural than the neon greens and blues of a USA sheet cake, even when browsing the vast selection of pre-packaged slices found in convenience stores. Most sweet shops take France or Germany as their decorating themes; have a look at the accompanying example found in northern Hiroshima. The front facade and interior of Kashinoki are positively Barvarian, and some of the confections offered alongside their showcased cakes are definitely in fine old European tradition – like the glittering Pâtes de Fruits in one of the side displays.

 
The other factor to consider regarding the sheer beauty and deliciousness of Japan’s patisserie is a more universal trait: in Japan, details matter, a lot. Friends have commented that this societal habit of focusing on the minute and the presentational can come at the cost of looking at a proverbial “bigger picture,” but for cake the micromanagement is appreciated. Consider our final photo – this slice of strawberry mousse tart cost a mere $2 in an ordinary department store food court. And yet when the order was placed, the chef came out of the back kitchen armed with boxes of fresh ingredients and did the plating right in front of the customers: drizzling two kinds of sauce across the dish, daubing cream into miniature rosettes, and finishing by placing a tiny sprig of mint to one side with a professional flourish. I’m not sure you’d be able to get that kind of service even in Europe’s finest shopping mall.

If you’d like to see any of the slideshow pictures in a larger size, or view descriptions of the locations and occasions they were shot at, click the gallery thumbnails below.

Mount Senkoji rises more than 450 feet to soar over JR Onomichi Station and the small downtown in its shadow. The hillside’s wooded suburbs house a treasure trove of historic buildings, museums, and temples. Two of the best ways to scale Senkoji-yama can be found not far from the Gyokouen tea store (see the end of the previous Onomichi entry.) Backtracking slightly the way you came will bring a tall railroad arch into view; going under the train bridge leads to a small square, with the ticket booth and station for Onomichi’s much-vaunted ropeway directly ahead. On holidays with nice weather, there may be a line of people in this little space queuing up for the glass lift ride… as well as some very happy tourists and locals, dining al fresco to sample the delights of renowned cafe, Waffle Common.

(photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

If you missed out on eating back in the covered arcade shops, or want to grab something sweet as a counterpoint to your sample of Onomichi’s distinctive ramen, there’s no better place to pause than “laboratoire de patisserie” Waffle Common. Dessert waffles are a big trend in Japan right now – seems like I notice new stores or menu entries popping up every couple of weeks here in Hiroshima – but Common’s delights float far above the norm, despite the restaurant’s quirky name. Homemade ice cream and fruit preserves perfectly compliment glorious golden waffles that are crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside; also not to be missed are their signature soft drinks, particularly the astonishingly refreshing “lime squash,” which is available seasonally.

A little further along the same road, past Common’s umbrella-shaded outdoor tables and the ropeway station, is a trailhead for the Old Temple Trail/Path of Literature hike. This a steep but rewarding climb through a pine forest, studded with huge rocks bearing inscriptions of Japanese poems and prose passages about Onomichi. You can read more on these popular sightseeing routes here and here: as no English translations are available, you might want to brush up on your Japanese classics before trying to read the markers.

      
(all photos above by Matsumoto Azusa)

Which option you choose to reach the mountaintop depends on your time and interests, but particularly if you’ve never been on one before, I recommend the ropeway for the trip upwards. Mountainous Western Japan has several of these little floating gondola attractions – including one in Iwakuni, and a breathtaking double-track above the World Heritage Site on Miyajima – and they always offer a unique perspective on the landscape that I really enjoy. (Randomly, if you’d like to see a list of all the ropeways in Japan, check this Wiki list.)

Senkoji Park is the single biggest attraction in Onomichi, particularly during April’s cherry blossoms. The area where you alight from the ropeway houses an art museum, and an observatory rising like a UFO from the peak. There’s a restaurant inside the structure with ice cream and cheap eats, but it’s best to just climb to the top for a free panorama of the Shin-Onomichi Bridge and surrounding islands. On a clear day you can see Shikoku!

   
(right photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

Senkoji itself, a Shingon (Esoteric Buddhist) temple which lends its name to both the park and the mountain, lies a little further along from the observatory on a well-marked path. The name means “Temple of a Thousand Lights,” and alludes to several of its most famous points, particularly the distinctive round Jewel Stone perched on an outcrop hanging over the cliff. This globe of rock is not the original: according to legend, in ancient times the position was occupied by a mysterious ball that emitted flashes of light so bright and piercing they could be seen across the ocean. The mystic natural ‘lighthouse’ was famous enough that a faraway country’s king sent an expedition off to retrieve the treasure. His men, after searching for decades and having their numbers reduced to only two through trial and illness, eventually located the prize – only to drop it into the sea by accident while loading their boat for the trip home. Afterward, for the sake of other ships navigating the harbor, the glowing jewel was replaced by a bonfire; later still the present stone ball was put into place, bathed in the shine of multicolored electric lamps. You can view a little Flash movie of the legend by clicking the picture on this page.

(photo by Gary Thompson)

(photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

(photo by Gary Thompson)

Continuing straight down the main path through the middle of the park eventually leads away from the bubbling crowds that swirl around Senkoji. Leaving behind the attractions of the mountaintop’s landscaped central areas reveals a decidedly mysterious – and, to me, far more interesting – section of town: the incredibly steep, narrow pathways and fascinatingly dilapidated dwellings of the neglected historic quarter. Much of the area below Senkoji Park was built up during the Meiji and Taisho Eras (1868-1926) when Onomichi stood at the height of its shipbuilding prosperity; in sharp contrast to the lively but rather sanitized atmosphere of the park itself, the tiny crooked streets of the old hillside neighborhoods form a silent maze that breathes of adventure for those interested in exploring beyond the edges of the tourist map. The gateway to Onomichi’s secret, twilight spaces is ironically announced by a towering structure that can be seen in almost all directions: Onomichi Castle.

According to the Japanese Wiki entry, Onomichi-jo, more properly called the “Country-wide Castle Museum,” was erected in 1964 as a sightseeing attraction to anchor the west side of Senkoji Park. Although the town did have its own authentic ruins dating from the Warring States Period, thanks to the imposing influence of neighboring Fukuyama’s castle, the tourist board instead approved a plan to construct the museum based on the appearance of Hirosaki’s more impressive donjon. The three-story concrete structure, despite its intention to be a symbol of the town, was considered by some to be a blight on the landscape due to its lack of genuine historical significance.

In 1990, the museum closed. According to a local Onomichi friend, this is because when its visionary and owner passed away, the family’s son had no interest in maintaining his father’s dream and simply left it to crumble – a story oft-repeated regarding the numerous abandoned buildings of the old district sitting in the castle’s shadow, as well. The city has debated about possible uses for the place ever since, with no conclusion in sight. As it stands now, the tile-roofed, vine-wrapped tower has a haunting ambiance all its own. From its surroundings, which include a struggling hotel, shuttered restaurants, broken street-lanterns and another, much-rusted observatory platform, it is obvious how much the museum was expected to act as an attractor on par with Senkoji. A lone statue, still clad in his medieval guard outfit, continues to stand guard in front of the castle’s main entrance, looking stoically out over the beautiful view of the harbor.

Coming down the increasingly slender path from the appropriately empty castle puts you right in among the tight-packed homes of the historic district – and their ghostly reflections known as akiya, simply “empty houses.” Onomichi has more than 500 abandoned residences, and a large concentration of them are here; some are so pristine it’s difficult to tell that they’ve been shut up for good, while others attest to their status through holes in the roof, tumbledown walls, and overrun gardens. Peeking in windows or the occasional unlocked door reveals that a great number have been left partially or even fully furnished. I have heard several tentative explanation for this phenomenon: Japan’s death and inheritance taxes are so high it may be prohibitively expensive to take possession of a large house or expensive property, as detailed here and here; the structures need more repair than they’re worth; living in the countryside is so undesirable that no one will move in. Doubtless there’s validity to these and many more reasons, but here in Onomichi simply discarding the structures and their lovely views seems like a particular waste.

The overall sad state of affairs with abandoned houses has fortunately provoked several movements to stop the decay and preserve the unique character of the historic quarter. One of the most visible is a non-profit organization which promotes Onomichi as an artist colony, organizing exhibitions and fostering businesses which utilize and repair the town’s heritage: the Onomichi Empty House Restoration Project. Some of their success stories/current projects can be found on this page. Similarly, there’s AIR Onomichi, which stands for “Artists In Residence” and reflects their interest in having people renovate the houses they adopt with modern art sensibilities; an English blog entry about one of their undertakings can be found here, with further information here.

The historic neighborhood on the hillside can offer hours of adventure, and there are so many paths through it, a true explorer could take days to investigate every tiny lane, alley and switchback. Fortunately, once you get tired, it’s a fairly simple matter to return to “civilization” and the train station down below: just keep heading downhill.

Overall, the predominant feeling one has while in Onomichi is tilting one’s head to look up. The Senkoji neighborhood stairs are serious business (as you can see from the final gallery below, some of them seem to defy both imagination and physics) but there’s also the joyous sway of the ropeway, the clouds that kite above the harbor, the castle’s looming tinge of sadness, and even the modern swoop of the white bridge in the distance. This place’s dualities – hillside and harbor, old and new, bustle and neglect – are what give it such distinct, flying charm that you want to crane your neck toward everything at once. Personally, I can only hope that the town’s promise as an art colony blooms, and the future of its mystery-touched historical district follows suit with the soaring feeling you get when leaning out over Onomichi’s cliffside heart.

Further reading:
Anime Pilgrimage #1: Visiting The Land of the Gods
Secret Japan: Onomichi
Onomichi Tourist Association/Yokoso Japan’s “Ononavi”
Onomichi City English Information

Even though my time as English teaching assistant at Hiroshima Jogakuin is over and a lot of my friends have now moved on to other things via graduation and finishing study abroad, I still hold a lot of affection for this little patch of town we got to share. I’ll be enjoying it for one more semester as an HJU research student; a few days ago I moved to a new apartment just up the road from where I was previously. The view from my new window is the last picture in the slide show.

I had heard of this event even before I came to Japan. It is something of a local legend for two reasons. The holy World Heritage scenery of Miyajima’s famous floating torii is back-lit by colorful explosions, making it one of the most unique locations for fireworks on the planet. But the crowds of people that pack the shores of the island for the experience are of fabled proportions as well, and that makes an expedition not something to be undertaken lightly – especially when it’s as hot as Japan in August gets!

With these cautions in mind, I set out early in the morning, and arrived on the island with pre-packed food and water around eleven thirty. Even eight hours before the show, most of the good spots were occupied by tarps and tents filled with party-goers. Since staking your claim the day before is forbidden, I dread to think what time some of these visitors came… However, being only one person, I was able to squeeze into a tiny patch of prime real estate along the right side of the bay, dead-center in front of the Floating Torii.

Surprisingly, the entire half-circle of the bank around Itsukushima Shrine is free general seating, first come first serve – don’t let anyone tell you you have to pay to sit there, just throw down something to mark your spot in the dirt. The only reservation locations are further back, toward the ferry port, sectioned off by a chainlink fence; not even in a very good place if you ask me.

Surrounded by “professional” photography hobbyists, I was glad I had a tripod so I could pretend to fit in! I was also gratified to note that not five feet away was a Miyajima staff picture taker, and almost all the passerby stopped right in front of me to snap shots of their friends with the torii, so I knew I had a really prime location.
                                                                                                                                                                                                 Eight hours is a long time to wait in the heat and the dust along the roadside, but among the photographers there was a sense of communal forbearance. We all ate our snacks, chatted a little, and slept through the heat of the day together shielded by our umbrellas, so I felt safe leaving my baggage at my campsite and wandering around when I needed a stretch. I was also lucky enough to be next to one of the shore’s stone lanterns, so I was able to lean against it and relax most of the time. The delicious smells from the festival food stalls nearby – fried chicken, french fries, mini cakes – did drive me a little crazy though.

As showtime approached, people gathered up behind us six or seven rows deep; as the tide went out of the estuary, others started wading into the beach beneath the Ootorii as well. I saw several tripods with their feet actually planted in the receding water. The sunset was a beautiful pink that most of the photographers around me snapped “practice” pictures of to get their (sometimes multiple per-person) cameras lined up correctly. With only my little point-and-shoot to my name, I was almost too embarrassed to take it out of my bag…

I can’t accurately describe in words what the fireworks themselves were like. They were the biggest and most unique I’ve ever seen. Hiroshima is famous for “shaped” fireworks that shoot out into the forms of maple leaves, fish, birds, and butterflies; these were spectacular but extremely hard to catch on film. You’ll just have to come see them for yourself! There were also clusterbombs which went off in multiple bursts, color-changers, rings, chrysanthemums… The light fountains surging from behind the torii were perhaps the most impressive, due to sheer size. Have a look at the gallery (click to enlarge any picture,) and the video I took of the finale, below. Suffice it to say, these were fireworks worth a whole day’s wait, and then some!

Here’s the finale video – sorry the camera’s crooked half the time, I was busy watching!

The JR San’yo Main Line runs straight through the middle of town, tracks curving away beneath rusted iron pedestrian bridges. The bisection clearly delineates the boundary between quietly crumbling old quarter and quaint, lively harbor; seeing the trains clack by at eye-level is considered by many to be one of Onomichi’s classically distinctive points. Most commuter JR services actually quit a few stations away, however, leaving this port just shy of the beaten track. (If you are making the one and a half hour trip from Hiroshima, take a San’yo Main Line train toward Itozaki or Mihara; transfer to an Okayama-bound 快速 Kaisoku all-stops train at either of these locations. The more distant Shinkansen platform, also skipped over by two of the three “bullet train” services, is far from sight and mind in Onomichi proper but served by a 20-minute bus ride.)

   

Those trains that do eventually come in through Onomichi-Eki arrive beneath the shadow of a Japanese castle, Onomichi-jo. But despite its imposing appearance, the building is actually a manufactured concrete museum – and it currently stands empty and abandoned on its iconic mountain perch. It has suffered the same fate as an appalling number of other grand buildings on the more historic hillside below: left to the elements by a neglectful younger generation after parents and grandparents passed away, Onomichi Castle is now only a marker of Japan’s long and well-documented slide toward rural depopulation (check the articles here and here.)

 The main shopping street, an angular relic which still shows flashes of 1900s glory, has also seen better days. Fortunately, signs of both survival and revival are pushing up here in one of the most heavily-trafficked areas of town. Many of the stores in the strip of shotengai arcades leading to and from the train station offer fascinating glimpses into “retro” Japan, as well as shopping experiences that can’t be had anywhere outside of Onomichi. Even a casually curious stroller is likely to discover their own secret gems in the alleyways, but don’t miss some of the recommended stops below. (To get to the main entrance of the tunnel-like trail of stores, cross the left-hand branch of the intersection in front of the station’s central exit, and keep heading left along the road, about a block. Once you see the shotengai gate on the right, you’ll be able to find almost all of the locations below by continuing to walk straight, under the series of roofs.)
                                                                                                                                                                                                      The front of 大和湯 Yamato-yu is a rather imposingly sculpted gray concrete facade, double doorway and fluttering shop curtain subtly hinting at the building’s original function: it used to house a sento, a place where Japan’s vaunted social custom of public bathing could be celebrated. Although you can’t scrub clean here these days, there’s still refreshment to be had from the combination restaurant/souvenir store Yamato-yu has transformed into.

Nearly all of the products on display when you enter the old bath’s lobby are locally made snacks and crafts. Especially notable are the manjuu stacked in yellow-orange boxes, at the end of the counter to the left from the doors: flavored with a famous citrus fruit grown nearby, each tiny bun-like confection is hand-shaped by a patissier in town, and holds both the sweet savor and delicate bitterness of the unique Japanese hassaku.

You can see more pictures of Yamato-yu on the Japanese food & travel blog here. According to Korikori-san’s writing, this bathhouse was actually active up until the first year of the current Heisei Era, 1989 by Gregorian calendar reckoning. The wooden cabinets against the walls are beautiful old lockers which used to house customers’ clothing while they were enjoying a soak.
 

In business since the end of the Meiji Era, ちょうちんの山さき Chochin no Yamazaki‘s front window proudly displays some of their unique and beautiful wares: traditional Japanese lanterns and paper umbrellas. This shop offers chochin and wagasa carefully handmade by second- and third-generation craftsmen, constructed using time-honored methods and materials at reasonable prices. Given the prevalence of plastic, metal, and made-in-China facsimiles these days, it’s a rare chance to buy a popular and authentic souvenir right from the hands of the person who made it. There are also “rescued” antique lanterns on display that the owner will be happy to tell you the provenance of – just bear in mind, not all of the tattered relics inside are for sale, since this place does repairs as well and some “patients” are just waiting their turn. The shop itself is crowded with hanging samples in all stages of production (watch your head); due to the scarcity of real lantern-makers in this day and age, Yamazaki gets business from all over Japan, and subsists largely on custom orders from shrines, temples, and restaurants. It’s really worth stopping by just to have a peek at all the different shapes, sizes, and colors of paper globes dangling from the ceiling.

Another iconic Onomichi establishment is Chai Salon Dragon, a tiny four-seat artisan cafe marketing a delicious new line of home-brewed drinks (click the name link for a zoom-able map, as it’s tucked into an alley just off the shotengai path.) Fusing spiced tea and sweet cider soda, Dragon’s trademark chaider is slowly gaining popularity in the Hiroshima area, and is great to sip here at the Onomichi source. While the green tea version is being marketed as the most “Japanese” product, I prefer the original orange Carp Chaider, black tea plus passionfruit. Murakami-san, the young proprietor of the salon, speaks excellent English, and his drinks-and-cake cafe is full of friendly ambiance – stopping in is virtually guaranteed to win you some interesting conversations with local passerby, given the comfortably close quarters of the atelier if nothing else. If a hand-made glass of chaider or rubbing elbows with your neighbor doesn’t appeal, there are a lot of other liquid refreshments on the menu as well, and all of them are available for take-out at the front window.
 

(photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

By far the most famous place in town to eat said soup is Shu Ka En, a small twenty-seat restaurant just off the shotengai strip. I’ve included a map below, but it’s pretty darn easy to spot – just look for the tremendous line of people that spills from the front door out into the street around meal times. Come early for dinner if you want to be sure you can get some of this admittedly heavenly dish; shifting customers in and out as fast as they do, the place regularly hands off their last serving before eight. It should be noted that dining here is not really about ambiance, it’s about flavor (as well as the prestige of saying you got in!) Plenty of other places will gladly surrender some of the city’s signature noodles too, but at Shu Ka En you can really taste the differences that distinguish Onomichi ramen from similar bowls elsewhere.

View Larger Map

今川玉香園茶舗 Imagawa Gyokouen Chaho is another Onomichi classic, owned and operated by multiple generations of the same family since 1878 (check here for a map, as it’s just off the roofed path of the shotengai.) Half of the shop is glass cases, which house beautiful ceramics and instruments for tea ceremony; the other section offers a wide-ranging selection of Japan’s quintessential beverage, ocha. If you like tea or are even mildly curious about it, this place is not to be missed: during the day they even run a small cafe inside the renovated kura storehouse next door.

(photo by Gary Thompson)

Blends and styles from all over the country are available from the shopfront, depending on the owner’s taste and what’s at peak during the growing season; when we visited in late April, we happened to be within the coveted two-week period during which the newest and freshest of the year’s tea crop is for sale. (For about fourteen days only, the leaves referred to as shincha or ichibancha have an extra special, bitter and grassy taste which can only be savored soon after they are picked.) Also recommended and even more unique to this shop is “Onomichi koucha,” black tea varieties blended and processed right in town – everything down to the packaging is local, as the cat logos on the tins were designed by a neighborhood art school graduate.

(photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

The current proprietor of Gyokouen, Imagawa-san, is a kind, friendly world traveler who understands English and knows an incredible amount about tea; if the shop isn’t busy and you ask nicely, you might be able to sit at the small table in back and have a round of professionally conducted tastings. Aided by Imagawa-san’s impeccable brewing skills and insightful commentary, we got to try everything from that new ichibancha to a 10-year-old vintage – yes, tea can be aged like wine, and it results in similarly complex flavoring.

(photo by Matsumoto Azusa)

 
Just can’t get enough of Onomichi? Then stay tuned, the exploration of this quirky and lovely seaside town continues in the next post, “The Cliff Dwellings of Onomichi.”