Tag Archives: Famous landmarks

A Flood Day to Dry Hard

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The news tells me that today there is an excessive heat warning in place in Wakayama. My oh-so-reliable weather application tells me that it will be cloudy all day. The gods split the difference. As I exit the bus unprepared for anything other than heat or cloud, the heavens split open in a thunderous rage of fury.

I am at Kumano-Nachi Taisha. As the thunder rolls over the sky I manage to take just one photograph of a torii gate and the mountains beyond, right then, before the rain catches up with the thunder. Luckily for me, there is a shop, so I enter, purchase, then poncho up.

I duck inside the Treasure Hall. No photos allowed, but I explore freely. I wrote about the Nachi Pilgrimage Mandala yesterday, but seeing the real thing up close is something else. I enjoy the other art, artefacts, simple objects from a time lost in the past. Most of the treasures here were discovered in 1918, but are from around the 10th century, with the shrine itself being 1,700 years old.

Stepping out of the Treasure Hall, the rain has intensified fivefold, and some of the ground has already flooded. People cower with umbrellas.

The rainwater crashes down and smashes into the roof of the shrine like a torrent of broken glass, slicing through the air with a merciless, unyielding force. I have never experienced rain like it. The raindrops actually hurt.

I came for the waterfall. Or so I believed. Right now, I feel like I’m inside one. I struggle to see where the waterfall could even be in comparison to the falling water. A monk passes me, dressed in dark blue. He carries an umbrella and seamlessly manoeuvres the flooding and the puddles, calm as you like.

Legend has it that the first emperor of Japan, Emperor Jinmu, found the waterfalls when his boat landed on the Kii Peninsula and he saw something shining in the mountains. At the time, he had been following a Yatagarasu (a mythical three-legged crow sent by the gods as a guide).

I follow the path down the mountain toward Nachi Falls. The sky bellows with more thunder, the road is full of water. Am I walking in the rain? Or am I swimming in a river? At points the water is knee-high. The drains can’t handle it. I can barely handle it, but I persevere.

I make it to the pagoda view, the one that’s often featured on the cover of a largely poorly written guidebook. They’ve never featured it in the rain. I enjoy my photograph very much.

Beside the pagoda sits a big statue of Hotei. God of fortune. The Laughing Buddha. Naturally, despite my soaking wet legs and shoes and inability to understand the point of it all, I rub his massive belly. Good luck and prosperity coming my way, again.

I venture on, down flooded sloped paths and dangerous steps, and eventually, I do arrive at Nachi Falls. The heavier rain drowns out the sound of the waterfall. There’s a story of some star-crossed lovers that leapt from the top of the waterfall in the belief that they would be reborn into Kannon’s paradise. I also know that this is one of the Top Three Waterfalls in Japan, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and also plummets 133 metres, making it the tallest in Japan.

I head down some slippery steps, careful to hold the handrail. Below, the waterfall itself. Having already taken a spectacular photograph of the rain-soaked pagoda pavilion with Nachi Falls as a backdrop, I find it to be immensely difficult to capture the waterfall from up close, due to the intense rain and heavy flooding.

I stumble back up stone steps to a bus stop. Typically, upon arriving back at Kii-Katsuura Station, the rain suddenly stops. At the Turtle Boat back to my hotel, I stand at the dock. A Japanese salaryman stands beside me, perfectly dry. He glances at my poncho and then at the sky.

From the boat, I see a crow in the air. It looks as though it has three legs, but it’s just the tail feathers, fanned out in silhouette against the sky. Something that could easily be mistaken for three legs.

Back at the hotel, I hairdryer my shoes for two hours whilst waiting for my laundry to wash and dry, before heading out in search of a crow to photograph. In the end, all I find is this lousy t-shirt.

Life of Pipes

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I’ve finally decided to visit Hokkaido Prefecture, specifically Sapporo, the capital of northern Japan. The area I’m staying in over the next few days is seemingly charming. The first thing I notice about it is the open spaces. Then the neat symmetry of the streets. Then the pipes.

The nearby Odori Park slices across twelve neatly gridded blocks. There’s a river, a large red-brick mansion, and an illuminated TV Tower looming at exactly 147.2 metres in height: Sapporo’s artificial Polaris.

My first destination today is a bit of a hidden gem. So hidden in fact that the building itself is only identifiable by a single blue water droplet painted on its side. A grey concrete block of a structure in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the city. To find it, I am told to just follow the Soseigawa River. If you haven’t guessed it yet, the place I’m looking for is the Sapporo Sewerage Science Museum.

I don’t notice the single blue water droplet painted on the side of the building. What I notice instead is the stench; the kind that makes you immediately try to locate the source. Which, in this case, is the Soseigawa Wastewater Treatment Plant: right next door.

Inside the museum, there is nobody around. It’s actually free admission so I freely explore some of the exhibits. I quickly discover that there are mascots everywhere. There is a bacteria mascot, a sludge mascot, an activated sludge mascot, and a pipe-shaped mascot sporting sunglasses named Dr. Pipe. The water droplet is the star of the show and its name is Kurin-chan. There are no further details or backstories for any of the mascots.

The museum features a huge panorama theatre with empty seats, the movie they are showing today is called “Where Sewage Goes” and is an animated educational video. There’s a detailed diorama of the seemingly charming Odori area of Sapporo. Underneath the model of the city are drawers that can be pulled out to reveal the fascinating inner workings of Sapporo’s sewerage system.

I imagine children would love this place and its various petri dishes of animal fæces and eleven interactive games (some genuinely quite fun) where you can train to be an Operations and Maintenance Master, a Sewage Pipe Cleaning Master, or even a Sludge Treatment Master. There’s also a massive decorated pipe with artwork seemingly unrelated to the other parts of the museum.

Speaking of hands-on activities and pipes, the museum also features an 800-year old decommissioned sewer pipe that you can touch anywhere you like. I decide to only touch the outside of the pipe. I sanitise my hands and wave goodbye to Kurin-chan as I leave for the station.

In a city called Sapporo, it’s almost impossible to avoid seeing signs, sponsorships, and advertisements for a beer company that shares the city’s name: Sapporo. So, moving from one thing that comes out of pipes to another, I just hope this one tastes markedly better.

Founded in 1876 by German-trained brewers, Sapporo Beer survived relocation, stereotypes, and wartime censorship. The Tokyo facility was shut down for reasons that may or may not involve pipes. A year later, the first beer was delivered in boxes of ice back to Tokyo, and the years that followed saw Sapporo Beer’s popularity begin to soar across Japan.

As I enter the Sapporo Beer Museum I am instantly struck by the size of the massive gold Walt Pan. Used from 1965 to 2003, this historic steel sphere is capable of brewing 280,000 cans of beer at once. For context, that’s 280,000 cans of beer. A sign at the bottom of the ramp politely asks: “Please do not climb on the Walt Pan.”

In 1908, Sapporo Beer began using geisha in its advertisements, an image later viewed as stereotypical. All advertising ceased in the late 1930s for unclear reasons. When it resumed in the mid-1940s, the geisha were gone, replaced by more glamorous and recognisable stars.

As I leave the museum I exit into a roped-off line of people queueing to buy tickets for beer at a vending machine. I pay ¥450 for a ticket that I then exchange for a small 240ml glass of beer. I don’t mind though, it tastes very good and makes for a great photograph.

In Japan, there’s a concept called wabi-sabi. It’s hard to explain, but that photograph of my small 240ml beer does a decent job. The lighting is perfect, the glass pristine, the faded backdrop of a crowd of people in the beer hall, but something is out of place: a bubble, or the absence of a bubble. One missing pixel at the top of the glass. An imperfection. But for wabi-sabi, that bubble is a missing thing of beauty.

I take two sips of beer and realise my glass is empty, so decide to move on to my final stop of the day: the Mount Moiwa Ropeway. Unironically, right next to the ropeway is the Sapporo Waterworks Memorial Museum (more pipes). Luckily, it’s long closed today, so I admire the exterior and move on.

I pay ¥1900 and enter the ropeway. I am carried alone, lifted above the city, above the pipes, and past the skyline’s edges. The sun to the west sets behind the Shokanbetsu mountain range. I read a sign stating that Mount Moiwa has one of the three best night views in all Japan; at sunset, the view from the gondola is already stunning.

At the top, I await the gloaming. As the darkness of night blankets the city below, Sapporo shrinks and becomes less of a grid, and more of a circuit board of blinking lights. What makes the view even more satisfying is drinking my 500ml can of Sapporo Beer, whilst relaxing, staring down at the connected lights of my day below me, as I enjoy the moment.

Earlier today, I touched an 800-year-old sewer pipe that once carried the waste of people who don’t exist. I watched beer pour from a golden pipe into a glass, and now, I’m looking out at a city of interconnected lights.

I take in the view. Breathtaking. Yet all I can think about is that pipe. The one with the sunglasses.

Good News About Hell

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In the far north of Japan, where the land is as silent as the dead, there is a mountain where nothing grows. A place where souls hesitate. Osorezan, one of the three most sacred sites in Japan, is known by another name: the Jaws of Hell.

I often find myself drawn to stories of mortality and the afterworld. Today, I will glimpse into the hellscape of a Buddhist afterlife.

Sacred Mount Osorezan seen from the base, shrouded in cloud and myth, believed to be a path to the underworld.

Before I reach the summit, I come across Osorezan Reisui, a fountain flowing with cold, clear water. It looks like a typical purification site, but legend has it that drinking the water from this spring will make you ten years younger.

Desperate to claw back lost time, I reach for the water, drink from its flow, and fill up my water bottle before continuing the climb.

Lush spring of Osorezan Reisui, legendary fountain said to make visitors ten years younger with a single sip.

Further up, the trees and grass make way for shale and volcanic glass, and it is dry. There has been no rain of late to keep the dust down, so with every step the sulphurous ash creates clouds under my feet. Some gets into my mouth, and I choke. Luckily, I still have water from the fountain of youth, so I wash away the bitterness and the years before carrying on.

Higher up, the mountain opens its mouth wide. Nothing moves. There are no roots. There are no birds. Just the crunch of my footsteps echoes through the wasteland. Everything else is… still.

Desolate volcanic wasteland of Mount Osorezan in northern Japan, sacred Buddhist site known as the gateway to hell.

In the distance, Lake Usori lies in eerie repose, a lake of poison. The acidity is so high that nothing can live here. Even the wind seems unwilling to touch the surface, but I am.

Kneeling, I dip my hand into the water. A freezing chill shoots up my arm. For a moment, the water feels alive, tightening impossibly around my fingers. Not liquid, but something with intent. I wrench my hand away, breath unsteady, as if something almost followed me out.

Eerie, acidic waters of Lake Usori in Aomori Prefecture, Japan—still and lifeless, at the heart of Osorezan.

I remain kneeling a while longer, lost terribly in thought. I watch as the ripples in the lake distort my own reflection. I see not just my face, but the faces of every version of myself I’ve left behind. I watch them shifting, like a shimmer of sorts. I take a deep breath, stand up, and walk away, before something walks away with me.

Draining from Lake Usori is the Sanzu River; its waters flowing silently, black and sluggish, like blood oozing from a wound that will never heal. It is at this river the dead must cross to move into the next world. The journey across this river reflects the life one has led: the good cross by bridge, the average wade through the shallows, and the bad must swim amongst the river’s monsters.

Red bridge over the Sanzu River at Osorezan, symbolising the soul’s crossing into the afterlife in Japanese Buddhist lore.

I watch the river for a time, wondering which path I would take. I approach the bridge, its red painted wood the only colour I’ve seen up on this mountain. I take a step toward it, but something inside me pulls back. Not fear or superstition; just a quiet, sinking knowledge that maybe I was here before, and I don’t think I should be here again.

Along the riverbed, piles of pebbles litter the landscape, said to have been stacked by the spirits of unborn children or those who died young. These children build piles of rocks as an offering to Buddha, only to have demons knock them down, condemning the children to rebuild over and over, for eternity; forever trapped in the netherworld, unable to transcend.

Gravel mound with windmills at Osorezan, symbolizing unborn children stacking stones in the Buddhist afterlife.

Not far from the river stands Bodaiji Temple, where monks pray for the lost souls who wander Osorezan. After all the stories of sorrow, the temple stands as the only promise of mercy.

Inside, the air hums with low chants. The scent of incense curls through the dim light, thick as fog, as if the prayers themselves are rising. The monks recite sutras; their voices steady. For all the suffering that lingers in the air, this place feels… still.

Entrance to Bodaiji Temple at Osorezan, where monks pray for lost souls in Japan’s most haunted Buddhist sanctuary.

As the sky darkens, bruised and swollen with the weight of a coming storm, I take one last look at Osorezan. The myths here aren’t just stories. They are things we carry. Things we live. The demons at the river are the silent battles fought in hospital beds. The pebbles are the burdens we carry and rebuild, again and again. And the river, the slow, black current, is the harrowing divide between despair and hope; a crossing that everyone must face.

I turn away and begin my descent.

Dark storm clouds gather over Mount Osorezan—an ominous sky reflecting Japan’s Buddhist land of the dead.

Back at my hotel, an old building stitched together with crumbling wallpaper and tired walls, I try to relax, but the lights buzz like a wasp in a lampshade, and the floorboards creak even when I’m not moving, as if something beneath them is shifting.

I turn on the television. The screen blinks to life; the world rushes back in, bright, absurd, relentless. A puppet show flickers on, but the puppets are just human hands wearing tiny masks. They bow, expressionless. The audience laughs. I change the channel. Static hums for a second too long. An old woman in a blindfold stumbles through a collapsing obstacle course. Laughter again, louder this time. The world keeps moving. Always moving. And I am here… still.

I change one last time. A man in a bear costume is balancing ramen bowls on his head whilst a studio audience screams. I turn the TV off. Hell can wait.

Outside my window, the mountain holds its breath. Somewhere, beneath the floorboards, the dead keep stacking stones.

Unusual Occurrences in the Desert

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My breath rises in a twisting vortex of white as I stand at the platform of Matsue Station. The temperature hovers at zero on this early winter morning, and condensation drips from the pipes overhead. The chill in the air is palpable, and I can feel it seeping into my bones.

In Japan, no matter where I travel, I can be certain that I will come across iconic landmarks, picturesque bridges, majestic mountains, and ancient shrines. Today, my journey begins with a visit to the oldest shrine in the country, a place rich in history and tradition.

Izumo-taisha, also known as Izumo Grand Shrine, has a history dating back over 2,000 years. As I pass through a large torii gate the sun comes out, and despite the chill still lingering in the air, it begins to warm up, much to my delight.

The main shrine is located in the city of Izumo in Shimane Prefecture and it is dedicated to the god Okuninushi, who is the god of marriage and prosperity in Japanese mythology. The shrine’s main hall, known as the “Taisha”, is made of cypress wood and is one of the oldest structures in Japan. The shrine is so sacred that it’s said that all the other gods from all the other shrines from all over Japan meet up here every year for the entirety of October to hang out. This month is known across the country as the month without gods.

After wandering the shrine complex for a while, I return to the main road where I find small local shops selling ice cream, fish-shaped waffles, and powdered green tea rice cakes. The atmosphere is peaceful, and I decide to walk the length of the street, taking in the many stores and restaurants. After that, I arrive at the nearest train station. I need to travel three hours now to see a bridge.

The morning chill is now long gone, as I begin my walk to Eshima Ohashi Bridge, the weather is completely different from my cold start, 16 degrees and a clear blue sky greet me. As I reach the bridge I’m taken aback, much like the weather today, this bridge also defies reality, its unusual shape creates an optical illusion, like a twisted mirage, and it makes it seem as though the cars could quite easily fall off the road.

I cross the Eshima Ohashi Bridge over Lake Nakaumi. The bridge took seven years to build, and it is the largest rigid-frame bridge in Japan. It connects Shimane Prefecture to Tottori Prefecture, and as I traverse its frame, the clear sky allows for a great view of Mount Daisen, a dormant stratovolcano. At 1,709 metres tall, it is the highest mountain in this region of Japan.

The mountain is an impressive sight, so I cross into Tottori, walk to the nearest train station, then take a train towards Mount Daisen for a better view, hoping to get a rare shot of it from the streets below. I do just that. The mountain is breathtaking from here, its snow-capped peak resembles Mount Fuji.

Having now visited a mountain, bridge, and shrine, I decide to find out what else Tottori has to offer. It turns out that Tottori is home to the only large desert in Japan. From Tottori Station, I have to walk for a little under six kilometres. Having wasted a lot of my day taking trains around the country, I have two pressing concerns. The first being that my phone battery is almost dead – I took far too many photographs of the bridge and mountain. The second concern is that it will be dark soon, and a desert at night, I imagine, isn’t going to be very photogenic.

As I cross the Fukuro River, one of my concerns is confirmed, as I watch the sun begin to set above Lake Koyama, and darkness begins to engulf the sky. I have to pass through a tunnelled underpass for vehicles, dimly lit and without a footpath.

Eventually, I see a sign for Tottori Sand Dunes, and check my phone to find that I’m at one percent battery. The desert here is home to the largest sand dunes in Japan, stretching for 16 kilometres along the coast of the Japan Sea. The dunes are a unique geological formation, created by sediment being transported by the nearby Sendai River and deposited on the coast over thousands of years. The dunes are constantly changing shape due to the wind and weather. In the summer, there are even camels here to ride.

As I take out my camera to snap a photograph of the desert, my phone turns off. I’m not sure if I even captured the single photograph, and feel I might have made a wasted journey. Further darkness begins to cloud the air, and after walking on sand for a time, the chill from earlier returns, and at some point it begins to snow. I decide it’s probably a good time to head back to where I’m staying tonight in Matsue.

I pass back through the dimly lit underpass and try to retrace my steps back to the station, I look for street signs, but it seems as though they’ve deserted me, all maps and directions to Tottori Station seemingly removed at night, leaving me lost in the dark, and freezing in the snow, and experiencing yet another season on an unpredictable day. I see a man on his bicycle and ask him for directions. He takes out his phone, brings up a map, and tells me to go straight. So I go straight.

Eventually, I arrive back at Tottori Station and get the train to Matsue. I’ve completely lost count as to how many trains I’ve taken today, I think it’s twelve. At Matsue Station, there is no sign of any snow. Relieved, I return to my hotel to charge my phone before heading out for some food. On the way, I pass a piano on the street and decide to have a play.

As my fingers grace the keys of the piano, I am enveloped in a symphony of sound. The notes swirl around me like a gentle snowfall. I play on until my hands are numb with cold.

Marriage on the Rocks

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As the dawn breaks, I set out for Himeji, Hyogo Prefecture, my ultimate destination: a resplendent castle, the most visited in all of Japan and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I had previously visited this castle back in 2012, but the main building was undergoing maintenance work at the time, and I was unable to catch a glimpse of its splendour. Instead, the cladding around the castle featured an image of its future state, once the five-year renovation of its roof and walls was finally complete. Today, I get to finally see the future for myself.

Leaving Himeji Station, I stroll along Otemae Street, a kilometre-long street running between the station and the castle. This charming street is lined with shops and restaurants, and the trees are neatly arranged on either side, their branches reaching skyward in a wild, untamed fashion. The empty roads are absent of cars, providing an unobstructed view of Himeji Castle, which rests atop a distant hill like a sentinel of the past.

Himeji Castle has earned itself the nickname “White Heron Castle,” due to its supposed resemblance to a bird taking flight, and because it is strikingly white. For the last 400 years, Himeji Castle has survived bombing during World War II and a multitude of devastating earthquakes and typhoons. It remains one of Japan’s best examples of 17th-century castle architecture.

The castle and its sprawling network of 83 buildings and gardens stretch across a vast expanse of 233 hectares. Even though I have visited before, the sheer size of the castle, along with the impeccably maintained grounds and gardens, is nothing short of breathtaking. It is a veritable kingdom of history and beauty, a realm that leaves one feeling utterly overwhelmed by its grandeur.

I bid farewell to the castle and embark on a journey by train to Osaka. From there, I transfer to a local line train bound for Ise City, Mie Prefecture. My journey is a long and tedious one, with my train halting at each of the 73 stations along the way, incurring a hefty cost and consuming three gruelling hours. At almost every station, the train is met with silence, as not a soul disembarks or boards. It is a complete waste of time. Halfway into my journey, the train is severed in two, and I am moved to the front carriages by the staff. As my truncated train pulls away, the express train bound for Ise City arrives at the platform, leaving me to rue my misfortune and wonder why this was not disclosed to me earlier.

At last, I arrive at Ise Station, where I must transfer to a local line that operates on a limited schedule, running just once an hour. This train will bring me closer to my ultimate destination. Time is of the essence as I have only six minutes to make the switch, but as if to mock my efforts, my ticket gets swallowed up by the ticket machine at the transfer gate. A loud, flashing red notification blares out the ominous words: ‘Ticket jam! Ticket jam!’ It seems that my luck has taken a turn for the worse.

The staff member takes an age going through each and every intricate mechanism within the machine with a pair of tweezers, trying to find my lost ticket. He won’t wave me through because he can’t confirm that I have paid up to this station, I am stuck waiting for what feels like an eternity, and just as time seems to stand still, I miss my connecting train. After about ten minutes, I receive my ticket and the only solace I take is the fact that I got to see the immense inner workings of a Japanese ticket machine.

With no train for the next hour, I opt to walk the roughly eight kilometres to my destination, braving the ghostly chill in the air as I cross the Isuzu River. Eventually, I arrive at a place known by three different names: Futamiokitama Shrine, Meoto-iwa, and the Wedded Rocks. The rocks sit placidly in the water, with the small torii gate perched atop the larger rock like a crown. The gentle waves of Ise Bay add to the serene atmosphere of the scene.

The larger of the two rocks is said to represent the husband, while the smaller rock represents the wife. These two rocks are connected by a massive, thick rope, which, according to Shintoism, symbolises the unity of marriage between the two most important gods in Japanese mythology, Izanagi and Izanami. On a clear day, one can see the majestic Mount Fuji on the distant horizon, its frosted peaks a breathtaking sight above the graceful rocks below. However, my luck continues to abandon me as Mount Fuji is nowhere to be seen today. Perhaps I’ll see it later.

Seemingly unrelated to the story of Meoto-iwa, I also notice that sculptures of frogs are incredibly popular here – in fact, they seem to be absolutely everywhere!

The frogs here are a rarity, believed to have the power to grant specific wishes – particularly those related to returning home or recovering lost items. The Japanese word for ‘return’ or ‘go home’ is ‘kaeru’, which also happens to be the word for ‘frog’. It seems the presence of all these frog statues is simply because of a play on words. If only I had had one at the station with my lost ticket.

After all of my recent travels, I am completely exhausted and decide to take a break in Tokyo to reconnect with some old friends and participate in the New Year’s celebrations. I board a slow local train heading north to Nagoya, before switching to the high-speed bullet train bound for Tokyo.

From the train, the graceful, snow-capped beauty of Mount Fuji greets me.