Tag Archives: Japanese mythology

Castaways and Cutouts

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There’s a frog at Hiraizumi Station with the title of World Heritage Advertising Manager. His name is Kero-Hira. A speech bubble on the Carnival Cutouts cheerfully instructs, “Make lots of memories and relax!” He stands beside what appears to be a member of the Fujiwara clan riding a horse next to a woman riding a pig.

Today I’ve travelled a little further south, to Iwate Prefecture, in search of old ghosts and even older gold. I’m here to visit Chuson-ji Temple. Stepping past the frog and out of the station, the first thing I notice is the view of rice fields stretching out toward the distant mountains. The second thing I notice is the rack of travel pamphlets for Iwate Prefecture. One of them is familiar. Too familiar. It’s the same pamphlet I wrote ten years ago for a travel company I was working for at that time.

Having never set foot in Iwate Prefecture until now, it feels strange having already written about it in the past. That’s unfortunately how those travel companies operate, stock photographs and regurgitated information. I’m just fortunate enough to be able to visit these places as I am now, and use my own words and my own photographs.

It’s a twenty-minute walk to Chuson-ji Temple but I don’t mind it. The scorching summer sunshine is brutal and the humidity is high. Chuson-ji is a UNESCO World Heritage site that boasts two car parks, so I expect it to be busy. To enter, I must hike about ten minutes up a shaded forest path, lined with lush verdant trees of the cryptomeria variety. If I’m honest, I’m just pleased to be in the shade.

Before the main temple hall, there is Jizo-in, a smaller sub-temple. This temple features a picturesque Japanese garden. However, and as is often the case in life, the moment can’t be truly enjoyed. A man and a woman with leaf blowers fill the splendour of the garden with mechanical shrieking. The serenity is soundtracked by smug futility.

Entry to the Konjikido, or “Golden Hall,” costs ¥1000. It’s unassuming from the outside, just a rectangular building in weathered wood, but inside it’s another world entirely. No photos are allowed. Inside the hall is gilded in gold leaf, with three golden statues of Amida Nyorai flanked by bodhisattvas, all encased in a protective hall to preserve the original 12th-century architecture. The Golden Hall sits inside a larger protective concrete building, almost like a shrine within a shrine, carefully sealed off from time.

Because I couldn’t take any photographs of anything inside the Golden Hall, here is a photograph I took outside the hall, of a golden dragonfly:

On the way out, I draw an omikuji fortune slip. Once again, I pull “Excellent Luck.” I always seem to get the best one. It comes with a small Fortune Arrow trinket that is said to invite happiness and fulfilment of my wish, because an arrow hits the target. I tuck the trinket into my wallet for prosperity and fulfilment, a wish taking aim, and keep reading. It says that on travel, I will have an impactful journey, and that my lucky item is still dried flowers.

As I stand reading my fortune, I hear a voice. “Hey you! Come here,” shouts a Japanese man. I wander over to the man. He appears to be pointing at a large tree. It’s not until he speaks again that I realise what he is pointing at. “Look, a snake,” he says. “Very dangerous.”

After failing to take a decent photograph of a snake crawling into a tree, I wander to the final part of the complex, where the dead have clearly been hard at work. More stacked pebbles. Castaways from another world, trying to build their way back. The resemblance to Osorezan is uncanny. It turns out this temple was founded by Ennin, the same monk.

On the way down, the view opens up to a sweeping panorama of green hills and sky. It is simply stunning.

Leaving Chuson-ji, I walk another twenty minutes through thick heat and dense sunlight to reach Motsu-ji, another World Heritage Site. This will be the third temple this week founded by Ennin, and I have a fourth planned for later this week.

The famous haiku poet Basho visited this temple and left behind a haiku carved into stone:

Summer grasses—
all that remain of
warriors’ dreams.

Motsu-ji was mostly destroyed by fire, and the poem mourns the fallen glory of the Fujiwara clan and the entropy of all things. Since then, some of the buildings have been restored, like the main hall, but many of the structures are just rocks or sticks marking what used to occupy the now empty spaces.

Motsu-ji’s most enduring feature is its Jodo Garden, a symbolic recreation of the Buddhist paradise. It stands in quiet contrast to the ruins around it. The lake, said to evoke the Pure Land, now feels more like a mirror for dreams long since cast away.

I wander into the gardens. Aside from the lake, they are vast yet empty. There’s a small lily garden, the remains of what once was, and some immaculately cut grass. A single lawnmower sits abandoned atop summer grass, having half completed its job. It now lies idle in the heat.

I leave the gardens and return to the station, waving a silent goodbye to Kero-Hira, who is still smiling. I take the train north to Morioka. On the way to my hotel, I spot a sign for “Demon’s Hand Prints in the Rocks.” I decide to check it out.

At the small temple sit three massive boulders, wrapped in rope and chain, said to have been thrown down when Mount Iwate erupted in a fit of rage. Locals once lived in fear of a demon who tormented the area, and they prayed each day for protection. One morning, the demon was discovered bound to these very stones, condemned to cause harm no more. Before his power faded, he struck one of the rocks with his hand, leaving behind a print that remains sealed in stone to this day.

I look at the rocks but don’t find any handprints. I do, to nobody’s surprise, find the customary Carnival Cutouts.

The Girl with the Dragon Taboo

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As I exit the train into Akita Prefecture, my arrival is announced by the lonely trill of a traditional Japanese flute. Inside the station, a taxidermied Asian black bear greets me. I remember that Akita has the largest bear population in all of Japan. Outside, the mountains are lush with greenery and the sky is an æstival blue.

Asian black bear taxidermy display inside Tazawako Station, Akita — a reminder of Japan’s largest bear population.

Today I’m up in the hills of Semboku because I heard a story about a girl, Tatsuko; a beautiful young woman who once glimpsed her own reflection in a mirror-like rock. Fearing her beauty was fleeting, she prayed night after night to Kannon, the goddess of mercy, for eternal youth. One day, she was told her wish would be granted if she simply drank from a sacred spring hidden in the mountains.

Tatsuko found the spring with relative ease, drank from it eagerly, and couldn’t stop. The more she drank, the thirstier she became, until finally she emptied the spring and, in the process, emptied her humanity. She had turned into a dragon. Horrified by her transformation, Tatsuko threw herself into the lake, where she remains as its guardian spirit. I don’t know too much about dragons, but I’m pretty sure they can’t breathe underwater. So sadly, I think whether in human form or dragon form, Tatsuko may have simply drowned.

The tale doesn’t end there though. Tatsuko’s mother apparently searched the hills for days, calling her name until her voice broke. Eventually, in despair, she hurled the burnt remains of her wooden torch into the lake, which, for reasons only folklore and grief can explain, turned into a fish. Specifically, the first black kokanee salmon. Sadly, they became extinct in the 1940s after a hydroelectric plant acidified the lake.

Lake Tazawako is the deepest lake in Japan, which makes it an excellent place to hide a dragon. These days, Japanese trout live here instead of the kokanee salmon, and the waters are thick with them. I’ve never been fishing, but I’m quite confident I could catch one of these with my bare hands. They’re basically queuing at the shoreline.

I check Google Maps to see if there’s anything else nearby, but my GPS insists I’m floating somewhere in the middle of the lake, which feels a little prophetic. I take the hint and wander into the forest instead, all the while being careful to avoid the many bears. Eventually the quiet path leads me to Gozanoishi Shrine.

I stand for a while beneath the torii gate of the shrine, looking out on the lake, looking for any sign of a dragon. The shrine itself is dedicated to Tatsuko and also features a stone statue of her. I wander up the shrine’s steps and pray that her beauty remains.

Torii gate of Gozanoishi Shrine overlooking the deep blue waters of Lake Tazawa in Semboku, Akita Prefecture.

Back at the station, I find an old Kawai piano and sit playing for a while. A Japanese woman keeps glancing over as I play. I’m either performing surprisingly well on a badly out-of-tune piano, or badly out-of-tune on a perfectly tuned piano.

As I step onto the train, I notice a massive dragon across the tracks. When the train begins to move, I sit staring at my water bottle, trying to translate the label. A wave of panicked horror hits me when I realise it says: “Bottled at source: Lake Tazawako Spring.”

Vibrant festival-style dragon float on display at Tazawako Station, echoing the local legend of Tatsuko’s transformation.

I wonder just how long it will be before I transform into a dragon.

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.

Welcome to the World of Mizuki Shigeru

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I stand at Yonago Station, my eyes fixed on the tracks as I await the arrival of my train from Track 0. This station, also known as Ratman Station, is located in Tottori Prefecture near the border of Shimane. The stations on the Sakai Line all have an alternative name, and this one is no exception. As my train arrives, I can’t help but notice the lively characters from the popular anime, GeGeGe no Kitaro, decorating its exterior. The walls are adorned with illustrations of Nekomusume, a supernatural cat known as “Cat Girl,” who, to my surprise, also serves as one of the train’s announcers.

As the train chugs along, it gently rocks back and forth, the sensation akin to being on a ship at sea. Nekomusume is normally a reserved yokai girl, however she is known to shapeshift into a fearsome catlike monster with razor-sharp fangs and piercing eyes, particularly when she is angry or hungry for fish.

Finally, I arrive at the port town of Sakaiminato and get off the train at Babasakicho Station, nicknamed ‘Kijimuna’ meaning Okinawan wood spirits. As I exit the station, I feel lost and consider whether I have made a mistake. But after a short walk, I see a sign pointing me to my destination: “Welcome to the World of Mizuki Shigeru.”

Mizuki Shigeru was a Japanese manga artist, born in 1922 and raised in the town of Sakaiminato. Upon arriving at Mizuki Shigeru Street, I am immediately struck by the abundance of weird statues that line the road. A total of 177 bronze yokai statues, each depicting a different supernatural entity from Japanese folklore, have been placed along the 800-metre street. Mizuki Shigeru made his name by portraying such entities in his work and the area here is dedicated to his legacy.

The street is filled with souvenir shops selling official Mizuki Shigeru goods, and the entire road is dedicated to the artist. It’s clear that even in death, Mizuki Shigeru has become immortalised with not only a statue, but an entire street and a train line. The vending machines are adorned with illustrations of monsters, there are photo booths where you can take a picture with yokai, there is a large museum, and even a place called Yokai Shrine.

The renowned Mizuki Shigeru Museum showcases many of Mizuki’s works, including manga books from his “only-for-rent-manga-period” and other masterpieces about yokai. The museum also displays numerous photographs and materials about the writer’s trips and his research of the yokai world. Visitors can even find yokai that lived in ancient times in Japanese households. The museum truly immerses visitors in the world of yokai and the brilliance and wonder of Mizuki Shigeru’s work.

The museum’s flyer sums it up best, “You will meet a lot of yokai. Hope you will become friends with them.”

Continuing my exploration of the museum, I pass books and board games, and a lot of comics, most of which feature imagery that depicts death. The museum spans a massive ten rooms and includes original cells, drawings, a bronze engraving of Mizuki’s palm print, his passport, and a complete timeline of his life.

Weird, creepy music plays as I pass through a haunted house. I learn in the museum of an interesting temple over in Matsue Prefecture, three hours from here by train. The temple is very much related to the story of Mizuki Shigeru’s life. As I leave the museum I pass a terrifying wall of heads in the Yokai Cave, and finally outside I discover a traditional Japanese garden littered with macabre images.

After a few hours on the train, I arrive at Ichibata-Guchi Station. The train station features a small statue of yokai. As I exit the station, a really old woman approaches me and starts chatting in Japanese. She is surprised to hear that I am planning to walk to the temple, as it is about five kilometres away and up a mountain. The walk is quite difficult, she warns me.

As I begin my hike, I walk down a conveniently straight stretch of road. The first car I see since leaving the station is driven by a Japanese man who, for no apparent reason, smiles and bows his head at me. A short distance later, I come across two stone lanterns that mark the beginning of the route, which will start to incline steeply. From this point, the footpath vanishes leaving two lanes of an empty road devoid of traffic or vehicles. As the path becomes steeper still, it meanders and curves up the mountain and I find that the further and higher I climb, the better the view becomes. At one point I can make out Lake Shinji in the distance.

As I near the top, I realise how hot it is, and it doesn’t help that I am wearing a thick winter coat. It must be 20 degrees. The breath of winter now a fiery gasp, as the planet scorches in its rage.

After a challenging hike I reach Ichibata Yakushi, a Zen Buddhist temple, and part of multiple pilgrimages, one of which includes visiting 108 Kannon temples in Japan. The temple was said to be founded after a monk named Yoishi followed three white foxes up this mountain, and decided to build a temple at the site where the foxes led him.

The reason for visiting this temple today is that the story goes that Shigeru Mizuki used to visit here a lot, and that a ghost of a really old woman would meet him here, whispering to him all the legends and stories he used in his creations. I explore the temple grounds, and get a feeling that someone ordered a few too many statues. It is said that there are 84,000 statues here, however, I count just 30,780.

As I continue to explore, I decide that it’s really quite beautiful up here. The area also features mountain cottages to rent for a night for as little as ¥10,000, offers stunning views of the landscape below, and for some reason, appears to be really popular with dog owners, as I count five dogs within the temple grounds.

I place some coins in the box next to some statues of yokai, and decide that this is the nicest temple I’ve visited. In the future, I wouldn’t mind visiting more temples on a pilgrimage trail, but for today, I decide it’s getting late, and I head back down the mountain passing a small mountain village, before stumbling across another yokai statute, sitting unassumingly at the bottom of some stone steps.

After climbing up the 1,270 moss covered steps, I arrive back at my favourite temple, exhausted and realising this was just an alternate route. I carefully climb back down the steps to leave. The really old woman I saw at Ichibata-Guchi Station smiles at me as I pass her on the steps, and I can’t help but wonder if she might be Shigeru Mizuki’s whispering ghost.