Reflections on a Winter’s Day

Posted on 02/01/2023 by Luke

As I walk along Hikifune Water Park Street, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. It’s been five years since I lived in Katsushika Ward, Tokyo, and revisiting my old neighbourhood brings back a flood of memories. The winter morning air is crisp and chill, and my breath turns to white wisps of fog that swirl and still as I make my way to my first destination.

The street itself is unremarkable. It used to be a train line, but now it has been transformed into a park that stretches from the Arakawa River all the way to Ohanajaya. As I begin to walk its length, I can’t help but enjoy the sense of familiarity.

As I wander down the street, memories of my past come flooding back. On a late night walk home with a friend, we had stopped to rest on one of the park’s benches, halfway through our journey. My friend was convinced he heard the sound of a train echoing down the length of the park. It’s said that at night, a ghost train can be heard thundering down where the old train tracks once were, and I’ve heard similar accounts from others. It’s a story that has stuck with me, and one that has been corroborated by others who have experienced it.

As I continue my leisurely walk, I pass Ohanajaya Station, its name, meaning “Tea and Flowers,” imparting a sense of charm. However, every time I pass by, the song “Govinda” by Kula Shaker runs through my head, as I rhyme its catchy refrain of “Ohana Jaya Jaya.” Eventually, I arrive at the picturesque inner reservoir of Mizumoto Park, my gaze drinking in the peaceful surroundings and the stunning reflection on the water’s surface.

Mizumoto Park is the largest park in Tokyo. Bursting with lush gardens and natural beauty, with a large pond at its centre. The park boasts an aquatic plant garden, a bird sanctuary, a babbling stream field, and three car parks. In early spring the park becomes awash with the gentle pink hue of the cherry blossoms.

I make my way over to one of the ponds and sit upon a bench for a time. I watch as a turtle gracefully swims through the water, its movements causing ripples to spread across the surface. The reflections of the surrounding trees dance and shimmer upon the water, creating a mesmerising visual display. The soothing sounds of chirping insects and rustling leaves add to the peaceful atmosphere, and I am content to sit and take it all in.

As I sit on this bench, surrounded by the tranquil beauty of the pond and the trees, I can’t help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over me. I reflect, thinking back on the year that has passed, and the ephemeral nature of time. I realise that I don’t have any plans or dreams for the future, and the thought fills me with a sense of sadness. All I know is that for now, I want to keep exploring the hidden corners of Japan and sharing my adventures through my words. But in this moment, the weight of my own insignificance and the impermanence of everything feels almost overwhelming.

As I continue my peaceful walk through the park, I come across a telephone box nestled amongst the flowers. Legend has it that this particular telephone box is also haunted, and that at dusk a ghostly figure can be seen lurking inside. However, as I peer closer, the only ghost I find here is the reflection of Mount Fuji in the glass. It’s a breathtaking sight, and I stand for a moment, mesmerised by the beauty of it all. For some reason, the mountain is not visible to the naked eye here; it exists only in the glass of this haunted phone box.

As I wait for the sun to set and darkness to envelop the park, I am treated to a daily ritual at 5 o’clock. The speakers throughout Katsushika emit a creepy, slowed-down song accompanied by an eerie chime. The song echoes throughout the park, reminding me that the day is coming to a close and it’s time to return home. The pealing bell of the mountain temple beckons me, promising the sight of a bright, round moon shining down and illuminating the sky in twilight, filled with the brightest stars as the birds begin to dream.

Marriage on the Rocks

Posted on 30/12/2022 by Luke

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.

A Bear Called Kumamon

Posted on 09/12/2022 by Luke

Kumamoto Prefecture is famous for mascots, and not just any mascot, the most famous mascot in all of Japan, Kumamon. In 2010, in a bid to help promote tourism in this region, Kumamon was created. His name literally means ‘Person from Kumamoto’ in the local dialect, and ‘Bear Person’ in Japanese characters. Despite Kumamon being a wide-eyed red-cheeked bear and not a person, the official website states that he is neither, and is in fact just a Kumamon.

Unsurprisingly, there are countless Kumamon within the train station, even a Family Mart doubles up as a souvenir shop selling official Kumamon goods, it’s a bit much.

Exiting Kumamoto Station, I instantly notice the cold. It feels as though I’ve entered a different climate. I start by taking a walk along the Shirakawa River, before returning to the city streets, heading in the direction of Kumamoto Castle. What strikes me as I wander is the complete lack of convenience stores in this area, I’ve been walking for about thirty minutes and I’m yet to see even one.

Eventually I do find a Seven Eleven, and as I enter the shop the heat hits me. It is so hot, the cold outside temperature contrasted to extremity. I’ve found this in Japan, in the summer the convivence stores are remarkably cold, with air conditioning turned down to a freezing blast. One cold day and they’ll switch to heating at full blast. Leaving Seven Eleven, I continue my walk, before spotting a giant statue of Kato Kiyomasa.

Kiyomasa was a fierce warrior, designer of castles, and was a general who led an army of 100,000 samurai into Korea. The sign next to the massive statue says, “He is wearing his trademark beard and a kind of tall black hat. The statue is slightly larger than life size.” I look back up at the Herculean statue. I look down at the tiny person next to the statue. I decide slightly larger is a huge understatement.

During the Japanese invasions of Korea (1592-1598) Kato Kiyomasa’s army were ordered to slice off the noses of those they had killed, pickle them in salt, and send them back to Japan. During the Battle of Hondo, Kiyomasa ordered his men to slice open the bellies of every pregnant Christian woman, and then to cut off their infants’ heads. Kiyomasa, it seems, was slightly barbaric. I decide to go and have a look at the castle he designed.

“Above the stone wall of the minor tower, there were iron spikes called shinobi-gaeshi, which were used to help keep out enemies, with various traps laid out in inconspicuous places. Searching for these is one of many ways to enjoy Kumamoto Castle,” states a sign at the entrance.

Kumamoto Castle was completed in 1607 by Kato Kiyamasa, and boasts its very own virtual reality technology. Here you can enjoy discovering Kumamoto Castle and its history through VR. You can even see the castle using virtual reality. I can see the virtual reality booths from the actual castle.

I leave the castle and head to the nearby Suizenji Jojuen Gardens.

These gardens are on the southeast side of Kumamoto Castle and they are beautiful. There is a large lake in the middle, a small tea house, a Buddhist temple, and even an artificial mountain in the shape of Mount Fuji. I take a time to explore the gardens and their many attractions, lanterns, and monuments. Three old Japanese ladies stop to say hello to me as I stand reading a sign next to a tree.

Nagi, Tree of Matchmaking, regarded as an auspicious plant since ancient times, has two broad leaves that grow symmetrically like a couple at each point of the twig. The custom is for the female to keep the leaf behind her mirror; the strength of the leaf symbolising the strength of the relationship with her partner. The sign says, “A couple keeping a leaf can have a faithful married life without a two-faced relationship.”

Next to the tree is the bronze statue of Moriharu Nagaoka, or at least that’s what’s supposed to be here. It seems that the enormous bronze statue has been stolen and replaced by an old photograph of the statue.

I leave the gardens and begin to walk in the direction of the Kumamoto Prefectural Government Office. I notice the pavements here are in somewhat disarray, and I keep tripping up on loose bricks. Some teenage Japanese guy approaches me and tells me he’s from Ibaraki Prefecture. He asks to take a photograph of me. I think he thinks I am somebody else.

I pass police stations and car parks which are using Kumamon to advertise. I see a woman wearing a shirt that says, “Declare Bouncy Sanction,” whatever that means. I reach the grounds of the government office and wander straight over to where a crowd of people are having their photographs taken next to a statue of Monkey D. Luffy.

Luffy is the main character in One Piece, a pirate anime which first aired in 1999, and at the time of writing, there are 1,043 episodes. The show features Devil Fruits which when eaten give the characters superhuman powers. As I photograph the statue, a child approaches me and asks me how I am, “I’m very well thank you, and you?” is my reply.
“I’m happy good,” says the child.

I leave Luffy and start back in the direction of Kumamoto Station, getting a little lost in the process. My phone tells me that I have walked 40,000 steps today. My phone also tells me that I have just 3% battery remaining. After my phone dies I have no access to any maps, and it does, and I get further lost. Eventually, I do find the train station, and needless to say, I get back home in one piece.

Murder on the Tsukuba Express

Posted on 14/03/2015 by Luke

Today, the weather is very warm, so I decide to take a train to Ibaraki Prefecture, to a little place called Tsukuba. At Tsukuba Station, I take a ¥720 bus that crawls for thirty minutes toward Tsukuba Mountain. Eventually, I get off the bus. The only tourists here are old Japanese women who have made the journey to this mountain to look at flowers.

The first thing that strikes me as I stroll off the bus is the view. The day is relatively clear, and the distance is a sea of fields and countryside that seemingly spread forever before eventually blending into the whiteness of bright, sunlit clouds. One of the reasons I am here today, like the old women, is to look at flowers—flowers of beautiful pink and white. The other reason is that this steep mountain is steeped in history.

In March 1864, an army was raised on this very mountain, led by a samurai named Fujita Koshiro. The army, known as Tsukubazei, opposed plans to close Yokohama Port and exclude foreign ships from entering Japan. Even the law to stop foreigners from entering Japan was considered barbaric; it was called the ‘Order to Expel Barbarians’.

The twenty-three-year-old leader led his army of samurai and farmers in what became a war against Emperor Komei. The battle was lost, and the entire army was beheaded. This event contributed to the ending of the Edo Period and the start of the Meiji Restoration.

Still considered a terrorist, a statue of Fujita Koshiro stands proudly at the entrance to Tsukuba Shrine, a shrine said to house the god and goddess that protect from evil and illness. The shrine has been a place of worship for over 3000 years. I continue my walk through the mountain paths, passing a random telephone box with a huge statue of a frog on its roof, Omido Temple with its massive bell, the cable car service that isn’t running today (as usual), and a statue seemingly standing guard in a small car park.

The statue is of a man carrying a cup of medicine. Using my amateur translation skills, the medicine is made from gamagairu, a giant frog said to live in this area; hence the telephone box. The medicine is taken from the ear of the frog and is said to have magical healing properties. That’s right, magical.

People in England or America will be familiar with the expression ‘snake oil,’ a term used to describe health products that don’t actually work; a swindle of sorts. In Japan, a similar expression exists, and that is frog oil. Salesmen use a special sword that contains fake blood in its tip, pretend to cut their arm revealing a huge gash, then proceed to rub the frog oil on their skin. The wound disappears in an instant, and fools buy.

I continue my stroll and head in the direction of Mount Tsukuba Plum Blossom Gardens. These gardens are free to enter and feature over 1000 trees. Thirty kinds of flowers blossom in this area, and mixed in with the flowers are the famous rocks of Tsukuba. Rocks, I might add, that are for sale.

I lug my rock up the mountain path and realise that I should have probably bought it on the way down. The flowers in the mountain are beautiful to see. Red plum is in full bloom this time of year, and white plum is apparently in half bloom. I walk through sweet plum groves and fresh-smelling flowers before arriving at Lookout Point Arumaya, a small mountain hut that looks as though it was stolen from a children’s fairy tale.

I stand, gazing in the direction of Mount Fuji, 155.6 km away and visible on a clear day. Today is such a day, but for whatever reason, the mountain remains invisible, as always; forever shrouded by the white layer of clouds that blend into the distant horizon.

I stand in quiet contemplation in the small hut at the top of the mountain, admiring the beauty of the flowers and the endless nature. Staring out into the distance, I begin to wonder where it all went wrong. Before the thought connects, a Japanese man taps me on the shoulder, disturbing my moment.
“We made it from bamboo and straw, squashed real hard.”
“I’m sorry?” I say, confused.
“We made it from bamboo and straw, squashed real hard,” he repeats.
“I heard you, but what are you talking about?”
“The walls, here,” he points at the walls of the hut, “We made it from bamboo and straw.”
“A bit of a fire hazard,” I tell him, but he doesn’t understand. The man remains fated to repeat his set phrase, the only phrase he knows in English. Time to go, I decide.

As I walk back down the mountain, I recall a story that a friend once told me.

Many years ago in Japan, people were very poor. Many families lived in one house, grandparents, parents, and children together. When times became tough, and the families couldn’t afford to feed the young children, a sacrifice was made. Children were the priority, so what happened was that the parents would carry their grandparents to Tsukuba Mountain, abandon them, and go home to their children. The grandparents would starve to death on the mountain, so that the family could continue to feed the children. A sad tale of Tsukuba Mountain, and the many poor old people that perished in its lonely grip.

At the bottom of the mountain, most stores are closed. The men are sleeping from a hard day of selling snacks and frog oil; the only shop still selling anything is the Tsukuba Rock Shop.

There are so many more sights to see on this 877-metre-tall mountain. The place is littered with things to do. Unfortunately, I wasted far too much of my limited time in the mountain hut and end up running back, rock in hand, toward the bus stop. I make the last bus with seconds to spare and head back toward Tsukuba Station.

On the Tsukuba Express train home, I read ‘The Hanging Stranger’ by Philip K. Dick and realise that this information has no relevance here, and perhaps never will.

Lucky Number Seven Gods of Fortune

Posted on 05/01/2015 by Luke

Today, I attempt to go on a pilgrimage. Seven different gods, seven different temples, and no idea where to start. I head into Asakusa for a traditional Japanese breakfast and find that a Japanese New Year’s ritual is taking place outside my favourite izakaya. “Happy Merry Christmas after year,” the owner says to me, flashing his trademark ten-yen smile.

The ritual is mochi making. Mochi is sticky rice that is boiled, and when it is hit with a wooden mallet, it becomes soft. These rice cakes end up more like dumplings and are consumed during January. Some sort of stew is cooking in a big pot beside the mochi, but I have no idea if it’s relevant to the ritual or not.

After watching a man hit rice with a mallet for far too long, I decide to visit the first temple: Shingen-ji Temple in Iriya. This temple has two names; ‘Iriya no Kishibojin’ is the other name used, which just adds to my confusion. Inside the temple, I can hear the sound of monks chanting. Two young Japanese women dressed in kimonos pose for photographs. I wander to the temple, throw in some loose change, and pray.

The temple not only houses one of the seven gods but also Kishimojin, a goddess of children. Her story goes that she was once an evil goddess, snatching children and then eating them. One day, Gautama Buddha kidnapped the youngest son of this goddess, and it was only after experiencing the sorrow of losing a child that she became good. Now, she is worshipped as the guardian of childbirth and child-growing. However, she remains a criminal in my mind; all the children that she previously devoured have somehow been forgotten with her forgiveness.

Next to the temple sits Fukurokuju, the god of happiness, wealth, and longevity—the first of the seven gods that I am here to visit on this pilgrimage.

My second stop is Eishinji Temple, which enshrines Daikokuten, another of the seven gods of fortune. Daikokuten is considered to bring the belief of commercial prosperity. At the entrance, children play with spinning tops and badminton rackets. This temple gives me the opportunity to get my fortune for ¥200, and with me currently on a roll of good fortune from these things, I decide to participate once again.

The fortune I receive is huge. It contains three separate pieces of paper and one golden plastic frog.

“Average luck: Leading to the road of happiness will bless you if you have your own eyes open to the gods. Keeping the person in harm dear in my heart, will ensure that no harm is done, and the world will fit into the flame. With love, be aggressive. Take time to contemplate. The person you are waiting for will come, but will be very late. Don’t be impatient with your law suit. Contemplate. The lost article will be found and returned by someone with kindness. Be honest with money. If you are planning a trip, wait.”

As for the little golden frog, it should be placed in my wallet to ensure that money always comes back. There is also a mention of rakes and ovals, but I can’t understand what this means. Additionally, the fortune tells of magical eggplants, but again, I have no idea. “This lucky charm grants wishes and brings happiness. Please keep it always in your purse.”

At the temple exit, I study the slightly confusing map and head to temple number three.

Following the map, I end up at Onoterusaki Shrine. Although this shrine doesn’t house one of the seven lucky gods, I continue to explore it regardless. A monk on a balcony is hitting drums in a timely rhythm, and something about its calmness draws me inside. The shrine features a man-made imitation in the image of Mount Fuji.

Apparently, many Japanese people once believed that there was a god that lived inside the mountain; therefore, Mount Fuji became a place of worship for many religious groups. This particular Mount Fuji is called Fujizuka of Shitaya-Sakamoto and looks like a big pile of rocks. On July 1st every year, to celebrate the start of the climbing season of the actual Mount Fuji, this miniature mountain is open for the public to climb.

Onoterusaki Shrine is also dedicated to Ono-no-Takamura, a scholar of Chinese classics in the early years of the Heian period.

Scattered around the shrine are these unusual white arrows. I discover that these arrows are known as hamaya. The name is derived from a once dangerously popular game for children involving archery and target practice. Nowadays, these arrows, which translate to mean ‘Demon-breaking arrows,’ are a popular means to dispel evil spirits at the beginning of the New Year.

I leave the shrine and go in search of the third of the seven temples on the pilgrimage course. Temples with multiple names, maps that have no sense of scale, and a cold day of wandering around unfamiliar places. I end up in Uguisudani, an area that should contain one of the seven gods, but for me, the only things in and around the train station are love hotels.

I’ve been walking a lot this last week. Tired and slightly cold, I give up for the day. I head back to Minowa to rest my legs and tumble into a deep sleep.

Tokyo and the Emperor of the Night

Posted on 28/12/2014 by Luke

Christine and I meet up at 10 a.m., catching the Tokyo Metro Ginza Line to Shibuya. Today is once again warm, and all traces of Christmas Day are gone. There are no longer decorations outside shops, and the music of the festive season has been replaced by Taylor Swift, Oasis, and, of course, AKB48. Inside Shibuya Station, we spot another random horse.

We head outside and into the scramble of people as we cross Shibuya Crossing. My opinion of the crossing remains unchanged; it’s just a road. Many tourists are gathered here, taking photographs of people walking along the intersection. This once again demonstrates the power of the guidebook — a simple mention of any place, and tourists flock there.

We wander through the chaos of Shibuya, passing bright lights and television screens practically shouting at us to buy things. However, there isn’t the usual post-Christmas shopping frenzy going on here; this is just a normal day in Shibuya. We decide to explore a building shaped like a castle, which turns out to be the Disney Store. The place is filled with stuffed toys and Italian puppets.

With nothing worth buying and a planned trip to Tokyo Disneyland later this week, we leave the Disney Store empty-handed. Next, we walk to Harajuku Station and take a stroll down the trendy Takeshita Street, full of teen fashion and crêperies, before heading over to Meiji Shrine. While waiting to cross the road, I notice the monk who tried to scam me almost six months ago is still here, attempting to lure in tourists. I simply laugh at him and shake my head as he tries to hand me his gold Siddhārtha Gautama card

We wander into Meiji Shrine, a serene Shinto shrine dedicated to the spirit of Emperor Meiji. As we stroll along the path, absorbing the tranquil atmosphere, a friendly Japanese person notices us and begins to wave, their warm greeting adding a touch of local hospitality to our visit.
“Hello, welcome to Japan,” he says enthusiastically. “Are you American?”
“No, from England.”
“Ah, England! Where in England?”
“Close to Manchester,” I tell him, avoiding the need to explain the location of my unknown town.
“Ah, Manchester United,” he says, “Soccer.” He makes a kicking gesture, emphasising that soccer means football. The man modestly plays down my remarks about his English ability before going on his merry way.

We pass through wooden torii gates and by massive barrels of donated sake before heading to the main shrine.

The cleansing ritual has become second nature to me now, and Christine manages it perfectly, despite having only done it once before. We wander around looking for a place to get our fortunes, hoping to rectify the ‘Bad Fortune’ from yesterday, but it doesn’t appear that this service is offered here.

We wander the length of the shrine and exit on the other side, finding ourselves amidst the vibrant carnival that is Shinjuku. We stroll through Shinjuku Park Tower, the building that houses the Park Hyatt Hotel, famous not only in its own right but also well-known for its feature in the movie Lost in Translation.

We head to the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, only to be unexpectedly attacked by a masked assailant inside.

The oni, a demon in Japanese folklore known as a ‘Blue Devil,’ surprisingly works for the Japanese Government. Guiding us, he directs to the lift, and we swiftly ascend to the 45th floor of the building.

From the panoramic observation deck, I can see Mount Fuji in the distance. Its snowy white peak blends seamlessly into the clouds, and if you didn’t know where the mountain sits on the horizon, you would never know it was there. Huge office buildings sprawl in every direction, making Tokyo look endless from this height.

I check out the tacky souvenirs and discover that my name in Japanese kanji can mean ‘Lapis Wings Eternal.’ However, given the multiple meanings kanji can have, I opt for a more impactful name. From the available possibilities, I decide that my name actually means ‘Nine Immortal Dragons.’

We leave the government building and make our way to Shinjuku Station. After queueing at the ticket office for about ten minutes, we hand over the tickets from our Narita Express debacle yesterday. We successfully manage to get ¥3800 of our ¥6780 refunded, a welcome bonus. With a sense of triumph, we decide that the Japan Railway Company will be covering the cost of our tempura lunch.

We wander through Shinjuku for a while before deciding to head back to Asakusa. I consider buying a coffee but can’t decide whether I want black coffee, black coffee, or black coffee.

Back in Asakusa, we meet up with some of the other people staying in the hostel, Jeff and Ajitan. The four of us head out for a quick drink at Nui before taking a taxi over to Ryogoku. We find ourselves at a bar called ‘Popeye,’ a delightful place boasting seventy-four different craft beers on tap. Following the bar, we return to Asakusa for some affordable Chinese food before ending the night with karaoke and all-around merriment.

Fuji in the Sky with Diamonds

Posted on 17/11/2014 by Luke

Today marks an event that occurs only twice a year. In just five minutes, the sun will set behind the peak of Japan’s most well-known volcano, Mount Fuji, creating a phenomenon known as ‘Diamond Fuji.’ This rare event happens when the sun aligns perfectly with the summit of Mount Fuji during both sunrise and sunset. I’m not quite sure what to expect, other than the enchanting sight of diamonds.

I eagerly wait amongst the crowds of people gathered at the windows along the full length of the south side of the building. As the sun quietly begins its descent, a collective sense of disappointment fills the air.

Today has been relatively clear in terms of the sky, but the air above Mount Fuji is filled with clouds, making it challenging to discern even the slightest outline of the mountain. No diamonds today, just a rather attractive sunset hanging above the miniature buildings that compose the endless Tokyo skyline. I can’t complain, though; I am witnessing a fantastic sunset. The sky looks amazing as it becomes illuminated by the setting sun.

I wait around for a while amongst other photographers and Japanese people making peace signs for their ‘sunset selfies.’ In one hour, the sky will be dark, so to make the most of my ¥620 ticket, I decide to linger. The observatory provides a fantastic vantage point for observing Tokyo, offering romantic and exotically beautiful views. The building remains open for night viewing, and my plan now is to spend some time at 251 metres, hoping to capture a few shots of Tokyo illuminated at night.

The night sets in, and I snap a few photographs before taking a leisurely stroll around the observatory. A vending machine catches my eye, offering an inexpensive blueberry cheesecake cone that I can’t resist. Nearby, a small cafe named ‘Air Ship’ sells food that, frankly, looks terrible. There’s also a small art gallery, a gift shop, and a place where professional artists draw caricatures—typical money-spinning attractions. Oddly, there are several small heart rate monitoring machines here, each costing ¥100. The idea of coming all this way just to check one’s heart rate seems beyond me.

After my exploration, I head back down the oddly named ‘Shining Elevator.’ As the lift descends at six hundred metres a minute, I can’t help but half-expect Jack Nicholson to burst through the door at any moment. However, the elevator surprises me by transforming into a planetarium, showcasing a light show that could be stars or underwater sparkles. The visuals are accompanied by relaxing space and ocean music.

At the bottom of the lift, a photograph mockingly displays the spectacle we all came here to view. Regrettably, what I witnessed was far from the captivating display promised by the poster – just another sunset.

Inoue Sake Brewery

Posted on 27/09/2014 by Luke

Today I meet with Naoto, the English speaking organiser of the sake tour. I am the only person to sign up. Not wanting to waste his whole day, I ask whether we should still go on the tour. It turns out Naoto is still quite eager to visit the brewery. Naoto is passionate about sake, and wants to spread the word about this traditional Japanese drink, which dates back to two thousand years ago. So off we go.

We head to Tokyo Station, before taking the the Tokaido Line to Kozu Station. The journey takes about ninety minutes. We have to wait at Kozu for a while; the trains here appear just twice an hour. Eventually a train comes, and we take the Gotemba Line to our destination, Kami-Oi Station. From the train I can see the sea.

Kami-Oi Station is deserted, it is so quiet that there is no ticket gate. “What, so we just walk out without paying?” I ask.
“This is the countryside,” is the explanation Naoto gives. I am still confused. The area is definitely the countryside, mountains and the sea. Rice growing everywhere. The air is clean. We leave the station and head to the Inoue Sake Brewery.

The cedar globe outside serves as a symbol for the current year’s sake production. When the new batch is made in late October, the globe will be replaced. Its changing colour from green to brown as the sake matures is a visual representation of the sake’s aging process. It’s a lovely tradition that mirrors the transformation of the drink itself.

Inoue Sake Brewery’s rich history since its establishment in 1789 during the Edo period is remarkable. Mister Inoue’s humility and passion shine through as he shares insights into the sake-making process, its history, and the diverse range of sake types. The tour of the brewery kicks off promptly, and Mister Inoue highlights how the cold Hakone air plays a crucial role in sake production. He emphasises the use of locally sourced rice and pristine water from a depth of 150 metres underground. Tasting the water confirms its anticipated qualities: cleanliness, freshness, and clarity.

Sake production resembles wine production, yet it involves an additional step before fermentation. Starch from the rice is combined with Koji, a diastatic enzyme that aids in breaking down the rice and converting its starch into sugar through a process called saccharification. Following this, sugar and yeast are added to commence fermentation. In contrast, grapes used in winemaking naturally contain sugars, so only yeast is added to initiate fermentation. Despite this difference, the subsequent processes in both sake and wine production follow a similar path.

We visit the room where the Koji is added to the rice and see the large tanks used for steaming, storage, and the mashing process. I’m surprised to learn that all these procedures are performed manually. For instance, the mashing process occurs in enormous 8,000-litre tanks. The masher stands atop a precarious-looking wooden platform above the tank, vigorously pounding a massive stick into the rice for four days.

The outcome is a liquid derived from starch. Subsequently, multiple parallel fermentations occur. The mixture rests for up to 32 days, enabling simultaneous saccharification and fermentation. Afterward, the sake undergoes pressing through cloth, filtration, and enters a pasteurisation phase. Finally, the sake ages for up to six months, is bottled, and eventually reaches the consumer for sale.

The sake is sold in 1.8 litre bottles, or 720 ml bottles. A much smaller bottle is also sold, however, the other two sizes are the most common. After the tour we sit down and try a few varieties of sake. My favourite is the gold-medal winning Hakone-yama Junmai. Junmaishu is a traditional style of sake, and often has a mellow bouquet with a rich, smooth flavour.

Hakone-yama Junmai offers three different serving options: room temperature, cold, or hot. Initially, we try it at room temperature, finding it good with a subtle flavour. When served cold, it becomes much nicer, boasting a smoother texture. Lastly, the hot variety also impresses; the flavour expands, and the scent intensifies, offering a delightful experience.

After the tasting, I am given a masu as a souvenir, a small wooden box which was originally used to measure rice, but these days it is used as a container for drinking sake. Impressed with what I have seen and tasted today, I decide to buy a bottle of sake for ¥1200. After that we say goodbye to the owner and return to Kami-Oi Station.

From the train station I can see the base of Mount Fuji.

The Mountain: a story about climbing Mount Fuji

Posted on 05/07/2012 by Luke

It is Wednesday 4th July 2012 and it’s very cold. I am at the top of Mount Fuji, 3,776 metres above sea level, and there is a fierce blizzard going on. Winds that appear somewhere between gale force and hurricane force on the Beaufort scale. Snow on the ground and snow falling fresh from the sky combined with freezing rain that can only be described as freezing rain. Then there is the thick cold fog that makes it impossible for me to see my hand in front of my face, despite the incredibly bright headlamp that for some reason can’t penetrate thick cold fog at a distance greater than 15 centimetres. Legs aching. Face aching. Losing count of the amount of times I’ve fallen over. Here we are at the top of the highest mountain in Japan. We’re contemplating waiting here until 4:40 a.m. to see the sunrise. There is however another problem …

We don’t have a clue what time it is.

Three days ago I couldn’t sleep. The excitement of visiting a foreign county often has that effect on me. Travelling across time zones, navigating planes, taxis, and a relentless journey left me smiling at an airport on the opposite side of the world, yet internally adrift.

I meet my friend Sean at the airport, we hop on a train for 2 hours, and finally arrive in Shinjuku. It’s lunchtime in Japan. I’ve been awake for about 31 hours, and we can’t check into the hotel for another four. After some sightseeing and food, it hits around 4 p.m., so we head to the hotel. I crash in my room and quickly fall asleep.

Tuesday rejuvenates my spirit, restoring me after what feels like the best sleep ever. Tokyo calls for exploration, and after a few trips on the Yamanote Line, it starts pouring. The sky darkens as massive clouds block most of the sunshine on what was a relatively hot July day. The rain pounds down, the air thick with humidity. Buying an umbrella becomes a solemn act, seeking shelter beneath it as if seeking refuge from the downpour of life’s uncertainties. We head back to the hotel a bit early to dry off and snag some extra sleep for tomorrow’s adventure: climbing Mount Fuji.

After some struggle finding the bus, finally, at 11:27 a.m., we’re ready to set off. The ¥2700 highway bus takes us through Japanese countryside, across bridges and valleys, until, a few hours later, we reach Mount Fuji Fifth Station—the starting point for climbers. There are ten stations in total, the tenth being the summit.

Here at the Fifth Station, the sun shines, and the mood is upbeat. Restaurants, souvenir shops, and gear stores line the area. I forgot warm clothing, so I grab a nice fleece for ¥6000. After a satisfying Japanese meal, it’s time to climb. We rent a coin locker and leave everything non-essential at Station Five, setting off promptly.

The hike to Station Six is pleasant, perhaps taking forty minutes or even less. We rest, snack on Kendal Mint Cake, then resume climbing. What’s heartening as we ascend is the warm greetings from every person we pass—each offering a smile and a ‘konnichiwa!’

Somewhere between Station Six and Seven, there are dreadful steps. Loads of them, sweeping from left to right, hindering progress. We take a break and chat with an American couple descending the Mountain. They joke that it’ll take another ten hours to reach the top. Hilarious, I hope.

A few hours pass since Station Six, and we arrive at Station Seven—equipped with a bench, a toilet, and a shop selling instant ramen. We pause to admire the view before continuing. Around this climb point, we’re engulfed in clouds, and it starts getting cooler. No more steps, thankfully … just rocks.

Endless rocks.

Arguably the worst part of the Mount Fuji climb is between the Seventh and Eighth stations. This stretch demands hand-climbing over endless slippery rocks. Thankfully, there are about eight or nine mountain huts interspersed, each with a bench, toilet, shop, and if needed, a place to sleep. I’m grateful for these intermittent rests, although the prices keep climbing higher with altitude. I recall one of the higher shops selling two cans of Coke and a Snickers bar for the equivalent of £10, though the exchange rate wasn’t as favourable back in 2012.

After leaving the last hut at Station Eight, the skies begin to darken. This part of the climb features volcanic rock littering the trails—loads of smashed-up or small bits of rock and stone. Tricky to walk on, they slide around under our feet. The darkness doesn’t favour us here, so it’s time to put on the all-important headlamp.

Somewhere before the penultimate Ninth Station, we encounter a mountain hut. A Japanese man outside informs us that the mountain huts beyond this point are closed, urging us to stay for the night. Uncertain if he’s honest or aiming for extra business, it turns out he’s genuinely concerned for our safety.

At Station Nine, perched at 3,600 metres above sea level, the solitary mountain hut stands closed, swallowed by pitch-black darkness. Devoid of light, shops, or comfort, it echoes with the haunting symphony of wind and rain. An impending storm brews, casting a foreboding shadow over our proximity to the summit—just 176 metres away.

In daylight, this section of the Mountain might take about 40 minutes. In the dark amid increasing rain and wind, it takes us 2 hours. Passing through a torii gate, we venture deeper into darkness. Here, the volcanic rocky ground ends, and a very difficult climb begins. Bare rocks mark the path, and climbing these slippery, wet rocks is no fun at all. My vision reduces to a black screen with flickering white dots, snowfall illuminated by my headlamp. After navigating the treacherous rocks, a white torii gate signals the final steps, and we reach the summit. Exhausted, cold, wet, but relieved.

At Mount Fuji’s peak, all the shops are closed; no light, no life. The summit at night is bleak—snow falls, wind howls stronger. We huddle by a closed mountain hut, attempting to shield ourselves from the wind. Trying to calculate the time, as we have no devices or clocks, it becomes a futile exercise. Everything is in the coin locker back at Station Five, and with nobody around to ask, we are forced to do some calculations.

The sun set hours ago.
On Monday, we missed the sunset due to our late afternoon sleep.
Tuesday’s rain and sudden darkness hid the sunset.
We do know the sun rises at 4:40 a.m.
We set off from Station Five around 2 p.m.
The American couple said it takes at least ten hours.
It feels like we’ve been walking for at least ten hours.
We decide it’s probably around midnight, but we have no way to be sure.

Contemplating waiting for sunrise, hoping the sun would warm us, we realise the risk of freezing if we linger. We opt to head down the dark, slippery, snow-covered rocks.

Hours seem to pass, and eventually, we return to Station 8.5. A Japanese man and woman greet us, whispering, indicating that people are already asleep, planning to wake an hour before sunrise for the final climb. For ¥5500 each, we acquire a small bean bag pillow, a blanket, and space on the hard wooden floor. Cold and exhausted, I could’ve slept anywhere. A clock on the hut wall reads 10:47 p.m. Turns out, in summer in Japan, the sun sets just after 6 p.m.

In the morning there was this:

Descending the Mountain proves far easier than ascending it. There’s a twisted pleasure in knowing those we pass on the way down will face what we’ve just endured. I now understand why those descending greeted us with smiles and a cheerful ‘konnichiwa!’ as we ascended.

July and August mark Mount Fuji’s ‘climbing season.’ We tackled the Mountain just days into the season, hence the lingering snow on the summit and the closure of mountain huts past Station 8.5.

Returning to Station Five, we board a bus to Kawaguchiko Station, encountering a French lady and her daughters who scaled the Mountain that same night. She recounts a chilling warning from Station Five’s security, advising against venturing beyond Station 8.5 due to hazardous snow. In her narrative, a haunting reality unfolds: the Mountain’s icy grasp clung to mortality’s edge, our steps teetered on a malevolent dance with death. Each footfall echoed a grim refrain, a chilling symphony marking our unnerving closeness to an untimely encounter with the abyss.

In June 2013 Mount Fuji was granted UNESCO World Heritage status.

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