Tag Archives: Rainy season

One Rainy Day in April

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Today I decide to travel towards Matsumoto, into the middle of the Japanese Alps. At Kanazawa Station, I pay the premium ticket price of ¥8970 to travel just one hour on the Shinkansen to Nagano. There, I change to a local train, for local people. After a couple of hours of sitting around on trains, I finally step out into the clean, fresh mountain air. And it’s raining.

The mountains are gone, washed out in a white, ghostly fog, completely invisible today. But with better weather expected tomorrow, I tell myself this won’t have been a wasted trip. I put on a bright green poncho. It doesn’t suit me. I probably look like a large frog. Still better than an umbrella. I always forget those anyway.

Reservoir Frogs

I start exploring, and despite the rain hammering down, I’m drawn straight in. Matsumoto has a quiet, charming vibe. Flower beds and streams line the roads. Bars and restaurants that feel quietly inviting look to be from another time. The Metoba River snakes between buildings that look like they’ve been here for hundreds of years. It reminds me of a less crowded version of Asakusa. Not empty, though, as groups of tourists do drift past, tethered together by guides holding small flags like they’re leading expeditions.

The main tourist street is Nawate Street, also known as Frog Street. It’s a pun I’ve mentioned before, tied to the Japanese word for frog, but essentially it means you’ll return home safely. The frogs will see to that. And there are frogs everywhere.

Decorations, statues, souvenirs, offerings. A shrine dedicated to a guardian frog. Amongst the frogs are about twenty freshwater wells, each one slightly different but æsthetically pleasing. They offer clear cold water for free, but I’ve had enough water today; it’s raining so hard I’m essentially covered in water.

There’s a story written at the shrine which I’ll try to translate: Once, this narrow river was lined with festival stalls, and a dear river frog made a beautiful sound. There were unique emotions, such as the playing of the drums or the smell of acetylene lamps, the voices of stallholders, and fireworks, and the scooping of goldfish.

Then the river became dirty and the frog was pushed upstream. This caused the streets here to lose their vitality, and in 1972 the dear river frog was enshrined, in an attempt to make the river clean again. It worked, and the streets came back to life. Now it is a frog town. A place where mountains and city meet. A place where visitors can relax.

Keep Calm and Waffle On

I decide to walk now in the direction of a local National Treasure: Matsumoto Castle. On the way I pass more art shops, craft shops, storehouses dotted around between the many small shrines and folk art stores. Plenty of town maps here too make it easy to keep track of where I am.

And if kimono rental shops are your thing, well forget that! Here you can rent a panoply of samurai armour for the day for the low price of ¥11,000. Not in this weather though, I’d look ridiculous as a samurai in a green poncho.

It’s not long before I arrive at the castle. Inside, the keep is so incredibly calm; there’s not a tourist in sight, probably put off by the weather. The castle is the oldest five-storey six-floor castle in Japan. A very specific metric, if you ask me. But it’s all because of a completely secret hidden floor. A castle bigger on the inside than on the outside. The castle is stunning to look at. The Northern Alps sit shrouded behind it, blending into the clouds, while the swamp-like stillness of the moat settles the scene.

Leaving the castle, it’s almost time to check into my hotel, but I’m feeling a little hungry so head back in the direction of Frog Street to see what’s on offer. I pass a shop selling traditional taiyaki, fish-shaped waffles. This store offers three normal flavoured fillings and one odd flavour. Sweet red bean, chocolate, custard cream, and sausage.

Obviously I go for sweet red bean paste as it’s my favourite. It’s cheap too. Only ¥250 and surprisingly massive. As I am handed the packet, I find the waffle to be red hot, and it smells so good. The batter sweet and soft and delicious. But the tail is the best part, a little crunchy and a little crispy. Luckily for me I’m staying near Frog Street for the next three nights, so I’ll be sure to return here frequently for more fish-shaped waffles; one of the best Japanese snacks.

The Grape Train Vinery

I head to my hotel to check in and dry my shoes with a hairdryer. I don’t need the poncho anymore, as the hotel is one minute from the train station, so I’ll be indoors the whole way. I hop on the train bound for Shiojiri Station, the journey takes 8 minutes. The under seat heating makes a mockery of my freshly dried shoes.

I exit the train into my destination. It’s actually the train platform I’m here to visit, as it has its own vineyard. That’s right, the grapes used to make Shiojiri Wine are grown right here on the train platform. The vines stretch along the platform, growing patiently beside passing trains. Obviously the grapes won’t be fully grown until the autumn, right now they are just small leaves on vines. I do notice that they have hung some plastic dragonflies around the vines, which I assume is to deter predators from eating the grapes.

Inside the station, there’s a small gift shop. I purchase a bottle of Black Queen red wine, made from platform grapes. Then it’s back on the train 8 minutes to Matsumoto Station.

In my hotel room, I sit on the edge of the bed with a plastic cup of wine, its notes of cassis a little overpowering. I enjoy the sound of the rain as it taps softly against the window. The wine is bold, a little too certain of itself. And somewhere beyond the fog, the mountains are still there. Waiting for tomorrow.

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.

Before the Wind Blows It All Away

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Today I’m travelling back in time, specifically, 20,000 years in time. I’m in Miyagi Prefecture to see the Museum of the Forest of Depths of the Earth. I don’t really know what to expect. When I arrive, there’s a small outdoor garden of evergreens and summergreens. There’s a single flower in the middle of the lawn, with a sign before it stating: Be careful not to step on the flowers. The sign uses the plural form flowers, and it bothers me slightly.

I believe the single flower is a panicled hydrangea. The garden has been recreated. “Let’s go into the grass and observe,” says another sign. The whole point of the place is to compare the vegetation of the Ice Age with that of present-day Sendai.

There’s an architecturally stunning structure in the gardens. It’s the only one of its kind in the world. Inside are the 20,000-year-old remains of a wetland coniferous forest. It might not sound very impressive, but when I walk through the doors of the museum and see the sheer size of the trees, it causes me to stagger.

The museum is fascinating. In 1987, an archæological dig found, just five metres below the ground, the preserved remains of fossilised trees, along with artefacts from the same era. There’s a separate tree root I’m encouraged to touch and smell, and it carries some weight.

Aside from the trees, I can also learn about the Paleolithic Age. There are the remains of a campfire that was excavated here. Bits of broken pottery. Deer fæces. Arrowheads. Glass boxes of skulls. Carnival Cutouts: the breath of ancient times.

Having touched a 20,000-year-old tree root, the only thing left to do later is visit a mountain, so I decide to walk to the coastline. Along the way, I pass a tsunami evacuation tower made from steel. It can safely evacuate 300 people to a height of at least six metres.

As I stare at the tower, the sky suddenly fills with grey cloud, and it begins to pour. I run into a nearby park but find nowhere to hide, eventually sheltering beneath a small Jizo statue. The smug Jizo is smiling and holding a rain wand.

Behind the statue is an embankment highway that runs along the Nanakita River and Sendai Bay, designed to help prevent tsunami waves. The tides must get pretty high here anyway, as on my side of the barrier are dozens of dead crabs, seemingly washed over the wall and cracked open on the concrete below. The Jizo shares his little shelter with the stench from the Sendai Gamo Biomass Power Plant. It stinks.

A little further up the coastline, I try to find what I’m really looking for. Usually, it’s pretty easy to find a mountain. But when you’re searching for what’s recognised as the smallest mountain in Japan, it gets trickier. I eventually do find it, half-hidden behind a factory car park.

I climb Mount Hiyori, Japan’s smallest mountain. Well, I don’t actually climb it. I just stand next to it. It looms at three metres now. Smaller than it once was. The 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami took most of it. But still, someone left a summit marker. Still, it has a name. And I’m glad for that.

Around me, the wind starts to rise. I think about the ancient forest floor, perfectly preserved in silence. The looming shadow of a tree long gone. I think about how we keep naming things, even after they’ve almost disappeared. I think about how some things vanish slowly, and some things vanish all at once.

I walk away, back into the storm, careful not to step on the mountains.

Parks and Simulation

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It’s humid beneath my mask. It appears that it rained slightly this morning for the first time in weeks, but now it’s hot. I can’t begin to imagine what the summer will be like. I shouldn’t complain though, the unusually warm start to the winter is set to end later this week, and Japan will become enveloped in an icy-cold ambience.

I take a train to Saga Prefecture, my first destination today, Yoshinogari Historical Park, an archæological site dating back to between the 3rd century BC and the 3rd century AD. I walk two kilometres from the nearest train station, and arrive at the entrance. The car park here is huge, empty, and covered in fallen leaves from the skeletal trees.

I arrive at the aptly named Entrance Zone. Each area of this park has a zone name. There is the Ancient Forest Zone, the Moat Encircled Village Zone, the Aztec Zone, and the Medieval Zone. I pay the ¥460 entrance fee, and note that the two day pass costs only slightly more, a reasonable ¥500.

After crossing a massive red bridge, I arrive at the park. The first thing that draws my attention are what appear to be loads of large wooden spike traps.

As rice cultivation increased, more people fought one another to control the water and occupy the land. People set up barricades with sharpened posts or tree trunks, especially around strategic areas such as the entrance to the village in order to strictly protect their properties. These stakes are called sakamogi.

I leave the abatises and wander further along the tree-lined path, passing what looks like straw statues of wild boar, before finding a small museum. The first thing I notice when entering the museum is the eagerly awaited return of a small fascination of mine, Carnival Cutouts.

The museum itself contains loads of old pottery from the Jomon era, bronze daggers and bronze swords, the jaws of wild boar, deer skulls, hunting tools, arrowheads, stone daggers, and a 2,000-year-old human skeleton.

I leave the museum and in the distance I see some watchtowers. These watchtowers mark the entrance to the South Inner Palace, and were once manned by sentries.

I climb up the slippery wet wooden steps to the top of the Gate Tower, this tower had guards with shields at its four corners. The tower offers a good vantage point to watch for people entering and leaving the enclosure.

I wander further along, passing the moat and fences that guard the Palace, to the houses beyond, to the zone known as Moat Village. This area contains the village that once housed each of the residents. From the kitchens to the main assembly halls, each house can be entered and fully explored.

I visit the Brewery House, where women would brew sake for festivals and rituals by steaming rice from the years’ harvest. The Sericulture House, where precious silkworms were raised to produce silk thread to weave textiles. And finally, to the Barracks, where the soldiers who guarded the northern defences would rest.

I find a map only to realise that I’ve explored just a quarter of this giant historical site. Its sheer size is quite alarming. The map also shows that the park boasts four car parks, one at each corner of the site. Some Christmas lights are dotted around for good measure; evening illuminations, but I have other places to be. I wander in search of an exit and see a sign in desperate need of pluralisation.

Suddenly the clouds burst and the unforeseen downpour leaves me completely soaked. I see a man who has been given the arduous task of sweeping up the fallen leaves, he’s equally soaked. I pass a golf course, two full sized football pitches, and a petting zoo, and wonder if these such things were here 2,000 years ago too.

Eventually I find an exit, walk two kilometres to the nearest train station, and hop on a train bound for Saga City. At Saga, the rain has stopped. I walk twenty minutes in the direction of the Saga Balloon Museum. Before I arrive, I spot a canopy of umbrellas that might have been useful thirty minutes ago.

For some reason, Saga Prefecture is famous for hot air balloons. Inside the Saga Balloon Museum, I learn that the very first time a human being “flew in the sky like a bird” was in 1783, in Paris. In Japan, the first manned flight by a gas balloon was completed in 1877, in Kyoto, an event watched by 50,000 spectators. And in 1903, the Wright brothers flew an aeroplane, making the hot air balloon useless.

I take a seat in a small cinema describing itself as a “Super High-Vision Theatre” with a 280-inch screen. Here, I watch a film that claims to be so realistic that you will think that you’re there. I learn about balloons, what makes them fly, before leaving the cinema and heading up to the second floor. Here I get the opportunity to fly a hot air balloon myself, using the advanced simulator.

I stand inside the hot air balloon simulator and begin. I have 180-seconds to land the balloon in the target area, taking into account wind direction and wind speed, all the time sporadically pulling on a lever that releases pretend propane gas. When the lever is pressed down the balloon floats further upwards, when it’s released, the balloon slowly floats further downwards and catches in the wind. Apparently the trick is to control the lever early, anticipating the atmospheric conditions.

Landing the balloon within one metre of the target awards ‘S’ rank. The rest of the ranks rate down from ‘A’ to ‘E’ and the sign next to the machine offers the following encouragement, “Ride the wind and get a high rank!”

Obviously, I spectacularly crash the balloon into the sea.

Conspirators of Treasure

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The ¥130 sake cup vending machine near my house doesn’t require age verification. Additionally, there’s a vending machine selling lead pipes at the Asakusa View Hotel and another one offering plastic toy animals on the platform as you disembark from the Sobu Line at Akihabara Station. The latter is quite an unexpected sight, as plastic toy animals are the last thing on my mind when I exit a train. However, this is Japan, the land of the prizing sun, and today’s prize is tucked away inside a different kind of vending machine—the King’s Treasure Box.

kingstreasurebox[1]

A sticker on the front of the machine displays the English text, ‘Let it get.’ Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I insert my ¥1000 note into the treasure box. Above the note slot, there’s an encouraging message, ‘One dream, One note!’ Among the potential prizes are a Nintendo Duel Screen, a PlayStation Vita, and even a product vaguely labelled as ‘Famous car.’

Following the instructions, I press any button, and the machine responds with an exciting clunk. I eagerly reach into the lower chamber to retrieve my prize.

My treasure quietly awaits me on the machine’s inner fake grass—Disco Glasses, proudly labelled ‘Made in China.’ These glasses, devoid of lenses and made from cheap plastic, boast voice-activated flashing red lights. Not exactly what I’d typically consider treasure. With no way of knowing if the machine stocks any ‘good’ prizes, it’s conceivable that it’s 100% Disco Glasses.

discoglasses[1]

Bitter and disappointed, I scrutinise the machine for refund information. Despite my limited Japanese ability, I discern that I can follow the ‘King’s Blog’ for more information. However, details about a refund aren’t quite as forthcoming.

Disheartened by my less-than-thrilling prize, I decide to escape my disappointment by taking trains. I make my way to Aoyama-itchome Station, where my friend Genmei is hosting an art exhibition in the basement of Club Edition. Titled ‘Colourful is Power,’ her display lives up to its name, boasting vibrant hues that captivate the eye.

The venue itself exudes a more bar-like ambiance than a conventional art gallery, contributing to its unique atmosphere. I engage in a brief conversation with Genmei, a talented live painter. Having witnessed some of her live art firsthand, I can confidently say that she is an amazing artist. Her creative endeavours predominantly unfold at trance parties or raves, drawing inspiration from the mood and music of the events.

In a friendly gesture, I offer her my Disco Glasses, but she gracefully declines.

genmei[1]

After leaving the gallery/bar, I step outside to find heavy rain pouring down. I navigate the rain-swept streets to reach the station and catch a train to Komagome. Today marks the opening ceremony for an event at Rikugien Gardens—an evening of autumn illuminations. I pay my ¥300 entry fee and enter the darkness.

These three-hundred-year-old landscape gardens have inspired countless poems. It’s been a while since I wrote a haiku, so here goes:

Hollow darkness welcomes me,
To black rain singing,
And decaying leaves screaming.

Stumbling through the woods, I eventually spot maple trees adorned with red and green lights. The path beneath my feet is sodden, my shoes squelching as they tread over the thick, wet mud. Small lanterns mark the way, guiding me through the enchanting scene. I follow the illuminated path, captivated by the beauty around me despite the biting cold. In the distance, ducks play in the lake, trees sway gently in the wind, and steam billows from spotlights, creating a stark contrast to the crisp winter air.

lanternsinthedark[1]

After walking around for about an hour, I realise I am lost in a maze of trees illuminated by scattered lights. At times, I find myself stumbling through the silent darkness. Eventually, I spot a steward; he lacks an umbrella and is soaked to the bone. As I approach, he remains silent, lifting his arm to point toward a small gap between some trees that appears to lead into a void. Quietly following his unspoken guidance, I venture through.

Ten minutes later, I emerge into a scene that resembles a different planet.

Soft blue light gently bathes the fallen autumn leaves, casting a mysterious glow over the tremendous yet somewhat spooky sight. The surroundings are shrouded in mystery and framed by towering trees. A small speaker nearby plays calming music, the falling rain inadvertently adding to the soothing chorus. Mesmerised, I watch the patterns of blue smoke, finally able to enjoy some illuminations.

blueleaves[1]

Having witnessed this captivating spectacle, I embark on a ten-minute journey through quicksand-like mud, eventually finding my way to the exit.

Back in Asakusa, I indulge in drinks until midnight before heading to Tori-no-Ichi part two—the second day of the rooster this month. Once again, the streets are filled with people wielding massive rakes, partaking in the festivities. While the crowd revels in the celebration, I have a singular focus—the street food market.

I opt for Korean-style yakisoba, a generous serving of vegetables and noodles topped with kimchi. Satisfied, I join a relatively short queue for a ¥300 bag of hot baked kasutera. As I relish each bite of my favourite snack, I savour the moment. It’s precisely at this juncture that I discover the batteries in my Disco Glasses have died.