A Night In Tsumago

If you happened to live in Tokyo over three-hundred years ago, it’s possible that the Japanese Emperor would have summoned you to his court in faraway Kyoto. If this happened, your only choice would have been, which of the two routes to Kyoto would you take to get there. You could have travelled along the coast, within sight of Mount Fuji, but had you decided to travel overland, through the mountainous province of Shinano, you would have joined many other travellers and pilgrims walking along the 534km long route called the Nakasendo. Walking daily for nearly three weeks, on day nine you would have found yourself passing through the hilly and forested Kiso valley. Tired after carrying all your possessions on your back, it’s a near certainty you would have rested for the night in the quiet post town of Tsumago.

Today, it’s April 29th 2011, and we are also travelling along the Nakasendo. Much has changed since the Edo period when the Nakasendo was in full use, and much has stayed the same. The route still passes through Tsumago, our destination for the night. But the Nakasendo no longer passes through Shinano province, the name has been changed to Nagano prefecture. And the city where we were a few days ago – Tokyo, has long since had it’s name changed from Edo. The Nakasendo still follows the meandering path of the Kiso river, but we’re not walking, we’re onboard the train, which steadily winds its way through the still forested Kiso valley.

Of all the things that have stayed the same, the most remarkable is the quiet town of Tsumago, which according to the reports we’ve heard is just as it would have been during the Edo period. The town still consists of beautifully preserved wooden houses, it has banned cars from driving through the town-centre and it has banished conspicuous overhead power lines from the valley. We’re both very excited about visiting the Tsumago and experiencing it’s vivid past.

The Edo Period in Japan was a period of quiet, autocratic feudalism between 1603 and 1868. The real ruler during this era was the Shogun (General) who was a member of the Tokugawa clan. After the Sengoku (Waring States) period, a one-hundred year era of continuous civil war between local rulers and chiefs, the Tokugawa clan achieved total victory and became the ultimate rulers of all Japan in 1603. They set up a new capital in Edo (modern-day Tokyo) and in the centuries that followed, they imposed a strong military rule that crushed any dissent, but kept the country at peace and as a result, much Japanese culture flourished during this period. The Emperor and his Imperial court continued to live with much pomp and little power in Kyoto. Under a policy called Sakoku, Japan was during this time completely closed off to the rest of the world: the penalty for a Japanese for leaving the country was execution and the only foreigners who were allowed into Japan, were a few hundred Dutch merchants who lived on a tiny island in the Bay of Nagasaki, from where they were permitted to trade with the Japanese.

During the 1860s, this long peace and rigid old order rapidly disintegrated and in 1868, the Shogun resigned and the Emperor was restored to power. In a single generation, Japan bounded from an era of feudalism to full-scale industrialism. One person who lived through this turbulent era, and who recorded it with great sensitivity was Etsu Inagaki Sugimoto. She was born in 1874, in the nearby mountaneous province of Nagaoka, on the other side of the Kiso valley. Her father was a member of the Samurai class and initially she grew up as part of the old order, before the upheavals of the era reached her distant and isolated province. As a young child, she witnessed enormous change and as an adult she even got to leave Japan and move to the United States. Returning by train, to her home province after many years, she described the journey in her memoirs:

How different was this trip from the one of years before which I took with my brother when on my way to school in Tokyo!  Instead of a journey of several days, spent, sometimes perched upon a high wooden saddle, sometimes tucked snugly into a swinging kago and sometimes rolled and jolted along the rough path in a jinrikisha, this was only fourteen hours of comfortable riding on a brisk little narrow-gauge train, that wound its puffing way up the mountains, through twenty-six tunnels that represented some of the world’s finest engineering.  Between these dashes of darkness were welcome glimpses of sunny hill-sides terraced with ricefields, and a narrow, winding road that I remembered well.  Just at twilight we found ourselves on the station platform of a busy town having a background of hills bristling with the skeleton towers of multitudinous oil wells.  I had been told of these changes, but my slow mind had failed to realize how entirely my Nagaoka was a dream of the past.

Although we were travelling in a very different time to Sugimoto, I have a similar feeling of wonder at the passing of eras as we journey further into the Kiso valley and deeper into old Japan.

Our trains stops at Nagiso, the nearest station to Tsumago, and here we get off. When we exit the station, there’s no mistaking the era: we’re surrounded by a throng of Japanese tourists and they’re pointing their Nikons and Canons in every direction, enthusiastically snapping the cherry blossoms, the views of the forested hills, the old wooden pharmacy across the road, the train that has just arrived…

We’re only a short distance from Tsumago, where we’ve booked ourselves into a ryokan (guesthouse) for the night. But before we start walking or checking out bus times, we look out for our friend Natsumi, whom we met last weekend in Tokyo. Because it’s the first day of Golden Week, she’s back in her home province of Nagano, and today she is with her father visiting some relations in Nagiso. We can’t see her anywhere, but after a quick phone call, she pops out from the crowd.

“Konnichiwa!”

“Konnichiwa!”

“Nice to see you again!”

Natsumi’s relatives live right on the edge of the train station car-park. We’re led over to their house, which is separated from the car-park by a little stream – we cross over by a little wooden foot bridge. We find ourselves in a charming little garden where we’re introduced to Natsumi’s father and aunt. With so many introductions, there’s a whole lot of bowing going on and I enthusiastically join in, bowing vigorously at everyone and everything and saying “Hajimemashite” repeatedly.

Natsumi’s father is from Tsumago and when we tell him where we’ve booked to stay for the night, he recognizes it instantly.

“Maruya ryokan!”

He knows the family who live next door. He then tells that our ryokan is on the other side of Tsumago from where we are now, and it’s at least a 45 minute walk away. Before we even get a chance to be bothered about the distance, he insists on giving us a lift in his car! We’re very chuffed. Natsumi’s father is all action and we load our bags into their boxy little car almost straight away. We hop in and set off towards the Maruya ryokan. The road follows a very circuitous route around the town, since cars aren’t allowed into Tsumago itself.

On the way, Natsumi’s father asks where we have been and we tell him about Kamikochi,  how cold it was during the night, but also how beautiful it was during the day.  The road takes us through some beautiful cedar forests and we get an elevated view of Tsumago nestled in the Kiso valley. As we drive up the road where our accommodation is located, Natsumi’s father drives along slowly, reading all the name signs, until he points out the Maruya ryokan, nearly the last one at the top of the road.

We thank Natsumi and her father for dropping us straight to the door of our ryokan. It would have taken us a long time to walk the distance and with our heavy bags, we probably would have gotten lost a few times. It was a small gesture for them, but it has made a huge difference to us and we’re really appreciative. As a small thank you, Sachiko presents Natsumi with some home-grown peanuts, which were home-roasted by Sachiko’s granny, Fumi. The gift is well received.

“I’ll make peanut butter!” says Natsumi.

Before Natsumi and her father leave, I request a picture of them. I’m keen to capture the faces of the people we meet, especially those who are kind to us. They’re happy to comply, and without saying anything to each other, they adopt a curiously formal pose outside our ryokan. We then exchange another profusion of bows – communicating fullsome thanks and fond farewells – and declare that we’ll meet again, tomorrow, in Matsumoto. We wave them off and then Sachiko and I fetch our bags and face our ryokan.

It’s a tall, wooden two-storey building with a tiny door as entrance. The doorway is probably about 1.2 metres (4 feet) high. I’m 1.82 metres (6 feet) tall, so this requires quite a stoop to enter through without braining myself; even for the native, Sachiko at 1.6 metres (5 foot 3 inches), the door requires some serious limbo action.

It’s all part of the experience of course, such a low doorway is a signature of Japanese culture. In the Book of Tea, Kakuzo Okakura gives a concise description of how a guest attending a tea ceremony, enters the tea room:

Then he will bend low and creep into the room through a small door not more than three feet in height. This proceeding was incumbent on all guests, – high and low alike, – and was intended to inculcate humility.

Once inside Maruya ryokan, we remove our shoes and step onto the tatami flooring. We’re in a dimly lit, large room, which is completely covered in woven tatami mats. In the centre of the mats is a smoldering open fire place, over which a cast iron kettle hangs. There’s a high ceiling and the interior is nearly all wooden. It’s like a scene from a different age. Sitting on the tatami mats beside the fire is a relaxed older Japanese man and his two kids, who are both engrossed in a frenetic, high octane Japanese cartoon on the television. An effortless blend of the ancient and the new.

We pause here for a moment until a woman comes out from the back of the ryokan. She smiles and greets us.

“Konnichiwa”

“Konnichiwa”, we reply. ”Kobayashi, Sachiko”

“Hai” she says.

To my surprise, she doesn’t lead us over to any reception, computer or sign-in book. All we have to do to identify ourselves, is give her the name we used to book our room for the night (I’m not asked for my name at all). I’m very impressed that she appears to know the names of everyone who has booked in for the night. We stay standing on the spot, as she gives us a quick and thorough run-down of all the essential facts and times about the ryokan: there’ll be two hot baths downstairs from 16:00, dinner will be at 17:30, the front door will be closed from 22:00 and breakfast will be at 07.30 in the morning.

She then leads us upstairs to our room. The stairs we climb is a step ladder carved out of a single piece of wood. We’re then led down a long and narrow corridor until our host stops outside our room, which is named yuri (lily). She bids us enter, then she bows and goes to leave.

“Arigato” we say in unison.

Sachiko and I find ourselves in a spartan, square room, each side about 3 metres long. The entire room is once again covered with tatami mats and one of the four walls is just a sliding screen. There’s a small table in the middle and a heater in the corner. Apart from a thermos flask of hot water and some green tea-bags, there’s nothing else in the room. I double-check the sliding door through which we entered the room. No, it can’t be locked.

“Where’s our bedding?” I ask.

“They’ll bring it up when we’re having dinner”, Sachiko replies.

I review the situation.

As it stands, we’re fully checked in to our accommodation for the night. However, we weren’t asked for any identification to prove who we were, and I wasn’t even asked for my name. We’ve been shown to our room, which contains no bedding and which is separated from our neighbours room by nothing but a sliding screen. There’s no lock on the sliding screen, on the entrance to our room, there’s no locker anywhere and we haven’t received any sort of key for even the building that we’re supposedly staying in for night.

Had I been travelling solo, I probably would have given up by now, such is the endless stream of baffling non-sequitors. But thanks to the reassurance of my lovely guide, I’m saved from any culture-shock paralysis. All is explained, and my mind is put at ease.

“It’s normal that they only bring the futon up when we’re gone for dinner”, Sachiko explains.

The futon, that nearly all Japanese people still sleep on, is simply bedding laid down on the tatami floor. During the day, it’s cleared away and stored. This gives the room lots of extra space and in fairness, though our room is small, it’s zen bareness is quite peaceful. The walls, our sliding door, and the sliding screen that separates our room from our neighbours, offer little in the way of sound insulation. Since we can hear there’s no-one next door, we talk relaxedly, but I wonder how it will be later on when somebody else is staying next door. Not only will each room be able to hear the other with perfect clarity, when we go to sleep, it will even be possible for both the door and the sliding screen to be opened completely silently! A more suitable building for ninjas could hardly be imagined.

“Kabeni mimi ari, shoji ni me ari”, says Sachiko.

“The walls have ears, the screens have eyes”, she translates.

It’s an old Japanese proverb which says, since you can never know who is listening or watching, you have always to be careful about what you say and this is especially true when sliding screens are near. A classic technique in old samurai stories is to moisten one’s finger and use it to rub a small hole in the sliding screen, thus being able to spy keenly on all the goings-on in the room next door.

In my wilder moments of speculation, I’m tempted to develop a theory that explains the reserved and shy Japanese personality by the thin and almost ineffable borders of privacy in their dwellings; but since these speculations so quickly fall into a chicken and egg type circular argument, I never pursue them. On the other hand, I can honestly say that because the Japanese are so respectful and considerate, I don’t feel at all vulnerable about sleeping in a room with no security, something I couldn’t say about most other countries, including my own.

We walk around our building a bit. It’s a remarkable structure made entirely from wood: the frame of the building consists of some enormous vertical tree trunks with other huge cross-spars horizontally crossing the building at a very low height. This suggests that the building is very old. It also means I must be vigilant about not knocking my head.

Elsewhere there’s a lovely selection of ornaments and objects all displayed with a thorough-going zen aesthetic for simpleness. We fetch a few things from our room, slide the door shut and climb downstairs.

Before going outside, I persuade Sachiko to ask our host how old the building is. When we find her, our host is a little unsure of the answer: she says the ryokan opened in Kansei 1, but because she’s not sure when that was, she first has to work that out, and  then can she give us an answer to how old the ryokan is. Both our host and Sachiko spend a few minutes trying to remember dates and the years that different eras ended. I’m baffled by it all.

“1789”, they agree.

“222 years!” I exclaim. “Has it been a guesthouse all the time?”

“Hai”, our host replies.

I’m awed. We’re staying in a guesthouse that has been continuously open for over two hundred years. Wow.

Our host smiles as I have a moment.

Our plan for the afternoon is to walk down to Tsumago and check out the town. There’s only a few hours before our dinner and the local shops and premises will all be from 5 o’clock. We’re a short walk from the town and we embark in high spirits. The route completely avoids the road that Natsumi’s father took to drive us to our ryokan earlier. We follow the many signs that mark the walking trail.

This is after all the ancient Nakasendo walking highway of central Japan. The road goes up and down, with lovely views of Tsumago in the near distance. I get to see wild bamboo for the first time as we pass a forest of the slender and lanky trunks swaying in the balmy spring afternoon.

It’s only now that we have a chance to appreciate how different the weather conditions are compared to this morning in Kamikochi. We started the day in heavy clothing with gloves, scarves and hats but now we’ve shed all our layers and we’re waltzing along the meandering path, carefree and happy.

We’re not in Tsumago yet, but we pass lots of wooden buildings. Outside many of these buildings are a myriad of little crafts and lovely wooden objects. I feel like we’ve just time-travelled into some bucolic medieval village, or like we’ve just walked into Kakariko village from the Legend of Zelda. I’m particularly excited by the water mills everywhere. Some are small and decorative while others are enormous and clearly functional. Everything has an appealing human scale, there’s none of the pristine giantism of Tokyo.

Along the walk we pass an eye-catching old wooden building with a wonderfully haphazard bric-a-brac filled barn. With a sturdy wheel-barrow leaning against the wall, it has the disheveled character a daily-use and real life, this is not some Potemkin village we’re passing by. Outside the house is a spectacular tree, which to my amazement is blossoming in three varieties of pink.

“Momo hana”, Sachiko says.

“Momo is peach, hana is flower”, she explains.

“It’s beautiful” I say, not usually so moved by just a blossoming tree.

Outside many other houses, there are little benches or small tree-trunks cut into small stools. We stop outside one such house from which hangs a traditional straw rice-farmers hat. Also outside the house is another curio: a statue of a little racoon.

“Tanuki!”, Sachiko says, like he’s an old friend she hasn’t met in a long time.

He’s an agreeable looking fellow with a slightly mad, mischievous look in his eyes.

“The Tanuki I know from my childhood is that he deceives people by turning into another human being or some objects, but usually the disguised has a leaf on the head (and sometimes a fat tail hanging in the back) so the clever one can spot it’s only Tanuki in disguise…”, says Sachiko.

This particular Tanuki has a sake bottle, which I later learn, has a story behind it too:

“There were some naughty Tanuki hanging around the sake brewery, messing steamed rice for sake and making noises to surprise people. In spite of the naughty behaviour, Tanuki was treated as a sacred creature and it was said that good sake won’t be made without Tanuki hanging around in a brewery..”

On the other side of the house is an enormous straw horse, for which I also get a thorough explanation:

“The wara-uma (straw horse) is famous in the Kiso area, apparently it brings a good fortune. Usually they are very small, this is the massive version and they demonstrate how to make one in this house”

As we continue on our walk towards Tsumago town, I ask Sachiko why earlier, there was such confusion about how old our ryokan was.

“She could remember that it opened in Kansai 1, but she couldn’t remember what year that was in western years”

“Western years?”

“The Japanese year is named after the Emperor. Kansai 1 was the first year that the Emperor of that era reigned. Now for example, we’re now in Hesei 23″

“Wow, is the Emperor naming convention commonly used?”

“No, it’s mostly used for history and by old people. For example, my grandfather was born in Taisho 15 and my granny was born in Showa 2, but my grandfather was only born 5 months before my granny”

“Ehh?!”

“Two months after my grandfather was born the Emperor died. The next day was Showa 1, which only lasted a week until the end of the year. Then in January it was Showa 2, and in March my granny was born”

“A very important event” I say.

“Yes!” says Sachiko and she laughs.

Twenty minutes after leaving our accommodation, we walk into Tsumago. It’s a wonder. As a tourist, I’ve spent the past week constantly experiencing Japan as a foreign country, now I feel like I’m in a different era too.

We stroll down the street marvelling at the rows of wooden buildings, the hanging lanterns, the hanging curtains underneath the verandas and the lovingly tended little bonsai trees and flower pots outside so many of the buildings. There’s a very relaxed vibe about the town.

I’m not the only one who’s charmed by it all. For Japanese people, Tsumago is particularly nostalgic and evocative. They learn much about the Edo period in school and Tsumago is a very tangible and authentic example of what the towns in the Edo period were like. Many of buildings have wide eaves to provide shelter from the monsoon rains or the late summer heat and underneath some of these eaves, are neatly stacked piles of firewood for the open fire inside the dwelling.

“Natsukashi” I say. (nostalgic)

“Very good Japanese!”

“Arigato!”

Most of the buildings are restaurants or little craft shops. One uniquely robust and sturdy looking building really stands out as different. Compared to all other buildings on the street, it looks like a fortress.

“What’s that? I ask

“The kura, or rice warehouse” Sachiko says.

“The rice warehouse?!”

I really wasn’t expecting that answer, but after I think about it, and along with a little bit of history, I realize it makes perfect sense. The Samurai warrior class were paid in rice and during the Edo period, they were not allowed to leave the town they lived in: for these two reasons, the rice store had to be in the town and it had to be a fortress. For a hungry samurai would presumably have formidable breaking and entering abilities.

While the mood of Tsumago is one of “long-long-ago”, the buildings are all in very good condition and as my guidebook tells us, that didn’t happen through inertia and inactivity. When the Edo period ended and the Chuo train line bypassed Tsumago, it lost its purpose as an overnight stop on the Nakasendo and the town quickly declined and fell into disrepair. By the 1960s, some local citizen on their own initiative decided to restore their dilapidated little town. After some time, they got government support and funds and after many years work Tsumago was beautifully restored to its former glory. It has now become a popular tourist destination, especially with the Japanese themselves, but owing to the Tohoku earthquake in March, the numbers visiting today are much smaller.

On many of the buildings, the front facade is a sliding screen. And while some of these buildings are all closed up, on some others the front facade is completely open and here we can peer in and marvel at the old atmosphere.

On our walkabout, we stop for an ice-cream. I go for sakura (cherry blossom) ice-cream and Sachiko goes for her favourite: green-tea ice-cream. Only in Japan.

We’ve walked nearly the full length of town when we come across three enormous rocks precariously resting on top of each other. There’s a sign in old Japanese, which Sachiko has a hard time translating because the kanji characters are so old. But after some tenacious deciphering, she’s able to tell me the story. The rocks originally looked like a carp fish, a familiar image in Japanese culture. The word for carp (鯉) and the word for romance (恋) have the same sound: koi, and at the same time there was a rumour that the local daimyo (ruling chief) was having a romantic assignation with a girl at the same spot. Which part of the story came first, we do not know. However, there was an earthquake in Meiji 24 (1891) and the rocks moved, making them look less like a carp fish. By then there was no daimyo either, and now there’s just the sign and the story.

It’s reaching late in the afternoon and Sachiko recommends we get back to our ryokan. We walk quickly and with a renewed purpose: to have a quick bath before dinner. I’m slowly being indoctrinated with the idea of having a bath every day. Like everything else in Tsumago, the bath is a unique experience. The small little bath-tub is made from hinoki, the Kiso valley cyprus tree, which gives it a vivifying and woody aroma

At 17:30, we enter the dining room where all the other guests are also dining. I’m the only non-Japanese in the building. Sitting at the table beside us are a young Japanese couple and at one table on the other side of the room, there are three generations of Japanese: children, parents and grandparents. Everyone is sitting on a low cushion and at a low table – there’s no “Western option” here.

The table is set with a plethora of little bowls, vessels and receptacles. Dinner is fantastic: tofu, salad, satoimo potatoes, vegetable tempura, iwana fish, rice and lots of little pickles. I’m starving and have no trouble finishing the whole lot. Finishing all your rice is particularly important. Sachiko tells me that as children, they were chastised if there was even one grain of rice left in their bowls!

Initially we don’t talk to the Japanese couple at the table beside. The man is prattling away and his girlfriend doesn’t seem to have much to say, though Sachiko reckons they’re both slightly unnerved by the presence of a gaijin at the table beside them. When I commit a very minor faux-pas, pouring some soya sauce into an incorrect bowl, this is confirmed. Out of the corner of her eye, Sachiko notices that the couple briefly stop talking as they notice, out of the corner of their eye, what I’ve done… they stutter a bit before renewing their conversation, with an even more forced nonchalance than before.

To put them out of their misery, Sachiko strikes up a conversation (in Japanese):

“Where are you from?”

“Shizuoka” they reply. It’s a nearby province.

“Where is he from?” they ask.

“Irelulando”

“Where have you been on your holidays so far?”

We tell them all about Kamikochi. The couple are also on holidays for Golden Week and when we’ve finished our dinner, they wish us well for the rest of our trip. We leave the dining room and we return to our bedroom, we find that our bedding has been left in the room. That’s one good reason we can’t lock our door. We then adopt the traditional after-dinner/after-bath custom and change into our the kimonos that were provided with the room. Thus attired, we go downstairs to relax in the communal area.

While we’re sitting around the fire, the front door of the building slides open and a young child steps through and calls out in a loud but soft voice,

“Oshoyu wakete kudasai”

“Spare us some soya sauce”, Sachiko translates.

The child is from next door, where they’re clearly having a bit of an emergency: no soya sauce left!

We’re back in our room by eight o’clock. After a largely sleepless night (due to the freezing conditions) in Kamikochi, the long hours of train travelling and the busy touristic sightseeing, we’re both absolutely exhausted. The relaxing comfort from the bath, the full meal and the quiet atmosphere of the ryokan is so thorough that my tiredness is starting to become overwhelming and by the time we go to bed, I’m beginning to feel slightly unhinged. Tucked into the futon, I quickly fall asleep.

My sleep is long, and in the morning I awaken refreshed, after ten hours of continuous deep slumber. But, not all is as it seems and my memory of an untroubled night is punctured when Sachiko tells me of a troubling event that transpired during the night.

At an unknown dark hour, I suddenly sat bolt upright in the futon. Looking around wildly in all directions, I shout rapidly in a panicked voice,

“Hai, Hai, Hai, Hai!”

The Japanese word for yes, and I say it with a staccato quickness.

Naturally, Sachiko is woken by this clamour.

“Are you alright?” she asks with great compassion.

“I’m just tired” I reply and slump over, as emphatically as I rose up, and fall asleep.

When Sachiko tells me all this in the morning, I have absolutely no memory of it whatsoever. I’m at a loss for an explanation. I’ve no history of sleep walking so it seems very out of character. To Sachiko however, there is a simple explanation. Sometime in the past, a Samurai soldier was murdered in the room we slept in. However his soul was unable to flee and so it stayed trapped like a ghost in the room. During the night, this ghost temporarily inhabited my body, before fleeing after it was confronted. You can’t get more authentic than that!

Morning Walk In Kamikōchi

We waken before seven. The promise of the starry night sky has been fulfilled, the long black veil of the shivering night has floated away and we emerge from our cabin, blinking in the soft morning light. The temperatures are already starting to rise and the tall shadows cast by the trees are shortening as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky.

With the cabin door open, we sit on the porch and have breakfast. Rice balls are the staple and we use the simple gas cooker to heat up some gyoza, miso soup and instant coffee. As we’re enjoying our breakfast in the clear fresh air, our neighbours in cabin number two come out and we chat to them briefly. They’re also up early and were planning to hike the high-altitude Karasawa route in the mountains, but they’ve just learned that there have been avalanches in the early morning, and their plans are now on hold. One of them tells us that some people have been injured and that some helicopters will be coming to airlift them to hospital. We’re safe on the valley floor however, no avalanches will reach that far.

Before leaving, we clean out our cabin (with the sweeping brush provided) and then we bring our packed bags, pots and sheets to the reception cabin. We were the first to check-in and we’re the first to check-out. Because we’re not leaving for a few hours, we leave our bags at reception; our bus leaves at 10:15 so we’ve enough time to walk the Kamikōchi valley and savour the beautiful morning. On the ground we see a puddle than tells the full story of the last 12 hours: the water which froze in the sub-zero night temperatures is already starting to thaw with the early morning warmth. We then hightail it to the nearest opening in the trees so we can get a proper view, untainted by low clouds, of all those majestic mountain peaks, which we could only glimpse yesterday. Today, the mountains are epic.

As I work my camera, taking pictures and trying to capture the view, it strikes me that the scene of dense forest in the foreground, snow covered jagged peaks in the centre and deep blue sky overhead is so iconically perfect, that the picture I take feels very little like “my picture”. It has none of the imperfections of personality. The photograph looks too much like a postcard and that’s not enough to prove that we were here! So after much undignified crouching and crawling around on the ground with my camera and tripod…

We finally get the money shot, the one to send home to the relatives… yes, we were here!

After getting an invigorating dose of grand mountain views, we walk to the Kappabashi Bridge. The koinobori are out in full flight. These tubular kites of a family of carp fish are traditional decorations hung up for Children’s Day, a national holiday on May 5th. Usually, a carp for each member of the family is hung up: Daddy, Mammy and each of the children, as this song explains. The koinobori we pass have four children, an unheard of large family by Japanese standards.

At the Kappabashi Bridge, we encounter a small crowd of other visitors, which is more than all the people we saw yesterday. Today (April 29th) is Showa Day, a national holiday to commemorate the former emperor, Hirohito. It’s also the first day of Golden Week, so called because four national holidays fall in the same week. In general, the Japanese work hard and don’t take many holidays, but during Golden Week, millions of workers leave the cities and escape to the countryside. Among the holiday makers in Kamikōchi are lots of serious hikers and mountain climbers kitted out in immaculately clean North Face and Lowe Alpine gear and sporting a plethora of special equipment: hiking sticks, crampons, helmets, ice axes and more.

We join this bunch of climbers and hikers on the Kappabashi Bridge. Like them, we’re captivated by its brilliance in the morning. Once again, we marvel at the soaring snow peaked mountains framed by the clear blue sky. It’s a far cry from the conditions on the bridge yesterday when we were shivering  with the cold and saturated in drizzle and sideways rain. But while it may be a breathtaking scene to look at, the impact of the hot sun on the snow covered mountains at this time of year isn’t all pleasant. It’s spring and the temperatures have been rising for some weeks; no fresh snow has fallen for some time and the heat from the sun is now starting to melt the snow, which leads to avalanches and danger for anyone in the line of fire.

As we leave the Kappabashi Bridge we hear the rescue helicopters overhead. We don’t know if they’re still searching for the missing climbers or if they have found them and are air lifting them to safety. Either way, it’s a sure sign that the climbing season in Kamikōchi is in full swing. After we’ve walked a short distance, I spot a lone monkey down by the river, just underneath the bridge. As someone with a European childhood, I’m reminded of the infamous troll who lived under a bridge and terrorized the three billy goats. But here in Japan, the monkey looks more like a kappa, ready to prey on some unsuspecting humans. Perhaps it was just such a scene that led to the bridge being named after the kappa in the first place? I go over to the side of the river to take a picture. For Sachiko however, this monkey-troll-kappa hybrid is of little importance: for her the main event is the sunny morning and she sits on the river bank basking with the warm sun on her face.

We leave the Kappabashi Bridge behind, and continue on our walk. Each time I stop to take more pictures of some mountain view, Sachiko renews her love affair with the sun…

She’s not the only one relishing the weather, the snow monkeys are out as well.

Looking a bit sunburnt there buddy…

Out on the trail, we see lots of monkey activity with the males striding up and down the terrain and paths. They strut with great presence, but they pay little attention to us human visitors.

We also see a family of monkeys with their mother. They’re on the move, with mother leading the way, but they also take some time to dip and wash in the cold waters of the Azusa river.

We also dip our toes in some local water, but it’s the warm waters of the foot spa where we pit-stopped yesterday. Once again, we get a super dose of exhilaration – each of us with a pair of happy feet, we carry on towards the Hotaka bridge.

As we walk towards the bridge and are about to cross, we freeze when we see a very aggressive alpha-male snow monkey bounding across from the opposite side. He’s baring his teeth and snarling and barking with incredible volume – following close behind him are a troop of less aggressive monkeys all running to keep up with the leader. There’s a lot of people on the bridge at the time and they scatter with fright and rapidity as the monkeys come charging through. There’s no chance of photographing this melee, these monkey are dangerous and to be kept well away from. We scramble out of their way.

While the lead monkey is clearly picking for a fight, it’s also apparent that he has no bone to pick with the humans in the area. It’s hard to figure out exactly what’s going on, but amongst the flurry of monkeys running all over the place, there appears to be some upstart monkey who has challenged the alpha male for the top spot. Alpha is having none of it. As the rowdies move on, a few more straggler monkeys follow behind in their wake. These monkeys are far more placid and tame like the ones we’ve seen already… and as soon as this dawns on all the tourists on the bridge, the cameras are out.

After this dramatic monkey encounter, we walk back to the reception area from where we retrieve our bags. There are lots of tourists hanging around the Kappabashi Bridge, these are all the day trippers that have just arrived.

There’s a painter with his easel, painting the bridge and there’s a local dressed up in a fancy costume offering to be in pictures with the day trippers. By 10 o’clock we’re waiting for the bus at the Kamikōchi bus depot. It’s been a short but amazing trip to the mountains. In less than 24 hours we saw a lot and fortunately we got to see Kamikōchi at its best. There’s a lot we didn’t get to see: the scenic ponds Taisho, Tashiro & Myōjin and lots of other landmarks, Takezawa Marsh and Tokusawa. But there’s little left for us to do, except pledge to come back again and see it all.  Onboard the bus, it pulls away from Kamikōchi, bang on time at 10:15.

There’s a remarkably simple but effective fare technology on the bus that gets me very excited: when we entered the bus near the back, we collected an automatically dispensed ticket, which has the number of the station we got on at – in our case, no 1. No payment is made at this stage, you just get a ticket. From our seats we can see a panel at the front of the bus, numbered 1 to 40, which is the number of stops the bus is going to make. The panel is updated each time the bus makes a stop and when one wants to get off the bus, to know the fare you owe, just check the figure underneath the number of the stop you got on at: in the photograph below, we owe ¥5 (an incorrect number: something was wrong this panel). You can’t get off the bus until you’ve handed over your numbered ticket and the appropriate fare as stated on the panel. There’s no room for argument!

Our journey takes us back down the hair-raising road we travelled up yesterday. At Shinshimashima we get off the bus and board the train which will take us to Matsumoto. Here we witness a charming Golden Week scene. Across from us sits a family from Tokyo (mother, father, three children) who are holidaying in Nagano for Golden Week. They are chatting to an obahchan, an old local woman, who is sitting on the same side of the train as us. She is regaling them with ridiculous details about her life and they are laughing uproariously at everything she says. She’s clearly delighting in the captive audience because she just keeps on talking and they keep on laughing. Unlike Irish people, Japanese rarely talk to strangers on buses and train, but this obahchan is refreshingly relaxed and unburdened by such cultural conventions. It creates a very convivial atmosphere on the train.

We change trains in Matsumoto, and head south towards our next destination in the Kiso valley, the beautifully preserved, Edo-period, wooden town of Tsumago.

Planet of the Snow Monkeys

Another morning in Japan, another whiskey hangover. The cure is a full Kobayashi breakfast (miso soup, sticky rice, nori seaweed, tofu, pickled vegetables, grilled salmon, noodles, spring onions, an omelet, satoimo potatoes and green tea) and as it gets to work, we pack our bags and put them in the boot of the family car, a Mazda Premacy. The weather is warm enough for me to be comfortable in a long sleeved tee-shirt, shorts & sandals, but our bags are stuffed with heavy coats, wooly jumpers, hats, gloves, scarfs and waterproofs. We’ll need them where we’re going to. From Suzaka, we’re getting a lift to Nagano City bus station, from where a bus will take us up into the mountains, to our overnight destination, Kamikōchi, a scenic nature reserve in a high-altitude valley sometimes referred to as the Japanese Alps.

When travelling to Kamikōchi, our guidebook tells us, avoid the peak season in July when the valley is swarming with tourists and day-trippers. This is no problem for us because it’s only April 28th and the Kamikōchi opening ceremony to mark the beginning of the visiting season only took place yesterday. Despite the presence of a young heart-throb actor (Shun Oguri) and actress (Masami Nagasawa) at the opening ceremony, it’ll be some weeks before the numbers visiting the park start to increase. Another reason we’re predicting it’ll be quiet, is that since the March 11th earthquake, many Japanese have been reluctant to travel anywhere for recreational activities. This is, as far as I can tell, more for reasons of it seeming inappropriate than for any practical reasons, although after-shocks are still quite common.

When our bus pulls away from Nagano City bus station, there’s only one other person onboard. Dressed in hiking gear, the other passenger making the trip to the mountains is an elderly woman, but her age is nothing surprising. After all this is Japan, a country that holds the record for the oldest person to climb Mount Everest (Yuichiro Miura, 75 years old) and where one famous 100 year old (Keizo Miura) celebrated his centenary birthday by skiing down a ski-slope with four generations of his family.

The bus journey takes us across Nagano prefecture. Although known as a prefecture of farmers, there’s plenty of development too. As the bus whizzes along on a two-lane highway, we see shopping centres, small factories and pachinko parlours dotted across the landscape. The sky is clear and to Sachiko’s delight, there are lots of cherry blossoms still in bloom and koinobori blowing in the wind.

After over an hour of flat land, the distant cloud-capped mountains are growing nearer and the terrain begins to incline. We make a short stop in Matsumoto and thereafter our bus starts to pass through an increasing number of tunnels. The route is a steady ascent and the bus’s diesel engine rumbles louder and louder as we pass through tunnel after tunnel, on each occasion passing a few minutes in darkness, before emerging into the sunny light of a new valley. With increasing altitude, the broad U-shaped valleys become more steep V-shaped valleys. The higher land is more rugged and tree-covered, there is less and less development and the few buildings that exist are mostly made from wood. We’ve climbed to true alpine territory, with the narrow road clinging to the side of the sheer valley, high above the deep river gorge below. The road twists and turns. The bus is moving much more slowly and tentatively now, the uninterrupted drop below exhorts caution.

We continue to pass through numerous dark tunnels, drilled deep through the rock. On the mountainside above the road, there are large concrete structures protecting against avalanches. As the road continue to climb, the weather worsens. We’re driving into the clouds that have been hugging the mountains since early morning. The bus driver keeps up a steady patter of information about the route and the tunnels we’re passing through: one of the tunnels is famous for splitting in two halfway through, other tunnels are over 2.5 km in length and there’s one tunnel (Kama) after which private cars aren’t allowed to enter the Kamikōchi reserve. In time, the steady stream of information transitions to a series of announcements about the set-down points of the bus. We’re in Kamikōchi valley now. There are various accommodations and points to disembark but we’re going all the way to the last stop.

By the time we reach the end of our journey, we’ve been travelling in the same vehicle for nearly three hours. When we got on the bus in Nagano city in the morning, the weather was warm and balmy – this atmosphere sustained onboard the bus all the way up to the mountains, we remained cosy and snug onboard. But we’re at 1500 metres altitude now and when we alight, we’re stepping into a much colder world… and I’m still dressed in shorts and sandals. The bus driver, a true personification of a burly cheerful Buddha, laughs with fright when he sees my shorts and bare feet,

“Samui!” (cold), he cries aloud.

We quickly make for the large visitor centre. We’ve booked a cabin for the night, but we don’t know where it is, so Sachiko goes searching for a map and in the interim, I put on some long trousers, heavy socks, shoes and an insulated water-proof coat.

When we rendezvous, we study the newly acquired map of the area. Kamikōchi natural park is a valley of the Azusa river and our cabin is located up-river, past the Kappabashi bridge and about a 30 minute walk away. By the time we’ve figured all this out, the rain has come down out from the clouds making walking outdoors an uninviting prospect. So we stay inside the visitor centre and look around.

There’s not much that catches my interest until, glancing up at the high windows and out at the bare trees, I see one of the famed snow monkeys, tucked up in the trees, a lump of inactivity.

The visitor centre does provide lots of information about the geography, geology, fauna, flora and folklore of the Kamikōchi valley, but I mostly spend the time figuring out how to use the camera stand I got in the 100 yen shop. After a successful shot…

…we’re starting to get cabin fever inside the visitor centre. So we look out, convince ourselves that the weather, “isn’t that bad”, load up our bags and set off our towards our accommodation.

We’ve only walked to the other side of the building, when I have my first encounter with a snow-monkey. He’s a small guy, tucked up beside the wall and he’s sticking his hand into the cracks of the wall rooting around for something. The official advice about snow-monkeys, is to stay away, not interfere or get too close and definitely don’t feed them. The little monkey seems harmless and it doesn’t take much for me rationalize that he won’t mind a picture being taken. I get up close and quickly photograph the little animal. He’s very placid and doesn’t react at all as I snap my camera. I come away wondering what all the “beware of monkeys” fuss is about, but I guess it’s best not to judge a species based on an individual.

Leaving the snow-monkey behind, we set-off through the wintry weather and follow the route along the river and up the valley. There’s no traffic, only some other walkers, and each side of the road is bordered with tall, leafless trees. It’s very chilly, the rain is kind of sleety and for the first time since arriving in Japan five days ago, I see snow piled on the side of the road. Only yesterday we were basking in the radiant spring of the cherry blossoms! But just one morning’s travel is enough to reverse the seasons. The calendar says it’s spring, but the weather says it’s winter.

The road becomes a track and soon we’re minding our step to avoid the puddles that have gathered on the ground. After a number of landmarks, we spot the reception area through the tall trees. We’re a few hours early, we’re not meant to check in until 2.00 p.m., but thankfully we’re received hospitably. It’s only the second day of the season and we’re staying in Hut No. 1, so we’re probably the first visitors to check-in this season. We sign our names on a few forms and receive sheets, pillow cases, some pots, a box of matches and a torch. It doesn’t take long to check-in, but in the few minutes of waiting around, we’re starting to freeze.

A nearby thermometer records the temperature, a cool 5 degrees, though it feels much colder. We’re given another map, with our little shack marked at the  far end of the over-nighting quarter. As we walk towards it, we pass all the other accommodations, which all look extremely comfortable and warm. However, as we get nearer to our own place, it’s starting to dawn on us that the luxury and standard of the cabins is declining as we go. You gets what you pays for, and when we reach the edge of the accommodation area, we find our cabin, a simple wooden shed with a bunk bed. Its spartan simplicity is, I try to tell myself, a more authentic Japanese experience than I would have had in the five-star huts.

Our shack has no sink or toilet, for those needs we’ll have to use the communal sinks and communal toilets located nearby. There’s zero ornamentation and no luxury, but there’s no shortage of functional quality: it’s a sturdy cabin. In the porch, there’s a little gas pipe and stove where we can heat up food or drink. We deposit our sheets and equipment and transfer some essentials from my rucksack to a little backpack. We use the gas stove to heat up some food, some Japanese curry and a few rice balls and when we’re still feeling cold, we decide to have a cheeky little cup of warm sake too. But we don’t stay indoors for long; there’s no heat in the cabin and it’s too cold to remain anywhere without moving, so we go back out into the chilly day.

Outside, we walk across the winter accumulation of dead leaves and needles, a thick, uneven forest carpet. As we step to avoid the puddles, Sachiko spots a tiny little plant on the ground. Popping up out of the winter leaves is the fukinoto, also called the symbol of spring, though it’s a far cry from the cherry blossoms. Fukinoto, also known as bog rhubarb, is apparently quite tasty when fried in butter with miso paste and sugar and served on top of rice.

We continue on in the direction of the Kappabashi bridge, the number one landmark in Kamikōchi. If by some miracle you ever visited Kamikōchi, without having first seen a picture of the Kappabashi bridge, on arriving at it, you’d instantly recognize the bridge as the premier landmark due to it being festooned with tourists pointing their cameras every which way. When we come upon the bridge, the rainy weather has made it distinctly unphotogenic, but that’s hardly a reason to not photograph it. The cameras are out, we take a pile of pictures, but don’t hang around for long. It’s too cold and at any given moment on the Kappabashi bridge, some part of you is in the backdrop of somebody else’s photo. It’s an unnerving feeling.

The bridge is named after the kappa, a mythological Japanese creature that always lives in rivers and is apparently rumoured to have lived somewhere in a nearby pond. In modern times, the kappa has become a quite friendly, cute creature that often features in  cartoons in a helpful guise. This is far from its origins, in the past the kappa was a creature that often got humans into trouble, even sometimes killing them with quite gruesome methods. There’s no sign of the kappa today though. He’s too smart to be venturing out on such a day of lousy weather.

After coming off the Kappabashi bridge, we’re slightly rudderless and the prospect of a day wandering about in freezing cold, windy, wet weather starts to make my heart sink. There’s the option of  visiting some outdoor snack bars near the bridge, but the respite they offer is fleeting. I’m starting to get cranky and instead of savoring the experience of being in the Japanese Alps, I’m pining for familiar comforts such as tea and an open fire. There’s a five-star hotel right beside the bridge and I leer longingly in at the restaurant. It’s way outside our budget, but I’ve had enough of the cold, so I suggest we go inside and just have a drink. When I state that I’ll pay for everything, Sachiko agrees to the idea. Goodbye bad weather.

When we enter the lobby of the hotel a smiling, but curt woman says something to us in Japanese; it’s short and to the point, I know the Japanese for welcome (irashaimase) and this isn’t it… for a moment I’m fearful we’re being barred because we clearly don’t have five-star wallets. Thankfully, I’m just paranoid and it turns out she’s just asking us to leave our umbrellas in the special umbrella holder, they don’t want any lowly rain droplets gaining access to their pristine premises. When we enter the restaurant, we’re greeted with a chorus of “Irashaimase” by the beaming small army of waitresses.

It’s blessedly warm. On soft cosy cushions we sit back and are waited on by several staff. The restaurant is atmospherically lit and it’s real comfortable. Money has functioned like an Abracadabra, a magic password instantly transporting us from the shivering outdoors, where refrigerated souls pose for pictures on the Kappabashi bridge, into a world of warmth and luxury. The chimes of the waitress’s voices fill the air around us. We inspect the menu. The drinks are expensive, as we expected; less expected is that the word drink is spelt wrong on the menu: dirnk! I order black tea, Sachiko, a cafe latte.

As we enjoy our drinks, I get to witness what Sachiko often describes as “obachan power”. An obachan literally translates as aunt, but it is much more commonly used to describe a certain type of women about 50 years or older. This kind of obachan is usually either retired or has raised the kids and tends to go on excursions with her obachan friends in groups of three, four, five or many more. They bustle about with great energy, confidence and mirth and they often raise a lot of noise with their indomitable, good-natured spirit.

On the other side of the restaurant, there’s a table of five obachans having tea & coffee. They’re talking and laughing happily to each other, they’re clearly out for the day and are having a great time. At a certain point, they ask a waitress to take a picture of them. When this unlucky woman picks up the camera to take the picture, she is subjected to a torrent of instructions, requests and advice from the five obachan: what background to include, which way to point the camera, when to shoot, etc. Each obachan simulataneously delivers her message without any regard for the waitress’s inability to process these five voices at the one time. The waitress seems paralysed about what to do and is becoming contorted as she attempts to please her elders. At times she looks set to drop the camera from nerves, but her professional steel holds through as she is repeatedly asked to take another picture, with another camera, from another angle… all the while, the obachans never let up their jolly, boisterous bossing.

We’ve finished our beverages and before leaving, I pay a quick visit to the toilet. Such an experience as a trip to the toilet, will in most countries not normally be something to recall, but in Japan, as always, normal goes out the window. In every category: hygiene, comfort, dignity and efficiency, the high-end Japanese toilet scores a perfect ten. Although there are many variations, the Japanese toilet is very distinct: it’s a marriage of technological ingenuity and cultural idiosyncrasy, which makes something that is common to all human civilizations, into something entirely unique. The five-star hotel’s toilet is a particular highlight, but the description that follows is a compilation of the features that any visitor to Japan is likely to encounter when they “use the facilities”.

Upon entering the cubicle, one finds the toilet seat down, never fear, a sensor quickly detects your presence and the toilet seat lifts automatically: an immaculately clean toilet seat presents itself. Upon sitting down, one is comforted by the pleasing sensation of a warmed toilet seat. Next, a real innovation: whereas toilets everywhere are rendered visually private by the high dividing walls, the cubicle screens, the privacy of a Japanese toilet cubicle extends to the acoustic realm. So as to avoid every Tom, Dick & Harry hearing the nature of your business, a selection of sounds is played throughout: running water and bird song are the two most common, classical music isn’t uncommon. One’s business done and one’s dignity intact, the next stage: ablutions. Turning to the panel of buttons alongside the toilet, one can turn on the fountain of one’s choice (male or female), finds the appropriate temperature and pressure, and remain sitting until the jet of water from below has done all its work. First timers may experience a tickling sensation, nothing to feel worried or guilty about. Once complete, the shower from below is switched off and the appropriate jet of warm air is switched on and the drying is done. Finally, one stands up and the last act is conducted completely autonomously: following an automatic flush, the toilet seat cleans itself (by means of a special cleaning arm) and returns to a closed position. It’s all over.

Back outside and sufficiently fortified with internal heat, we decide to embark on a walk that will consist of a loop down one side of the Azusa river, across the Hotaka & Tashiro bridge and back up the other side. There’s a lot to see in Kamikōchi valley, the Taisho, Tashiro & Myojin ponds, the Kamonjigoya hut, the peaks… but we’ve only got a few hours before it gets dark, so we settle for a short walk instead.

I’m hoping we’ll encounter some more snow monkeys. We’ve also brought our towels with us in case we pass any onsens. Nagano is famous for its natural spring water baths and despite having recently receiving a lesson in how to behave in an onsen, I’ve yet to sample its delights.

Thankfully the rain has stopped and by now we’re able to appreciate a bit more the unique atmostphere of Kamikōchi. A long river valley, formed on each side by towering snow covered peaks, leafless trees cover most of the landscape, and there is still a lot of snow on the ground. It’s far more than wintery than I expected.

We walk along stony tracks, avoiding the puddles as we go. The air is very clear and we fill our lungs with gulps of mountain freshness. There are a few other walkers out too, but the paths are much quieter than the Kappabashi bridge. We’re often out of sight of anyone else and at such times, there’s a beautiful, peaceful atmosphere. I’m glad we didn’t stay in the five-star hotel all day. We pass a number of other hotels, but the onsens are only open for the residents.

As for the weather, while the rain has lifted, and on occasion, there’s a glimmering hope of a clear sunny day breaking through…

… in spite of all, the clouds cling on, but that doesn’t ruin our happiness.

Although high up and quite inaccessible, Kamikōchi valley is no stranger to humans. During the Edo period, woodsmen (kikori) lived here and trimmed and maintained the forests. This ended in the early Meiji period when the hills were becoming deforested and gradually the population of woodsmen left Kamikōchi.

All during this time, the mountains remained mostly unclimbed. Shinto, the native religion in Japan considers many mountains to be sacred and in this cultural climate, the Kamikochi peaks were revered from a safe, respectful distance. There’s an echo of this outlook in the valley’s name: Kamikōchi literally translates as “place where gods descend”.

A unique and important exception to custom of not climbing the mountains was the ascetic monk Banryū who lived from 1786 to 1840. Initially a member of a sect of monks, Banryū left after becoming disillusioned with their ways and moved to Kamikōchi where he began climbing the mountain peaks as an act of prayer. Over time his feats and his legend grew and it was ultimately the path that Banryū built, that enabled a 29 year-old English missionary, Walter Weston to first visit the area in 1891, which in time led to Kamikōchi becoming famous worldwide as the Japanese Alps.

Walter Weston now bears the unofficial title, Father of Japanese Alpinism. A Church of England missionary and a keen mountain-climber, he was based in Japan for 15 years between 1888 and 1915. Weston popularized the already coined, but little known phrase, “Japanese Alps”, through his many lectures and book, “Mountaineering and Exploration in the Japanese Alps”. Today, Weston is remembered and commemorated with a festival and a number of statues, one of which we come across on our walk. At Weston Point, there’s a bi-lingual plaque tribute to the man for his role in making the Japanese Alps the popular place it is. Of one of his trips to Kamikōchi, Weston wrote,

“The air of the valley was fresh and pure, and the dewdrops trembled like diamonds on every leaf. The sweet scent of the tall straight pines that shaded our road, the murmuring torrent below and the deep blue vault that spread a narrow canopy above the tall sides of the now familiar ravine, made even existence itself a delight. Truly we were in Nature’s Academy, hung with some of the choicest of the Creator’s masterpieces.”

It’s no surprise that so many were moved by such rhapsodical descriptions to visit Kamikōchi themselves. Although Weston is said to have wept at the prospect of mass tourism destroying the unique peaceful atmosphere of Kamikōchi, based on the evidence of our visit, the valley is being well maintained and is nowhere near being overrun.

Although we’ve had no luck finding a hotel that will let us visit their onsen and dip in their hot waters, we do eventually get lucky when we find a free, outdoor natural foot spa.

The weather may be cold, but we waste no time taking off our shoes and socks and plunging our feet into the warm, soft water. It’s a wonderful sensation. We stay for about ten minutes, basking. Having put on our shoes and socks, we discover it’s incredibly uplifting to suddenly have clean and warm feet. I’m bounding around the place like a hyperactive mountain goat. Warm feet is a super pick-me-up boost to the spirits.

Just as we’re leaving the foot spa, a Japanese couple come over and ask us if it’s warm water. They chat briefly with Sachiko, saying that they’re from a nearby prefecture (Wakayama), but that they also love Nagano prefecture, so they visit here very often. We’ll be visiting Koyasan, in Wakayama prefecture, later on in our trip so they wish us well and we say good bye. A short and friendly conversation with strangers is so much easier in the mountains.

Our walk continues and later on, I encounter a sign which gives the phrase, Japanese Alps, a strong personal resonance. It’s a sign for a hotel which is named after Grindelwald, a beautiful little village in the Swiss Alps nestled below the Eiger and Wetterhorn mountain peaks.

Over a decade ago, in the year 2000 and long before I ever planned to visit Japan, I visited Grindelwald and aside from being awed by the village’s location and natural beauty, I was struck by the unusually high number of Japanese tourists. It wasn’t until many years later, and after I made my Japanese connection, that I learned that Grindelwald was twinned with a town in Nagano.

It’s early evening and we’re on the home strait walking towards our accommodation when we encounter another snow monkey. Although normally a pack animal, so far the only ones we’ve come across have all been on their sweeney. This little fellow is foostering about in the leaves and the snow.

Although clearly at home foraging for food in the snow, the name “snow monkeys” is a bit of a misnomer. For this is actually a macaque monkey, a species of monkey found all over Asia, from Japan to Afghanistan. The Japanese macaque (Nihonzaru, in Japanese) is native to Japan and can be found in both subtropical lowlands and subalpine hills, a temperature range of 40 degrees.

It’s a testament to their adaptability that they can survive in such a variety of climates and it is their talent for celebrity-like stunts that has earned them the title of “snow monkey”. In 1963 in Nagano, a female monkey took to bathing in a natural hot spring and very soon her troop were doing the same. This was completely new behaviour and the image of bathing monkeys quickly became a phenomenon with Life magazine dubbing them “snow monkeys”.

Other behaviours that have kept the monkeys in the spotlight are cleaning potatoes in water, making snow balls and working in restaurants. It’s interesting to consider these behaviours as customs that are passed on from generation to generation, rather than innate practices driven by natural selection. Like humans, they have an inherent adaptability.

The little fellow before us roots around in the forest floor, using his hands and opposable thumbs to pick up various leaves, which he chews on. In the few minutes we stay watching, he displays a range of facial expressions: mostly, complete absorption in his task and no awareness of my presence, but also I suspect, apparent resignation at another damn tourist pointing a camera at him.

I’m adamant about getting as many photos as I can, so I hunker down and snap him from all angles. I don’t make the mistake of looking him directly in the eye, just through the view-finder in my camera, and he doesn’t interpret my presence with hostility.

By the time we’ve reached the restaurant at the end of our walk, it’s nearly six o’clock. Our programme for the evening is some warm food, a warm bath and hopefully this warmth will stay with us after we go back to the cabin, which has no heating. Hopefully we’ll survive the night without getting hypothermia.

The restaurant is a simple, humble joint and for dinner we have a steaming hot bowl of Ramen and some tasty Japanese beer. I’m definitely developing a bit of a taste for the Ramen and quite a lip for Japanese beer. Happily, there’s more Japanese experiences to follow: my first onsen. We fetch our towels, and I review the rules of onsen behaviour with Sachiko. The onsens are segregated, so for the first time on our holiday, we’ll be separated meaning I’ll have to rely on my own wits.

Inside the male onsen changing room, I undress and take my little hand-sized bath towel into the bathing area. The tiled floor space is quite large inside. As I enter, on either side of me are walls with mirrors, with a number of showering & washing posts in front of each mirror, at the far end of the room is a large bathing area with two men relaxing in the hot waters. I was secretly hoping there’d be nobody, so I could relax and swan about without any regard to what is appropriate behaviour, but in an odd way, it was the simple presence of these two Japanese men, that re-affirmed that I was in Japan and must abide by their norms.

So I sit on the little basin seat in front of the shower and using the hot water taps and shower head, start to wash myself with great vigour. After a thorough soaping, scrubbing, washing and rinsing, I feel ready to dip into the bath. It’s hot, so I sink only my feet in first. But quickly, I get used to it and gradually I lower down into the hot water until I’m sitting with the bath waters all the way up to my neck. It’s bliss. I lie back for a number of minutes and as my muscles relax, I feel a great temptation to fall asleep…

After ten minutes, I start to wade out from the bath, but with a super-relaxed head on me, I accidentally dangle my towel in the water. I realize almost instantly my mistake and rapidly recover my towel from the bath waters. I’m terrified one of the men has seen me. It’ll be hara kiri if they have. But nothing is said. Though I clearly look the foreigner, the Japanese men have a way of calmly keeping to themselves without giving the impression of actively ignoring you. I’m feeling quite self-conscious, but I do my best not to come across as feeling conspicuous.

45 minutes after entering, I leave the onsen. A few minute later, Sachiko emerges from the women’s bathing area, looking thoroughly cleaned and fresh-faced. I report success and total enjoyment! Looking forward to many more baths. We’re all warmed up now and feeling strong. The weather has cleared up a bit and even though the sun is setting, there’s enough light to go for a walk. It’s much quieter now in the valley, most of the day trippers have gone home. But it gets cold and we quickly retire to the cabin. Here we use the gas stove to have some more warm sake. We turn in early, wrapped up in as many layers as possible. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, we manage to find sleep.

During the night, nature calls and I have to go outside. In the stilly silence, I tiptoe from the dark cabin and walk the short distance through the trees to the toilet area. It’s completely dark, and when I look up, high above the leafless trees, I see a marvellous carpet of stars covering the night sky. After spending the day under cloudy overcast conditions, this is a crystal clear and beautiful sight. It also bears good news, telling me that the weather tomorrow will be completely clear and sunny.  The excitement of waking-up in Kamikōchi to a clear sunlight drenched morning, is nearly too much for to get back to sleep, but soon enough, I return to the cabin and drift back into dream.

Zenkoji Temple in Nagano

The stereotype of Japanese tourists abroad is that they’re constantly taking pictures, frantically shooting their cameras in every direction at every little feature of life in the foreign country they’re visiting. But as soon as I arrive in Japan, I completely understand this mania for photography. To me, the Westerner, everything in Japan is different and I’m seized by a need to snap, snap, snap and record it all.

But in spite of such a start, after a few days of constantly photographing temples, cherry blossoms, sushi, yakisoba, Japanese bear, skyscrapers, paintings, old buildings, badly written signs in English, I’ve got a lingering feeling that I’m not capturing the “true Japan”. This is because I’m not taking enough pictures of the people, who are everywhere and are everywhere, beautiful. So on the train to Nagano, I make a resolution to take more photos of strangers. When I spot a smartly dressed, photogenic little boy with his mother, I get a dose of encouragement and instruction from Sachiko…

“Shashin, onegaishimasu” (Picture, please)

…and I go up to the child’s mother, with my request. She’s only too happy to have their picture, so I take a quick snap of the serious little fellow, who cheers up no end after I show him the picture on the camera display.

We’re on the way to Zenkoji Temple, by far the most famous landmark in Nagano city. It’s over 1,300 years old and has been a site for visiting pilgrims for a very long time. Located on a hill in Nagano city, it has a commanding, central aspect. Despite being a very modern city with lots of skyscrapers and a Metropolitan hotel, Nagano is still very clearly oriented around Zenkoji Temple. After we’ve gotten off the train, we walk around Nagano city a little bit, before taking the traditional route up Sandoh St which steadily ascends to the temple.

The Zenkoji Temple is a Buddhist Temple but it is so old, it pre-dates a split in Japanese Buddhism between the Tendai sect and the Jōdo Sect. Consequently, it is jointly shared between the two sects with the management of the temple alternating every six months between the abbot of the Tendai sect and the abbess of the Jōdo sect. Unlike many other Buddhist temples in Japan, Zenkoji has never barred women, and it is surely unique in having an abbess in charge for at least part of the year. It certainly indicates that the Nagano lassies are tough cookies.

We walk up along the steadily inclining Sandoh Street, taking our time; up ahead in the distance, the large entrance gate of the Temple is slowly getting bigger and coming more into focus. The street is immaculately maintained by the shop keepers who are lucky enough to have a shop on such a busy thoroughfare. We pass lots of little flower plots and trees planted in the footpath, and we see many shopkeepers outside, sweeping their section of pavement and manicuring their shop frontage. We pass shops selling keyrings, souvenirs, lanterns, t-shirts, incense, beads, chopsticks, fans, manju (fluffy cake), icecreams and nozawana (a kind of pickled radish considered a local snack). There are some benches too, where a tired pilgrim can rest his feet. On the way up, we have some oyaki, a little sweet bean snack, and rest awhile before carrying on.

As we near the Temple, we pass more and more minor religious sites and statues. In the final approach, the street narrows and is for pedestrians and pilgrims only. Up ahead we see an enormous wooden construction, the Sanmon Gate, the inner gate of the Temple; in the distance beyond are high hills of thick forests. We cross into the Temple through an outer gate which is comprised of two large ornate stone pillars.

Before we’ve reached the inner gate, we encounter the Roku-jizo, a row of six statues of Bodhisattvas, who so the story goes, gave up enlightenment in order to help others achieve salvation. They can commune with the realms of hell (地獄), starvation (餓鬼), beasts (畜生), carnage (修羅), human beings (人) and heaven (天).

The Sanmon Gate itself marks the threshold between the sacred and the profane. There are three gateways that can be passed through and the three apparently represent the gate of emptiness, the gate of formlessness and the gate of inaction. Beyond the Sanmon Gate, we’re inside a large central courtyard. This courtyard is dominated by the main temple, a towering wooden structure (the 3rd largest in Japan) with a double arching roof, with gold lacquer, huge hanging lanterns and much Buddhist iconography. For pilgrims, there’s the chozuya where you can wash your face and hands with water; finally, there’s the decorative lion censer, an incense burner where the smoke is waved onto your body.

The most treasured possession of the Zenkoji temple is the Amida Golden Triad, an image of the Buddha said to have been created by the Buddha himself in India in the 4th century BC. It has had a turbulent history. During the 6th century AD, the Korean king gave it as a gift to the Japanese Emperor, making it the first ever image of the Buddha in Japan. It arrived during times of war, and got quickly caught up in the feuds between the many clans competing for supremacy. Very unceremoniously, the image of the Buddha, like another famous native of Nagano, ended up in a canal, before being rescued by a passing kind-hearted stranger. Today, Sachiko tells me, the canal incident has been confined to the past, and the image of the Buddha now resides in the inner sanctum of the Zenkoki temple, permanently shut off from public view.

Although, the most hallowed object of the Temple is shielded from public view, there’s still good reason to go inside the enormous temple. We clamber up the wooden steps, and move inside, our eyes adjusting to the low gloom. The first thing Sachiko shows me is a Buddhist statue, well worn but with very human-like features. Apparently one can rub any part of the statue that corresponds to a part of your own body that ails you. It’s like a benevolent voodoo doll. I’m feeling alright, so I refrain from doing any rubbing but I do notice that the shoulders of the statue seems to be particularly well worn.

We walk around the rest of the temple. Unfortunately it’s too late to enter the Okaidan, one of the main attractions of the Temple. This is the final destination for those who make a genuine pilgrimage to the Temple. It’s a long tunnel of complete darkness, and inside one is given the chance to find the “key to paradise”. But when we go to find the entrance, we learn that it’s too late. The tunnel has closed for the day. I’m gutted that I came this close, only to be told, “Sorry, paradise closed at 5.30″.

In consolation, Sachiko tells me, I’ve an incentive to return one day, an affirmation I’ve no trouble making. We go back outside the main Temple building. This is the second major temple I’ve been to in Japan and like the Sensoji Temple in Tokyo, there are extensive grounds surrounding with a great amount of land with trees and little walk-ways in between. In terms of comparative understanding for this Westerner, it’s more like a monastery than a church.

Since it’s gone a bit late in the day, a lot of the day trippers have gone, and the temple is very quiet. The weather is still warm, but there’s a lovely breeze blowing. We walk around the Temple area and find the impressive looking belfry.

At the base of the bell is the following message:

The Nagano Olympic Games began with the solemn sound of the Zenkoji gong. The pure sound pierced the minds and hearts of all who heard it.

We ramble around a bit more and find a stone pillar, with a heavy stone wheel inserted inside it. It’s called a Rinnetoh and Sachiko explains that it’s like a lazy man’s road to salvation. Having so narrowly missed getting my hands on the keys to paradise, I’m totally ready to sign to any quick-fix solution to salvation. The Rinnetoh works thus: a full rotation of the wheel is equivalent to reading one full sutra of the Buddha’s teachings, simply rotate the wheel and you’ve done enough to save your soul. I rotate the wheel. It does take a bit of effort, but not that much.

The explanation on the accompanying sign isn’t as optimistic about salvation, however; it suggests it’s only a possibility…

Rotating the stone wheel (transmigration wheel) may save one from pain and suffering

Towards the end, we find a statue of Jizo Bosatsu which was built as a petition. Like a lot of old buildings in Japan, the Zenkoji Temple is made of wood and in it’s lifetime, has burned down 11 times. The statue of Jizo Bosatsu was made as an appeal to the Gods to stop this from reaccuring.

Our last “hangout” in the Zenkoji Temple is the Daikanji, the home of the high priest.

All in all, it’s been a very pleasant visit to the Temple. With so few people around, the peace, quiet and stillness of the place have left me feeling very zen.

We leave the Temple behind us and stroll back down the hill towards the railway station. On our final walk back through an arcade, I encounter something every Irish person encounters when travelling, no matter how far you are from home: the trail of other Irish people.

Sunny Day In Nagano

Morning breaks, and even before I open my eyes, the joyful song of the birds from outside tells me it’s a sunny day. I roll out of the futon, put on the appropriate pair of slippers and walk across the yard to the main household.

Breakfast is rice (from the garden), miso soup, tofu with eringi mushrooms (from the garden), green peppers, pickled radish, natto (sticky soya beans), carrots and satoimo potatoes (also from the garden), chikuwa (fish sausage) and the fried mackerel from yesterday (they never throw food out at the Kobayashi household). By any reckoning, it’s an extraordinary amount of food, but all so healthy and so fresh that after finishing breakfast, I feel like a superhero.

We ready our back pack, fix up the bikes and head off ready to seize the day, carpe diem baby! We’re going to cycle to Obuse, a pretty village nearby. Sachiko has the scenic route all worked out and off we go. The sun, uninterfered by clouds, pushes the temperature up into the low 20s and though we leave the house with our jumpers on…

We’re not long disposing of them. Along the way, Sachiko does tour guide and displays incomparable local knowledge.

“Nakajima family live there”
“Peach orchard!”
“That’s the Maki family”
“Apple orchard!”
“Ejiri barber shop”
“The Furya family live there”
“That’s the Kumai family house”
“Pear orchard!”

After a pleasant cycle through the neighbourhood, we come to a small green surrounded by fully blooming cherry blossom trees. The trees are enormous and already some couples are gathering underneath and admiring their splendor. Unlike the somewhat scrawny cherry blossoms I’m familiar with in Ireland, these trees are voluptuous giants; they’re positively heaving with cherry blossoms, while at the same time, they convey a great feeling of lightness. It’s a sublime sight. As far as expressions of spring go, this is high art. We linger for a short time under the canopy of pink and white.

The custom of hanami, marvelling at sakura (cherry blossoms), is one of the most quintessentially Japanese experiences. The cherry blossom tree is native to Japan and for over a thousand years it has been custom to marvel at it during spring time. We get back on our bikes and press on. Our route takes us by yellow fields of rape flower and over a flooded road.

We circle back and before cycling the remaining leg of our trip to Obuse, we take a last look at the cherry blossoms. By now there’s a family gathering taking place in the green with the sakura all around. Lots of kids are running around, full of innocence and gaiety. Nearby, their parents sit on the grass and relax. Also running around, is a large circle of young men kicking a football amongst each other. Finally, sitting in the shade of the cherry blossom trees, there are some grandparents smiling nostalgically at the entire scene. Their hearts are surely brimming with happiness.

We begin a steady ascent to Obuse. After about 20 mins pedaling, we arrive into the main square of Obuse village. We lock up the bikes and look around. Obuse is a village worth visiting in large part due to the diligent efforts of the local people who through years of hard work have lovingly maintained and restored the old chestnut wooden buildings and footpaths.

But there’s more reason to visit Obuse than if you just have a wood fetish. In 1844, and when well into his 80s, the artist Hokusai was invited to live and work in the town by a local sake merchant. At that time Hokusai was an elder statesman of Japanese art, much celebrated for his 36 views of Mount Fuji, which included his by now super famous image of the The Great Wave. Far from the madding crowd and up in the Nagano hills, Hokusai found sufficient peace to work productively for a number of years. Many of the artworks he completed remained in the village after he left. He died in Tokyo in 1849.

Today there’s a museum dedicated to Hokusai and the time he spend living in Obuse. It houses much of the art he completed when resident in the village and in we go for a visit. Everyday Hokusai completed new work and there’s an enormous selection of material, both consummate masterpieces and casual throwaway sketches. As usual, there’s a prohibition on taking pictures but some of the descriptions are great and so I write them down:

“The figure of this eagle which is staring intently at a point surely has a regal presence”

“The enraptured cat with the scruff of its neck bending is masterfully depicted”

“All the charms of this woman are oozing from her whole body”

This last image is very odd to my eyes. The alluring woman is dressed like a geisha, she is quite tall and oriental looking, but in a very weird manner, she is bending her head to display a very un-naturalistically long neck. It’s more disturbing that enticing. She looks like she’s been cross-bred with a giraffe. However, there’s a simple explanation. At the time, a long neck was considered very erotic by Japanese men (and thus by Japanese society). And Hokusai, who was no stranger to Japanese eroticism, has masterfully depicted the erotic charms of the woman. It still looks odd to me, but I guess, so do the tight-laced corsets that women in Europe used to wear at that time.

There’s an extensive selection of Hokusai’s mangas. The word manga literally means “whimsical pictures” and its use is attributed to Hokusai. They’re not the comic strip of modern times, just a single picture but using forms and methods that later became fundamental to Japanese manga. They’re a playful selection of images of a great diversity of characters, scenes and even proverbs. They’re anatomically brilliant but beautifully rendered too in the characteristic manner of Hokusai. He depicts animals (snakes, wrinkly elephants, mice) elements (wind), people (samurai warriors playing games, musicians, guards, people with long noses), various scenes (assassinations, acrobatics) and monsters (beast world, fishing for kapa). I’m able to track down some of the mangas later.

Two of the proverbs he draws mangas for are (when translated):

“Happiness is for those who laugh”

“Hide your head and your butt appears”

The museum also has two of the larger works Hokusai completed when in Nagano: the ceiling painting of the masculine wave and the feminine wave. We look at them for a while, guessing which one is which… then we argue for another while, about why each one is each one…

Afterwards we visit the house belonging to Takai Kozan, the man who originally invited Hokusai to live in Obuse. Takai Kozan was a wealthy merchant, but also a man with a keen interest in the events and ideas of the day. His house was something of a salon for the intellectuals and thinkers of the time to visit. Kozan’s many visitors could have had their discussions in the numerous rooms which surround the large courtyard with its beautifully maintained garden.

The Japan of Kozan and Hokusai was the end of the Edo period when cracks were beginning to show in the political structure of the country. For the previous few hundred years, Japan had been a virtual military dictatorship, ruled by a shogun (general) of the Tokugawa clan. The shogun was supported by local daimyo (chiefs) whose hired protectors were the samurai class. Within a generation of Hokusai’s death, the shogun would relinquish power, the samurai would be abolished and the Emperor would be restored to rule the country. But back in the 1840s, a time of great upheaval and war was bubbling underneath the surface.

This lurking danger shows itself in Kozan’s house, for in nearly every room we go into, there is some hidden feature that if necessary, enables rapid escape. One could never know when thieves, murderers or would-be-assassins would try to gain entry to the home of a man who was promoting ideas that ran counter to the conservative ethos of the ruling class. Apart from the samurai, the other deadly profession in Japan are the ninjas and they can strike from any point. As we walk around the house we find parts of the floor that can be lifted to reveal hidden tunnels underneath, normal looking wall-paneling which when swiveled, shows a hidden door and in all the rooms on the first floor, we see that the windows give access to the roof outside where one can make a hasty escape.

But it’s not all danger and stealth. In one room I find a simple 1-string instrument called the ichigenkin and I have a go.

As we pass through the reception to leave the house, we pause for a minute and the friendly man behind the counter invites us to have some free barley tea. It’s pretty hot outside, so this is a welcome break. The man asks where I’m from.

“Irelulando”, I reply.

“Oh” he says, “Is that where men wear skirts?”

“That’s Scotland”, I correct him, “But Ireland is a neighbouring island.”

He thanks me wholeheartedly for travelling so far to visit Japan after the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disaster. He’s quite surprised anyone is visiting Japan from abroad.

“Tourism is down 30-50%”, he tells us.

This collapse in tourism is painfully obvious as we return to the square where we locked our bikes. It’s lunchtime by now and the square is encircled with numerous little stall holders, but there are simply no tourists around. Most of the workers look intensely bored, but a few chat amiably to each other. We do our bit for the local economy by having some delicious chestnut ice-cream.

Our last venture in Obuse is Ganshoin, a Zen Buddhist Temple on the outskirts of the village. Our main reason for going up there is to see the other main fruit of Hokusai’s time in Obsuse: a ceiling illustration of a large ho-o (phoenix) bird staring in eight directions. It’s a bit of a cycle, but en-route we pass through some more cherry blossom magic…

We walk the last part of the route, passing through the Deva Gate…

We leave our shoes outside the temple and go in. There’s no else around, we sit down and marvel up at the ho-o bird. It’s a stunning piece of work, 30 square metres of colour and dynamic movement and the bird has an intense stare which easily follows you around the room. I’m really tempted to try and capture the image with a photo, but in the end I respect the prohibition. Since the image is in the public domain, it’s easy to track down.

We go outside and nearby there’s a little pond. According to a leaflet I’ve picked up, in the pond at the back of the temple is a site of intense frog activity in the spring. The leaflet contains a wonderfully euphemistic description of the frog mating season:

Each year in the season of hanami (cherry blossom viewing), countless frogs appear in the small pond in the backyard of the Ganshoin Temple. The male frogs like to assist the female frogs in their reproductive duties. There is quite a scramble by the former for the latter, who are fewer in number.

The frogs are quiet when we visit, but their croaking is said to disturb the tranquility of this Zen Buddhist Temple during spring every year.

We go for a little walk about and find a stone with a haiku poem etched into it. The stone commemorates the haiku by the famous haiku poet, Kobayashi Issa who visited Obuse in 1816. Apparently, while watching the frog-mating antics and at the same time thinking of his terminally ill young son, Issa composed what became one of his most famous verses:

Thin Frog

Don’t be defeated

Issa is here!

We’re nearly finished our ramble around the temple area and the cherry blossom is so alluring I declare a timelapse photo is essential. So I tell Sachiko where to sit, and line up the camera.

The first picture is a complete accident, the timer function wasn’t even switched on…

In the second picture, I’m too tardy getting into position…

But thankfully, its third time lucky.

In the outskirts of the temple where we locked our bikes, we linger around just a little bit longer. There’s something very special about the place and no doubt the cherry blossoms are contributing to it. Up in the hills, the complete absence of other tourists and people contributes to peaceful quietitude of the Zen Buddhist temple. I take one last picture of the Ganshoin Temple nestled in the hills and then we cycle downhill back to Suzaka.

Rainy Day In Nagano

It’s only after some time looking at the little garden feature of trees, rocks, plants, flowers and bushes do I realize what it actually is. It’s a border, separating the Kobayashi family from the neighbouring Miki family. There are many other houses all around the Kobayashi household and there appears to be a very liberal attitude to border delineation between them all: a bush here, an open path there, a little garden allotment here. It’s been well observed that Irish people have a pathology about land: there’s a fixation on owning it, a conviction that it’s a “good investment” and an obsession with protecting its boundaries. I’m so surprised by the absence of clear barriers of separation: no high walls, electric fences or solid bushes, that I guess, you could diagnose me as still suffering from culture shock.

After staying indoors for a few hours to keep out of the rain, we realize that the weather isn’t going to clear up. It’s been a lazy day so far, but after lunch we’re both keen to get out of the house and “do something”, so in the end we decide to go for a drive into Suzaka. To get there, we go in the little Mazda scrum truck, which Sachiko expertly steers through the little country lanes that cross and criss-cross the numerous orchards of peach, pear, apple and cherry trees in the area.

Suzaka is a town of about 50,000 people. It’s a quite country town nestled picturesquely in the foot hills of Mt. Azuma, Kamata and Yonako. Our destination is the Suzaka hanga museum, but first we call into the local library, which is quite packed with people keeping out of the rain. We drive through the hilly, narrow streets to get to the museum. The cherry blossoms are out, but like everything else, they look dreary in the rain.

When we arrive at the museum on the outskirts of town, we leave our truck in the car park and walk up the meandering tree-lined path towards the museum. Along the way are some colourful and jolly clay figurines. Plastic bottles have been cut up and placed as rain-guards over their heads and this seems to accentuate their merry appearance. If they could sing, I’m sure it would be something cheerful like “I’m Singing In The Rain…“

We go into an austere looking stone building, the hanga museum: hanga meaning print. The first part of the museum is dedicated to an artist called Asaji Kobayashi who was born in Suzaka in 1898. An eye-doctor by profession, his talent for art didn’t go unrecognized and the museum has plenty of his posters, wood cuts and prints. Asaji was active in the 1920s and 1930s, a period when Japan was convulsed with change and was modernizing rapidly. Some of his images of the “New Japan” show the recently imported sport of skiing in the local mountains. Skiing was reputedly introduced into Japan in the early 1900s by Major Theodor von Lerch of the Austrian Army. Tragically, Asaji Kobayashi committed suicide in 1939.

Some of the other artists we see are Hiratsuka Unichi…

Koshiro Onchi…

Kyokichi Tanaka…

and Yasunori Taninaka.

After we leave the museum we go into a tiny folk park which is full of reconstructed old houses from the Edo period. This was the period of long peace in Japanese history from 1600 to the 1860s when Japan was completely closed off to the world. Most of the dwellings are wooden and many of them are thatched.

We loll around, checking out the tatami flooring, sliding doors of thin paper. There’s a distinct lack of furniture, it seems most Japanese homes at the time didn’t have chairs. We also take a minute to practice an important Japanese cultural practice: bowing.

The dwellings make a virtue of simplicity.

In his insightful and witty book, The Book of Tea, Kakuzo Okakura contrasted the simple, elegant aesthetic of Japanese tea-rooms with the busy interior of Western living rooms.

“Thus it will be seen that the system of decoration in our tea-rooms is opposed to that which obtains in the West, where the interior of a house is often converted into a museum. To a Japanese, accustomed to simplicity of ornamentation and frequent change of decorative method, a Western interior permanently filled with a vast array of pictures, statuary, and bric-a-brac gives the impression of mere vulgar display of riches. It calls for a mighty wealth of appreciation to enjoy the constant sight of even a masterpiece, and limitless indeed must be the capacity for artistic feeling in those who can exist day after day in the midst of such confusion of color and form as is to be often seen in the homes of Europe and America.”

Driving back from the museum, we see lots of other little scrum trucks like ours. They’re quite popular with all the local farmers (they’re very useful for transporting various goods). Many of them also have a conspicuous orange sticker which indicates that the driver of the vehicle is over 75 years old; it’s a koreisha mark, literally “elderly mark”. This hasn’t been uncontroversial: many families have arguments with their old relatives who initially refuse to put the koreisha mark on their vehicle. As well as that, a recent campaign protesting the autumnal colour of the koreisha mark, which was seen as being too suggestive of aging and death, was launched and became successful when in February 2011, a more colourful koreisha mark was introduced. For a country with the highest life expectancy in the world (86 for woman, 79 for men), it’s heartening to see that the oldies can still put up a good fight.

When we get back to the house in Ainoshima village, Sachiko makes a call and arranges to meet some friends in a local restaurant. It’s still raining, but the restaurant is only a few metres down the road so we run the short distance to Tora Shokudo. It’s a simple, humble venue. We go inside and the one table of old men all look over. One of the men stands up and welcomes us.

“Irasshaimase!”

He is the owner of the restaurant and he speaks to Sachiko in a friendly tone. She has grown up here and the two are lifelong neighbours. My immediate impressions are of a small, friendly restaurant, “where everybody knows your name”. But as it turns out, the owner is also a Kobayashi, and this somewhat takes the glow off the impression of neighbourliness, “…because they all have the same name as you”.

The continued attention from the table of older men, slowly starts to alter my impression of the restaurant. This isn’t cosmopolitan Tokyo, where people don’t bat an eyelid at a foreigner; this is Ainoshima, a tiny village on the edge of a country town in a farming region. A native girl arriving into a local restaurant with a foreign male is a bit of an event, there’s almost a whiff of scandal… and so the table of old men all continue to stare over, completely unable to conceal their excitement. The owner speaks to Sachiko and when I hear her say “Irelulando”, I can guess what he’s asking her.

“Thank you bery much!” the owner says to me. I give a friendly bow.

After a short chat, the owner tells us to choose our seats; apart from the table of old men, every other table in the restaurant is free. We choose a table at the opposite end of the restaurant to the old men and we sit down on the cushions, on the floor. After a few minutes June arrives, and a few minutes later, Atsuko, his wife arrives too. They’ve both come straight from work: June is a plumber and Atsuko is a delivery driver. Neither of them have gotten dressed up for the dinner and both are wearing clothes that confirm they’ve done a full day’s work. I like this. It’s nice to spend some time with the Japanese without all the formalities. Introductions are made, and we greet each other with friendly bows and lots of “hajimemashte”.

I go for the local speciality: nikatsu teishoku, deep fried Nagano pork, with fried egg on top and it comes with rice and miso soup – the last two are the perennials of Japanese food. The meal is the Japanese equivalent of meat and two veg: good solid food. It’s delicious, and very filling.

Over dinner we chat away, and just like with Sachiko’s father the night before, the first question I’m asked is if I’ve heard of the Japanese earthquake on March 11th. We talk a little about the consequences, and they both tell me how bad it was. The conversation moves on and quickly we’re talking about Japanese food. I praise it, making maximum use of the few Japanese words I’ve learned:

“Subarashi!” (fantastic)
“Sugoi!” (super)
“Oishi!” (delicious)

It might sound like love-bombing, but it’s true: I love Japanese food. Just like Sachiko’s parents, June & Atsuko compliment my chopstick technique. As a way to charm the Japanese people, I’m reminded of the phrase, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. However, this chopstick praise comes back to haunt me.

During the closing stages of the (substantial) meal, but before I’ve completely finished, I take a break. It’s bad manners to leave food on your plate when you’re eating in Japan and I’m fully intent on eating every last morsel. There’s an array of little bowls and plates before me and while I pause, I leave my chopsticks in the rice bowl: foolishly, I leave them skewered and erect like a flag pole. Thus do I commit a big no-no. Atsuko is the first to react.

“Sachiko!” she exclaims in shock. Her tone suggests I’m a little kid who has just set himself on fire. June is too stunned even to speak, he just widens his eyes in disbelief and horror.

I realize pretty quickly what I’ve done wrong. In a lapse of concentration, I inserted my chopsticks vertically into my rice, so I rapidly recover them and leave them resting across my bowl. There is huge relief on June & Atsuko’s face.

“Definitely a hara-kiri moment”, I say and we all laugh it off.

The reason behind the explosive reaction to me leaving my chopsticks sticking up in rice is simple: it’s a gesture exclusively reserved for serving food to the dead. Most Japanese families have a simple Buddhist shrine in their home dedicated to their ancestors who have passed on. A daily act of veneration involves leaving a bowl of freshly cooked rice before the shrine and placing the chopsticks in the bowl, erect. Nowhere else is this chopstick gesture used. I had been warned about this by Sachiko but in the course of the meal I had simply forgotten. I very nearly paid the ultimate price…

Arriving In Nagano

By the time we arrive in Nagano, its twilight and as we get off the bus, we notice a big drop in the temperature compared to Tokyo. We gather our bags at the bus stop and then Sachiko goes into the travel office to make an enquiry. I put on some extra clothes to adjust to the colder temperature in Nagano, a city that’s about 380 metres above sea-level. First impressions are of a city Nagano that is certainly more humble in scale than Tokyo but it has a grandeur of its own. In the fading light, I can just make out in the distance the snow-peaked mountain ranges that surround the city.

We’re in Nagano prefecture, one of the largest and most mountanous of prefectures in Japan. Nagano’s many mountains earned it the Winter Olympics in 1998, but the impact of the mountains on the culture of region has been much more longstanding. Through their height and range, the mountains have acted as both a barrier, keeping away change from outside, and as a container, preserving many traditions and customs that have long died out in other parts of Japan. Most people who live in Nagano are farmers and their lives are far more tied to the regular cycle of the seasons than to the whims of fashion or knowledge of what the latest gadget is. I’ve been forewarned not to expect any high-tech luxury, only dial-up phones and TV with only sound and no picture.

When Sachiko comes out of the travel office, we gather up our bags and walk towards the other side of the bus & train station where we’ve arranged to meet Sachiko’s parents. To get there, we walk through an enormous passage that passes over the station. This high-ceilinged passageway is open at both ends and in the direction we’re walking, it frames a spectacular view of the distant mountains. It’s quite breathtaking, but as a local clearly used to the scene, Sachiko merely says, “Built for the Winter Olympics”. We descend to the other side of the station and there we find Sachiko’s father, Haruo, waiting with the car. He greets Sachiko, who then introduces us. He smiles, and we shake hands. We nod a bit, make some friendly noises – neither of us speak the other’s language – and the greeting is done. We load our bags into the car, get in and after a few minutes of waiting, Sachiko’s mother, Kazuko, appears; she had gone off to where we had arrived off the bus. From the front passenger seat in the car she smiles, gives me a cheery “Konnichiwa!” and off we go.

The Kobayashi’s rattle away in Japanese and I just sit back and relax. Sachiko breaks into English to tell me we’ll be stopping for dinner on the way to Suzaka, their home town, which is about 30 minutes away. Her parents ask if I’m hungry, Sachiko translates that I am. We drive out of Nagano, a small city of under 400,000, and soon we’re driving through darkness, something I haven’t experienced since arriving in Japan; Nagano doesn’t have the 24-hour lifestyle and endless urbanization of Tokyo. We whizz down the road passing a few illuminated billboards and after about a 10 minute drive, we pull in to the carpark for the Sutamina Taro restaurant.

From the outside, it looks a typical enough drive-by diner: brick walls with large curtainless windows, it’s strongly lit inside and we can see lots of people having their dinners. We enter, and since it’s buffet-style, pay upfront. Then with tray in hand, we circle around and fill up our plates with the food on offer: sushi, miso soup, yakisoba, chips, japanese curry, steamed rice, udon noodles, tempura, salad, grill-it-yourself raw meat, sashimi, takoyaki (octopus ball), chicken karaage, dumplings, spaghetti, fried rice, random veg, fresh fruit and much more; it’s an awesome selection of food. I later learn what the name of the restaurant means: Sutamina Taro has been partially transliterated from English: Sutamina = stamina and Taro is a boy’s name in Japanese, literally ‘eldest son’. It’s the Japanese equivalent of Fat Freddies.

After loading up my plate, I find the Kobayashi’s who’re already sitting down. They check kindly that I’m okay – I reassure them that I couldn’t be better, I’m certainly not missing Irish food! As we eat, the conversation is almost completely in Japanese with Sachiko making occasional interjections into English. My chopstick technique, effective but not pretty, impresses Haruo & Kazuko and they complement me. I thank them with a bow. Although I don’t speak their language, there are still at least a few things I can do to demonstrate respect for their culture.

Compared to the restaurants Tokyo, there are some distinct differences about Sutamina Taro in Nagano. The staff look tired and they don’t hide it behind a starched expression of earnest friendliness. Amongst the diners, there aren’t any suits; a lot of people are wearing check-shirts, which hang casually outside their jeans. Like the Kobayashi’s, many of the people here are farmers so there are no white-gloved soft palms to be seen, only weather-beaten hardened hands. Some of the diners are even smoking and to an Irishman used to smoke-free bars and restaurants since 2004, this is a real blast-from-the-past. Overall, the restaurant is at ease, many tired bodies unwinding after a hard days work. There are many young families with children who run around playing and laughing freely while the parents are too relaxed to reign them in. Some of the kids unselfconsciously gawk at me, the lanky white gaijin, only to look away embarrassed when I playfully return the stare.

Sachiko’s parents encourage me to go back for a second helping, which I do, but we don’t linger very long in the restaurant. After some green tea, we leave and drive the final leg of the journey to Suzaka. En-route, Haruo announces that he has his whiskey collection waiting for us when we arrive. Sounds promising. Kazuko then checks that, like the others, I’ll be having a bath. I’ve been briefed beforehand by Sachiko, so when I say that I will, I’m fully aware of what I’m signing up to. Two great Japanese traditions, whiskey and bathing, have the evening sewn up.

When we arrive in Suzaka town, we turn off the main road, drive up a little lane-way and arrive at the Kobayashi household. It’s hard to make out where everything is in the dark, but I can just about discern a few old and large houses all gathered together in an higgledy-piggledy type arrangement, with various allotments and lane-ways marking the boundaries. We take our bags from the car and bring them up to Sachiko’s quarters. Sachiko’s bedroom and living area are in a separate building to the main household and they’re very comfortable and surprisingly spacious. Sachiko gives me a pair of slippers to wear while inside, “The floor is sacred”, she tells me. I should never wear my outdoor shoes indoors, that would mean automatic hara kiri. I then get a quick tour of the toilet arrangements, which includes a separate pair of toilet-only slippers. Another Japanese custom to abide by.

We leave Sachiko’s quarters and cross the yard to the main house. On the way, we pass Kazuko in the process of lighting a fire with some kindling. The fire she’s lighting is outside the house, but directly underneath the bathtub, which has already been filled with cold water. In this way, with the trimmings and small branches from their orchard, the family can heat up their bathtub every evening. It’s a widespread custom in Japan for every household to have a bath each evening, but not every household is able to heat their water with their own fuel. I’m very impressed with this homegrown sustainable energy.

Over to the main house and Japanese style, it’s a sliding door – we pull it aside and go in. I’ve used my outdoor shoes to cross the yard and now I’m given another pair of slippers to wear inside, the third pair since I’ve arrived in Suzaka, 15 minutes ago. With these slippers on, we go into the house and enter the chanoma, literally ‘tea-space’. This room is the Japanese equivalent of the sitting room, except there are no seats. It’s a small square room about 3 metres for each side; in the centre is a low table and surrounding the table are the cushions we’ll be sitting on. Around the room I see an old TV in the corner, a well-marked calendar on the wall and a high-up shelf with a troop of Darumas, Buddhas & Lucky Cats looking on.

Haruo, the head of the household, sits facing the room’s entrance, subtly commanding the space. I’m shown to Haruo’s left, Sachiko sits opposite me and Kazuko sits opposite her husband, by the entrance to the room. I sit cross-legged on the cushion, which thanks to my regular yoga classes, is reasonably comfortable. The table we sit around is a unique Japanese innovation called a kotatsu. From each side of the kotatsu, blankets hang and underneath the table is a charcoal stove. The blankets keep the heat from the stove under the table and by sitting with the blankets over our legs, we’re kept altogether very warm and cosy. The table is laid with little nibbles, kaki peanuts and various rice crackers. The Suntory and White Horse whiskeys and Asahi beer are brought out too. We’re all set for the evening.

We start chatting and Haruo is in jovial form and clearly keen to talk to me. Our conversation is very informal and relaxed, but for translation purposes, there’s a clear structure: Haruo speaks and Sachiko translates to me, I consider my response, relay it to Sachiko and she translates it back to Haruo, who responds or makes a fresh point. Whenever our beer, whiskey or nibble supplies run low, Kazuko always goes out to the kitchen to replenish them.

To start, Haruo asks me if I’ve heard of the March 11th earthquake. He tells me about some of the impact on the northeast of Japan and how so many farmers in the area have had their livelihoods destroyed. We then discuss the nuclear fall-out in Fukushima and Sachiko and I describe the protest we saw in Tokyo yesterday. Haruo tells us of the impending crisis for power demand, when due to air-conditioning requirements during the searing summer months of July & August, the power demand in Tokyo reaches it’s peak for the year.

Haruo then asks me about farming in Ireland and I tell him about our enormous cattle herd and large meat exports. There’s far more fruit and vegetable farming in Japan than in Ireland, but just like in Ireland, the average age of farmers is quite old. Both Haruo and Kazuko are in their late 60s, although with their vigorous outdoor lives, they’re both in rude good health. Haruo asks after my parents and I tell him they’re both well and in good health. When I tell them of my Granny who’s alive and well at 100 years old, there is a wholehearted response of total respect from both Haruo & Kazuko. We then talk a little about Nagano, “the best prefecture in Japan”, says Haruo with a twinkle in his eye.

All in all, the evening is going well. This is after all meet-the-parents and I was initially somewhat on my guard having heard plenty of stories about Asian parents being suspicious and even hostile towards Western males who have designs on their daughters. A Irish friend in Taiwan was given a thorough interrogation by his girlfriend’s parents: “Can you use chopsticks?”, “Can you speak Chinese?”, “Where do you see yourself in five years time?”. Thankfully, nothing like that is transpiring here. The atmosphere is very friendly and since we don’t have a common language, and everything must be translated, the spotlight nature of the encounter is softened. When Sachiko is translating, I can relax and consider a response at ease and because Sachiko’s role in the conversation is so central, she isn’t sidelined and watching our interaction nervously and helplessly. When she translates what her father says, or listens to my response, we have plenty of eye-contact through which I’m able to convey – all’s good, I’m fine and I love you.

Like many conversations in Ireland, our talk inevitable turns to alcohol. I try both whiskeys and declare that they’re both very good, especially the Suntory. Haruo marvels at how I drink it neat, something he claims he could do as a young man but that now he must drink it with water. Kazuko also drinks whiskey, but even more diluted than her husband. When I present them with a present of a bottle of Irish Jameson whiskey, Haruo grips the bottle and exclaims with delight,

“Subarashi!”

“Excellent”, Sachiko translates.

I make a point of saying that the bottle is for both of them, although I have a suspicion about who’s going to end up drinking most of it. I also give Haruo & Kazuko a whiskey measure made from Mullingar pewter and with Sachiko’s help, explain its function. They politely listen, nod and thank me. For the rest of the evening and whenever I need a refill, they insist that I use the measure, but despite my gentle exhortations when the situation is reversed, they continue to just refill their glasses from the bottle.

Our conversation carries on and is in turn, light-hearted and serious. When I mention the samurai, hoping for a learned insight to the famous Japanese warriors, Haruo singularly dismisses them,

“Unemployed drunkards!”

Later on, we talk about the dark days of World War II. I mention my great aunt who worked as a nurse in Singapore in 1942. As the Japanese invaded, she and thousands of others fled the city by sea. Her ship, the Tanjong Pinang, was torpedoed by the Japanese and she died. After Sachiko translates, Haruo says nothing but lowers his head and shakes it slowly with pathos.

After a few hours in the chanoma, I’ve drunk a lot of whiskey and I haven’t stood up in a few hours. After sitting cross-legged for so long, I’m worried that my legs will go from under me as soon as I attempt to stand. But it’s not bed I’m bound for. As a guest, I’m given the privilege of being the first to have a bath. So I fetch a large towel and Sachiko shows me to the bathroom for my first ever tipsy bath.

The first thing I notice is that the bathroom doesn’t have a toilet. In Japan these two aspects of life are kept strictly apart. Before I’m allowed enter, I’m shown another pair of slippers, which are made of plastic and are for the bathroom only. There’s apparently no situation in Japan that doesn’t have an appropriate pair of slippers.

Showering and bathing may be universal customs, but this is Japan where even the simplest things are done differently. The process goes like this:

-Undress and leaves your clothes outside in the anteroom
-Enter the small fully tiled bathroom, note that one half of the bathroom is for showering, the other half is for bathing
-For showering, sit on a small 1ft stool and uses the shower head in combination with the tap unit, basin, hand-towel and soap to wash vigorously
-Vigorously!
-After lots of showering and dousing with the basin, prepare to enter the bath
-Since the bath is shared by all, it’s essential to be clean before you enter, the only purpose of the bath is to soak

Unlike western baths, this bathtub is shorter and deeper so the soaking position is sitting down with knees to chest, fully submerged up to neck. I get into the bath tub and it’s the hottest water I’ve ever been in. I resist the instinct to scream; for some reason, getting into a hot bath is slightly more bearable when you’re skin is already wet. I sit and soak. The water has been heated exclusively from the fire underneath, and the bottom of the bath is too hot to rest my feet on it so I move them to the side. I soak for less than five minutes and remembering Sachiko’s advice, I get out for fear that I’ll become lightheaded and pass out. That wouldn’t be a good end to the evening.

The soak leaves me so hot that I continue to perspire long after I’ve toweled down. I’ve no towel robe so I get dressed in my normal clothes and leave the bathroom. I thank the Kobayashi’s, bid them goodnight,

“Oyasumi!”

The bath has made me extremely tired. I’m just nodding off when Sachiko returns from having had a bath. She is full of apologies from her mother saying that the water was too hot! I’m greatly relieved that I won’t have to endure that heat every night. Lights out and I sleep like a stone.