Autumn in Ohara

Tucked away between the Hira-san-kei and Kitayama mountains of northern Kyoto lies the tranquil town of Ohara. Reachable from downtown Kyoto in less than an hour by bus (20km), this small hamlet is a popular destination for tourists, especially in autumn when the leaves begin to change colour around a week earlier than in central Kyoto. The town has its roots in agriculture, and a series of wide rice paddies sprawl out towards the mountains from the quaint country lanes to make this an ideal destination for those in the mood for a rural stroll.

The town's most popular attraction is the famous Sanzen-in Temple, which was established in the late 8^th century by revered monk Saicho, or Dengyo Daihi (762-822), who introduced Tendai Buddhism to Japan shortly before in the year 804. The lanes leading up to the temple's entrance are lined with stalls selling omiyage (souvenirs) and Tsukemono (Japanese pickles) sourced from the land around the town.

Upon entering Sanzen-in, visitors walk through a maze of corridors connecting the temple's different buildings to arrive at Kyakuden Hall. From here, one can sit down on soft mats and look out of the paper sliding doors on the Shuhekien Garden. The garden is beautiful in early autumn as the leaves begin to change colour on the wide array of plants at different speeds, creating a collage of colour and texture.

From Kyakuden, visitors continue through the temple corridors and out to Yusei-en, the moss garden and Sanzen-in's most famous space. Thick, dark-trunked trees rise up like columns all around, the canopy keeping the garden eerily shaded throughout the day. Moss climbs up the trees from the floor, where it is green and lush and pierced by stone heads poking out of the ground to gaze upon passers-through. 

The moss garden is also home to Ojo-Gokuraku-in Hall, the oldest of the temple's buildings, originally dating from 985. A walk along the dust paths of the garden brings visitors out of the trees and back into the light of day, and with it, into an explosion of reds and golds and yellows from the leaves of the plants all around.

Exiting the temple brings visitors back into the mishmash of narrow lanes that wind through the old town. Along them are more temples; one being Shorin-in, built in the year 1013 by monk Jakugen and centre of the Tendai practice of Shomyo (an ancient chant deriving from India that expresses admiration for Buddha), and more picturesque autumn foliage.

Asuka

Nestled within the undulating hills of Takaichi district in northern Nara prefecture lies the ancient town of Asuka. Predating Nara city as the capital of Japan from 538-710, this small collection of hamlets hosts an astounding array of important historical monuments as well as a myriad of temples and sacred burial sites.

I take the Kintetsu-Minamiosaka line from Abenobashi station to arrive at Kashiharajinjumae station within just shy of 50 minutes, peering out of the window throughout the journey to watch the drowsy mountains of Nara lumbering slowly in the distance behind snaking, white rivers and rolling rice paddies. Upon arrival at the station, I push past a smattering of tourists with my camera and notebook clutched in my hands, eager to find a place to rent a bicycle for the afternoon. Unless one is lucky enough to stumble upon a kindly, candy-bearing chauffeur conveniently perched outside the ticket gates (don't get into strangers' cars, kids), cycling is a must when in Asuka. With its considerable size and the distance between sightseeing spots, hoofing it is nigh impossible in terms of a day trip. Following ren-ta-sy-ku-ru signs, I brush out of the east exit and come to a boxy shed with a tin roof and rivets holding it all together and a sandal-clad old man waves me in and pulls a bike from around an unseen corner. It's good value at 1000yen for the day, and the old man pulls out a detailed map and narrowly misses it with the ash that flakes from his stubby cigarette as he traces what he recommends be my route for the day. I thank him and I'm off, crossing the intersections that dot the small town centre, up a soft incline into the sparsity of the outlying neighbourhoods.

The weather's perfect; light cloud cover keeping the still fierce early-autumn sun at bay and a gentle breeze freshening the air as I climb up winding country roads with brilliant yellow rice fields sprawling out for acres behind rustic wooden fences on either side. Within a few minutes of leaving the town centre I'm seeing barely another soul and suck in the country air, elated that I've managed to once again escape the hiving insanity of Osaka for some well-needed respite. I follow the map attentively and wind around more bends and over the crest of a hill and then coast steadily with the decline to where, on my right, stands Toyuradera temple. It's hardly imposing, blending into the quaint countryside seamlessly, and after parking my bike at the entrance to the grounds, it takes me only a few minutes to walk around the outside perimeter. I admire the arched roofs protruding above the hacienda-esque white outer walls and turn to see a charming shrine on the other side of the road in which stand stone buddhist effigies on a stage with small steps leading up to them, the surrounding birch trees alive with the sound of chirping birds and culminating with the surroundings to create the most serene of backdrops. I turn away and head inside the temple grounds. The inner courtyard is cosy, intimate and silent; me being the only person in or around the place. A neighbourhood dog's barks carry from somewhere in the distance and reverberate off the large prayer bell hanging stoically from the wooden beams of the main hall. Although not one of the most well-known temples in the area, Toyuradera is certainly one of the oldest. Established in the year 603 by Empress Sumiko, the place was originally erected as a nunnery until the powerful lord Soga-no-Umako turned it into a temple years later. Granted, Toyuradera doesn't ooze majesty in quite the same way as other Nara temples like, say, Todaiji, but there's definitely an energy swirling around the inner walls that gives an inclination as to its long-held importance to the town.

It's about 1:30pm and the day has reached its peak; the ripe sun sizzling through the clouds and now the yellow rice fields shimmer as if aflame as their sheafs flicker back and forth in the wind. I'm back on the road now that has widened and bends around broad trees and navigates over the confluence of two trickling streams just down to the left. Within minutes, Asukadera temple looms, and I pull into its gravelly welcome area. In contrast with the scene at Toyuradera, It's bustling here, with tourists from seemingly every corner of the earth clicking cameras and wandering in and out of the shacks that lie in a neat row, just before the temple's entrance, selling souvenirs and cute local crafts. Asukadera was founded in 596, just 60 years after the introduction of Buddhism to Japan, making it the oldest temple in the land. With this knowledge, a glance upon the complex from outside its walls inevitably fills one with a heavy sense of connection to Japan's long history. This is where it all began. The original site was composed of a grand network of lavish halls and pathways, however in their place today lies the much more modest incarnation of sleepy ponds in a courtyard around the famous main hall. Although being a relatively small temple, the grounds are extremely beautiful, with trees drooping demurely overhead, the blue gravel underfoot constantly crunching to the beat of visitors' footsteps. Inside the main hall sits Japan's oldest Buddha statue, which dates back to twenty years after the temple's foundation and unlike the buildings themselves, is the original.

It's back to the winding country lanes, and soon enough I've pedalled myself to a village high street lined with a few eateries and a post office. Glancing to my left, Yukimi-no-Oka mountian rises severely from the roofs of the surrounding houses and a road slopes steeply up it that leads to Okadera temple. Okadera was built in 633 and is the most prominent temple of the Shingon-Buzan sect of Buddhism. Formally known as Ryugai-ji (Dragon lid temple), legend has it that there once lived a dangerous dragon that wreaked havoc on the people of the old village. The temple's founding priest, Gaien, battled and defeated the dragon and confined it to Ryugai-ike pond over which he slammed a huge stone to prevent the creature from escaping. The time in solitary confinement apparently caused the dragon to rethink its evil ways because Gaien was eventually able to reform his prisoner, making it a peaceful deity of the temple. I have this tale churning through my head as I fight my own battle against the hill, but about half way up I must concede and I dismount my bike and push the damn thing up the steep gradient, dripping with sweat when I finally reach the temple's entrance. The preliminary courtyard of picturesque stone pavings and ponds gives way to a staircase up to the main level of the complex. I pass the main hall inside which Nyoirin Kanon, the god of wishes, majestically presides as the largest clay image in all of Japan. Outside, visitors light incense in a hefty iron urn in offerings to him and a gentle waft permeates the surrounding air, making the place fragrant and suitably holy-feeling. The rear of the temple grounds swing up into the jungly mountainside, and a steep wooden staircase weaves through the trees and back around to Okadera's famous pagoda; which stretches in three tiers powerfully towards the firmament. From around the back of the pagoda, the view is breathtaking, and I take a few minutes to peruse the Nara countryside rolling down in front of me like a lush, green and yellow carpet; the lower foothills and the rice planes giving way to verdant mountains out in the distance. My head is swimming with history, holy spirits, and now awe-inspiring natural beauty, and I think it's time to head back down into the pell-mell streets below.

Did I mention that before entering Okadera, following the hellacious incline, I parked my bike crudely in a gravel car park, taking up the last space intended for an automobile because screw it I was tired? I'm not a turkey; I'm well aware that I didn't, but anyway, luckily it's still there, and now I reap the benefits of climbing to this altitude as I whizz back down the hill with my fingers determinedly nowhere near my brakes, almost barrelling into a Danjiri (big portable wooden shrine carrying) troupe practicing for their big day whenever that is. They look... alarmed as I narrowly miss their holy vessel, but carry on without saying a word, and I stop after passing them and am able to take a few good-natured snaps from very close up as they lurch back past me down the hill. Foreigner stereotype: fulfilled.

I'm back down in the maze of quaint country lanes now and follow the old man's ballpoint etchings over the map to my next stop; Ishibutai Kofun. On the way, the flat, green lawn of a park stretches out to my right upon which families picnic and young couples lie together looking up at the soft sky. The atmosphere here is peaceful and happy, and a small complex of food vendors in a lot on the opposite side of the road adds to this as they fill the air with wafts of deliciousness. I ignore the growls of my empty stomach, eager not to waste time on such a trivial pursuit as eating, especially when the rent-a-cycle man closes up shop in a few hours and I have so much more to pack in. I pass the vendors and pull into a pebbly parking area, flick down my bike's kickstand, and wander into the grounds of Ishibutai Kofun. Ishibutai is believed to be the burial site of Sogo-no-Umako; the prominent war lord who presided over this region in the 6^th and 7^th centuries. In addition to being a prominent member of the politically-influential Soga clan, Soga-no-Umako was instrumental in the importation and promotion of Buddhism in Japan. The place is teeming with tourists, all eager to see where such a seminal figure in the country's history was laid to rest, and this makes it difficult to get good snaps of the stocky boulders that make up the structure. I have to wait, perched on one of the surrounding rocks with an increasingly sore posterior for an eventual couple of perfect moments. At an impressive 54m long, the burial site is the largest known megalithic structure in the land, and a testament to its size is the amount of people that can pack inside the dark inner walls a couple of metres below the outside ground level. Surprisingly, crouching in a cramped, dingy, underground crypt is only slightly creepy, and rather than unsettled and claustrophobic, I feel a calm appreciation  for the long legacy and importance that this tomb, and this town in general, has to the development of Japan.

On the way to the final stop of my tour, I park up at the side of one of the town's few main-ish roads and lean on the fence that separates the clunky pavement from the rice fields. I'm now travelling west, back towards the station and civilisation, and I look left, back at the dark, grassy mountains to the east. Grey clouds have now rolled in, stealing the vast majority of the pristine blue sky from where the blazing sun hung earlier and now the landscape appears decidedly melancholy as the day draws to a gradual close. I sigh a soft sigh and continue a short way down the road to the famous Tachibanadera temple. Built in the year 606 to honour the Tendai sect of Buddhism, this beautifully robust temple is thought to be the birthplace of the Prince Shotoku, the legendary ruler of Japan during the Asuka period. Upon paying the 300yen admission and entering the temple, the thing that immediately catches my eye is the bronze horse statue standing sternly in the centre of the courtyard. Kurokoma was Shotoku's beloved steed on which he travelled around the country spreading the word of Buddhism during the time of his greatest influence. Legend has it that, among other magical powers, Kurokoma had the ability to fly, and on one occasion soared through the skies for three days with Shotoku on his back without ever tiring. It's quite an opulent tale, and the temple grounds are equally so, with decadent, ornate halls separated by immaculate stone footpaths that make up the courtyard, all under the canopy of gently swaying trees that shimmer with hints of gold as the autumn begins to take hold. After spending a good twenty minutes wandering around the temple grounds, I head back out of the entrance, where the old woman to who I paid my entry fee swiftly jumps out of her shack and chases me down clutching a pamphlet. She hands it to me whispering “douzo”, and I tell her thank you and open it. It's a fully illustrated map of the town and its attractions. I fold the map and tuck it into my pocket and ride away as I wave back to her, musing how useless it will be to me now, at almost 5pm, near the conclusion of my trip. Never mind, maybe I can pass this map onto others who come here in the future and aren't quite as skilled at deciphering old man pen etchings as I. From here I follow the winding road back into the town centre and return the bike to the old man who smiles and wheels the bike back around an unseen corner, puffing on a cigarette that droops from between his thin lips. I saunter back into the train station, grab a customary can of beer from the conbini, and am away, back to the hustle and bustle of (my) reality.

 

Nara Tokae Festival

Nara's famous Tokae festival takes place every summer from 5^th -14^th of August and brings the city to life in a dazzling display of light.

As with so many festivals throughout this mystical land that fall within the Obon period, the Tokae festival has its roots in the practice of illuminating beacons to guide the spirits of deceased loved ones back to their families. Nara's unique interpretation of this ancient tradition sees the lighting of some 20,000 candles in and around the city's coveted Parks area; hence the name, which can be translated into candle gathering. The festival was introduced in 1999 primarily as a way to increase tourism to the city, but despite being decidedly young in terms of Nara's 1300 year history, the event succeeds in forging a magical connection between visitors and the surroundings and conduces an almost spiritual understanding of Nara's rich heritage. Having heard many a whispered tale of the festival, my curiosity piques and I grab my camera and head out to see what all the fuss is about.

I arrive in Nara in the early afternoon, eager to fit in a bit of day time temple viewing before the sun sets and the crowds intensify. The day starts off overcast at best, whipping showers at worst, and I feel as if the old city castigates me for staying away for so long since my last visit, like a vociferous, saliva-spraying grandmother chastising her grandchild for not calling as often as they know they should. I digest the quaint urban streets on my way up to the parks from the train station and as I make it to the lawns of the peripheral grounds, find my eyes perpetually fixed on the ground. This is because lurking in amongst the squelching blades of grass are infinite pellets of deer dropping that I must assiduously navigate if I'm to keep my sandal-clad toes dung free for at least a small portion of the day. The situation improves as I get further in with the pellets becoming more scat-tered, and I can finally keep my head up for more than a few seconds at a time to admire the beauty of the perpetrators.

Nara's deer are undoubtably the most celebrated residents of the city, viewed by the locals as messengers of the ancestral spirits. Accordingly they are protected by law and this aspect has allowed them to flourish and reach a population in excess of 1,000 in the park grounds alone. These old souls are evidently thriving here, spry and unafraid of the tourists whom have fed them for centuries. However, enjoying such security, the speckled scamps are not without a propensity for brazenness and tend to throw their weight around in order to snatch snacks from visitors who often get a tad more than they bargained for. Signs warn of the dangers that human food poses to the deer, so it's a must to feed them only the specially designed senbei (rice crackers) sold throughout the park for ¥150 a packet. Upon purchasing, hide them until you're ready for attention, because you'll get it, and in addition to perhaps enticing a couple of deer to perfunctorily bow to you (a slightly less confrontational behaviour they've ostensibly learned as a way to be awarded treats), you may be dealt a couple of impatient head butts and shirt pulls that will leave you in no doubt that here, it is they that rule with an iron hoof.

I walk north along a cobbled path and pass the Nara National Museum to my right, a large concrete building of sleek edges that showcases the city's past through writings and appurtenances of previous eras. A few metres further and I take a left onto the main walk down to Todaiji temple. By some divine order the clouds have now parted and the baking summer sun beats down on the droves of tourists that pack the street amongst park wardens and more wily deer. In addition to a smattering of tacky souvenir shops (which as are as reassuringly ubiquitous here, within the staid folds of Japanese society, as anywhere else in the world), the street is lined with food stalls offering snacks from the hearty Kansai staples of takoyaki and okinomiyaki, to broiled meat on a stick, to shaved ice of all the colours of the rainbow that tenaciously hangs in the blue sky above. I tread dubiously with my just-purchased lance of sizzling chicken, scanning left and right, careful not to attract the attention of the deer whom despite I know to be vegetarian, wouldn't put it past to once again deviate from their so-called natural behaviour and vie for a piece of my succulent prize. Not today, Bambi.

I pass under the splendidly rustic Nandai-mon tori and before long I've reached the gates of Todaiji temple, the most revered of the Historic Monuments of Ancient Nara Unesco world heritage sights and among the most sacred spots in all of Japan. Built by Emperor Shomu (AD 724-49), the temple originally dates back to the 8^th century and remains the beating heart of Japan's Kegon school of Buddhism. I pay the token ¥500 entry fee and am on my way up a wide gravel path flanked by pristine lawns on either side with the main hall looming huge and imposing up ahead. The Daibutsu, as it's called in Japanese, until recently held the title of largest wooden building in the world and no wonder, for its titanic size is equalled only by its majesty. The powerful arched roofs are accented with gleaming gold borders and underlined by stolid beams of black over the weathered white walls, all built to support two glistening horns nested on the lofty apex that point unabashedly heavenward. It's quite a sight to behold, and choreographed by the scrunching beat of chalky stones underfoot, I make it to the front steps, up and inside.

The sun is left for dead outside as within this gargantuan wooden cavern, all is calm and dim save for the spotlights that punch up from the floor to illuminate Vairocana, the world's largest bronze buddha. The picture of placidity, he looks down on visitors with equable eyes and dazzles in his grandeur, filling the room over which he presides with orgone and bigness. Ornate carvings cover the walls and following them around to the side of the hall will bring you to his guardians, crafted in wood and casting almost demonically ambivalent stares over those that dare to cross their path. With my camera pressed up to my face, I weave insouciantly around pillars and meet them with a start. I drop my weapon and it falls to dangle from its leather strap and my neck jerks as my heart churns out a single startled thump. These brutes are terrifying and the fact that they affect me so is curious because their sole purpose is to ward off evil spirits. “Could it be that I qualify?”, I ask myself, flustered with camera swinging pendulously below chin. “No, of course not. You're only evil before your morning coffee”, myself assuredly replies... out loud. With that I continue around to the farthest corner of the room and to a column through which is carved a small tunnel exactly the same size as Vairocana's nostrils and offering the promise of protection and longevity to all those (usually children) that can squeeze through it. A line has formed leading to the hole and kids slowly scrape their way through, sometimes with the assistance of a gentle push by mum or dad. There's a pleasant family atmosphere in this section of the hall, and despite this tradition having ernest roots, the kids seem to be tunnelling mainly for fun.

I finish my lap of the temple and step back out into the day, my eyes small and burning against the ripe late afternoon sunlight. Back up the gravel path I toddle and at the top I strew ¥100 into a slot and pick up an incense stick. I watch others and enjoy the thick, fragrant smoke that emanates from a nearby urn containing perhaps one hundred sticks gently burning and leaving a powdery ash deposit in their wake. Flocks of Japanese light their incense from the big oil lamp in the middle, prod it into the top where the ash secures the stick upright and begin to pray. It dawns on me that this gesture is a buddhist ritualistic offering to the gods in the hope that prayers be answered. Now I face the perennial problem for any westerner living in Japan; that of wanting to join in whilst not wanting to be a complete “tourist” by partaking in acts sacred to many millions that you, with your none-buddhist upbringing, essentially have no business taking part in, and furthermore have the impetus to do so only in the pursuit of a good photo. On this one however I've donated the handsome sum of one silver coin and am aware that the temple relies on the interest of tourists to flourish the way it does. With this in mind I justify the lighting of my incense and imprudently shove it into the powder and pray for world peace and that the deer don't get me on my way out.

The day winds down and the sun begins to slowly sink beneath severe Mount Ikoma in the western distance and long shadows leak slowly eastward over the old city. It's 6:30pm and now unlit candles pepper the greens in preparation for the festival's grand commencement in half an hour's time. Enthusiastic event workers deal out multilingual pamphlets and warm smiles and direct bemused tourists to any one of the eight main viewing locations. I've done my homework and am set on watching the lighting at the Ukimido viewing spot. I begin the short walk, still enthralled with the deer whom, sufficiently fed, now slowly filter towards the lush foothills in the deep recesses of the park, many in herds running and hopping, winding and gambolling playfully.

I make it to Ukimido in time to get a good spot on the footbridge that stretches over a small lake. The bridge is solid and firm consisting of well-maintained chunky pine beams that stretch from the bank at the bottom of a steep ravine across the diameter to skate around the far shore about a hundred and fifty feet away. On the near side halfway towards the middle is a junction leading to the focal pavilion which rises in log pillars from its concentric base to a draped Japanese roof that slides smoothly down from the apex with drooping eaves. Hundreds of unlit candles line the structure and surrounding shores and by now the deck of the bridge is packed with tourists who have arrived with increasing regularity over the last few minutes. Below, a dozen rowing boats glide silently on the water, manned predominantly by young Japanese couples who have hopefully paid an exorbitant amount for such a romantic experience that I didn't get in on. It doesn't matter though, the view up here's better anyway. And especially now as a troupe of festival employees in red T-shirts begin the mammoth task of lighting the candles one by one starting from their stations at various points around the pond. Bearing wand lighters and seemingly well-practiced, they travel quickly and converge on the pavilion followed by trails of twinkling light and before long, they've arrived together at the junction, ready to begin a blitz of the pavilion that will leave it glowing and heartbreakingly beautiful in a matter of moments. The last few candles are set aflame and all is complete: a breathtaking homage to collective effort, the dead, and mono no aware; the Japanese sentiment that beauty is transient and the heavy ache somewhere in the soul that this invokes. My eyes transfixed on the lights and with boats swirling in and out of my periphery over rippling streaks of orange, I suddenly feel as though all is warm and still and everything is at peace.

After a few minutes of quiet reflection it's time to move on. I weave through the crowd and off the bridge, up a flagged staircase to the top of the ravine from which I came. From here I join a path that snakes through the woods and looking left in the darkness I perceive a million distant lights stolen at irregular intervals by narrow black columns that are the trees in the foreground. The Asajigahara area is the next stop, and from the woods the path opens into a meadow alive with the glow of hundreds of flickering candles. They line walkways that wind around large bamboo structures, rising from central shoots to explode outwards and back down to earth like frozen water fountains and creating structures not too dissimilar to the skeletons of Mongolian yurts. Eager tourists venture inside with cameras clutched tightly as excited kids chase each other around the outer diameters and all is jovial in the languid summer evening. The deer that remain in these lower levels of the park look on knowingly from where they rest under trees, no longer on the graft and seemingly happy to take in the pretty lights. Walking on through the meadow, I get on to one of the parks' main thoroughfares which is now awash with kimono-clad revellers, food stalls and music that all add further to the prevailing carnival atmosphere.

The final stop of my tour lands me at Kofukuji temple on the western tip of the parks. The pride of the Fujiwara clan; the most powerful family in the land throughout the Nara and Heian periods, the temple is home to the second tallest pagoda in Japan. Composed of five tiers, the pagoda stands at an impressive 50 metres which is only 7 shy of Japan's tallest at Kuji temple in Kyoto. It was originally erected in 730AD and as a result of its age and grandeur is indelibly etched in the hearts of Narajin as a favourite landmark of the city. Candles light the temple at ground level, the grand old pagoda rising majestically from within their glow and blushing a dancing red hugh against the black night sky. Excited chatter in a myriad of languages falls in between the sharp click clacking of camera shutters resonating throughout the grounds as people capture the splendour on film. The festival has reached its climax and Nara is teeming with excitement. The candles will last another 45 minutes or so but I feel as if now is a perfect time to make a quiet escape before the tens of thousands of Osakans clog up the trains on their way back to the metropolis just over the mountain range. With that I bid the parks and the deer adieu and meander back towards the train station, my soul satiated with a feeling of deeper connection to Nara; the exquisite old city of light.  

                 

Tanabata Festival at Shi-tennoji Temple

Tanabata Shi-tennoji Temple

It's once again festival season in Japan, and with the abundance of holy celebrations that illuminate the country seemingly every weekend throughout the summer, July brings Tanabata to Osaka.

Tanabata, or “the star festival”, is a country-wide tradition that dates back to the year 755 when Empress Koken introduced it as a derivative of the Chinese Qixi festival. Gaining popularity with the general public by the beginning of the Edo period, Tanabata is based on the myth of Orhime and Hikoboshi (represented by the stars Vega and Altair respectively); two lovers separated by the milky way. Legend has it that the two agricultural deities met and immediately and fell in love, shirking their field duties and thus angering Orhime's father Tentai, who separated them and granted them permission to meet only once every subsequent year on the 7^th day of the 7^th lunar month. Despite this being 7^th July on the Gregorian calendar, celebrations of the typically three day festival start at different times according to region and city. I head to Osaka's famed Shi-tennoji temple on the weekend of the festival to find out more.

Being of the stars, the festival naturally doesn't come into its own until after sunset, but I arrive early evening to see the temple's grounds already brimming with revellers around the temple's main gate or karamon. As well as socialising parents and cute, jimbei-clad kids whom laugh maniacally as they run through the temple's misters (presumably installed as a potential respite from the early summer heat), there are also throngs of welcoming temple staff handing out pamphlets and the ubiquitous old man security guards; stationed every few yards and bearing megaphones set to human speech level through which they remind us to be careful and earnestly warn of the very real dangers of tripping over shoe laces and drowning in said misters.

As night falls, the whole place becomes illuminated and magic imbues the atmosphere. Ignoring the majestic main hall, pagoda and other holy structures that permanently reside within these grounds, the most eye-catching aspect is the bamboo tunnel, which is embellished with traditional crate paper streamers and twinkling white lights all around that serve to remind of the roots of the matsuri. A couple of hundred yen will buy a strip of tanazaku paper on which to write a wish and hang it on the tunnel's sides. This harps back to the Edo period manifestation of the festival when boys would inscribe on similar strips of paper and pray for neat hand writing. In the area towards the rear of the temple grounds lie minimalist water-filled tubs where for 500 yen, one can write one's wish on a floating candle. People amass here as night falls, eager to get a spot for their candle among the finite surface space to give their wish credence and also to contribute to the exquisite display that illuminates the temple's impressive pagoda against the black night sky. Definitely more of a practice for the adults, this space is elegantly serene where the bamboo tunnel is jostling and exciting. Both, however, share equally in their beauty.

After making their wish, many revellers head out to the periphery and to one of the many stalls that sell a wide array of both traditional Japanese and Western fare, all with the option of not too overpriced alcohol to wash it down. Upon scanning from left to right and seeing families sat down together bonding over the food and atmosphere, I realise that, as is the case with many of the festivals in the Japanese calendar, the importance lies not so much in the particular practices and spiritual significance festival, but in the transient opportunity it affords for young and old alike to let their hair down in a usually fastidious society, taking in the beauty while they look up at the stars.