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 6th and 7th 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.
