I’ve studied Japanese for about 7 years now. Most of that learning was done in my native Florida, where my sole connections to the Japanese language were a fingerprint-smudged laptop screen and half-broken speaker. Despite these limitations, the internet provided me with incredible access to Japanese media–to YouTube videos on every subject under the sun, to old, forgotten relics of video games, to the titans of early 20th century Japanese literature resting in the public domain, and to, perhaps most crucial to my journey, over a hundred years of Japanese film.
Nobuhiko Obayashi’s The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (1983) is one of the films I stumbled upon in this period. The real meat of its story has faded from my mind with time, but the charm of its setting, of its world, refuses to budge. Obayashi presented a realm of great color and sweeping mountain vistas and rolling black, kawara-tiled roofs–a realm of smiling faces and crisp school uniforms and warm greetings from kind neighbors. He presented a realm that seemed at peace and utterly proper in its construction, where everything was beautiful and truly alive. His vision of small-town life in Japan established within me an unconscious ideal, a phantom archetype, that I wanted desperately to experience in the flesh. Glimpsing into Obayashi’s world from the window–or browser window, rather–of my poorly air-conditioned Florida bedroom, I felt that if I could only be a part of that world, something in me would change for the better.
However, when I actually did begin life in rural Japan as an English teacher on the JET Program, I was met with a reality distinct from the one inside the film, in that it was, well, real. Many Japan-obsessed expats hit this wall, and they exhibit just as many unique responses to it, all embarking on a deeply personal journey to come to grips with the real Japan–whatever that might be–and their relationship to it. In my case, my three years in Japan have been a big mix of everything, a shimmering pool of happy, sad, empowering, humiliating, awesome, lame, enchanting, disenchanting–you name it! Yes, I did indeed change by being a part of this world, but at the same time, there was an enthusiasm and excitement that had been diluted, forgotten, within that big mix of everything. There was something magical about the bright-eyed Japaniac I once was.
Onomichi helped me remember him.
Onomichi, located in eastern Hiroshima Prefecture, is beautiful. It’s not just one of the most beautiful towns I’ve visited, but one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, full stop, and I certainly wasn’t the only one that had been struck by Onomichi in this way.
I met a local guide interpreter operating out of the BINGO Guide Network, by the name of Takayuki Fukumoto. Born and raised in Onomichi, Fukumoto is perhaps the town’s biggest fan, and his enthusiasm is as infectious as they come. “One of the town’s greatest charms is its roads, which form a labyrinth amongst the temples and homes that cling to the surrounding mountains.”
Boy was he right.
It is perhaps the great painting formed by those slopes, roads, homes and temples that first catches the eyes of the Onomichi uninitiated. It’s a grand image that guides the viewer’s gaze across its neighborhoods and up into the mountains, atop which sits Senkoji Temple and its long ropeway. Critical, though, is that the town does this gently, without the interruption of skyscrapers or shopping malls. Despite its natural verticality, Onomichi keeps its head low, quietly beckoning the viewer to explore its depths, all the while thrumming with an electric confidence in what it is.
As with a typical Japanese home, Onomichi has its own genkan or entry hallway, so to speak. In this case, it’s the downtown area, fit with a shopping arcade and a collection of mom and pop eateries and izakaya. It’s worth stopping off at a local spot to recharge your batteries before taking the dive–or climb, rather–into the town’s mountain neighborhoods.
I paid a visit to a ramen shop near JR Onomichi Station, Onomichi Ramen Tani. It was my first taste of Onomichi’s vaunted ramen, and what a meal this was. What we get here is an expert balance of a light shoyu (soy sauce) base paired with the depth and umami of the pork fat that floats on the surface of the soup. It’s a ramen that sits somewhere between east and west for me. My first 2 years in Japan were spent in Fukuoka, the birthplace of the rich tonkotsu ramen, and now I find myself in Tokyo, where shoyu is king. Onomichi’s take on the noodle dish struck a happy middle ground.
Fukumoto-san provided his own particularly mouth-watering recommendation, “I like a ramen joint in the arcade, by the name of Miyachi. Their curry ramen is a real gem.”
I’ll definitely be paying Miyachi a visit next time I’m in Hiroshima. One thing I’ve learned in this line of work is to always trust the locals over Google Maps or even the Japanese-developed Tabelog platform. Even when the food doesn’t knock my socks off, something else about the place does, whether it be the music it plays, the wallpaper it wears, or the story the owner tells. Oftentimes, it’s the shape of the place, its architecture, that does it for me.
Finally crossing the genkan and venturing into that labyrinth of narrow roads, homes, and temples, I was greeted by a great variety of architecture, of charming, comforting age. While some buildings look like they would fit right into a period film with their latticed wood shutters and kawara-tiled roofs, others belong to a more recent past, with concrete buildings that were constructed in the period of rapid economic growth that followed the Second World War. With such history in view, one could be forgiven for thinking that most all Onomichi residents have lived their whole lives there.
When I asked Fukumoto-san what he thought set the town’s residents apart from those of other regional towns, he replied, “Onomichi is a place where new residents really shine.”
It would seem a lot of people are moving to Onomichi these days. In Fukumoto-san’s view, a big contributing factor here, and one intimately connected to the town’s enduring rustic character, is the Onomichi Akiya Saisei Project or in English, the Onomichi Vacant House Revival Project.
That Japan is deeply concerned by its aging population requires no introduction. However, one phenomenon that hasn’t received as much attention outside of the country is its rapidly growing number of vacant, often straight-up abandoned homes, known as akiya. As I write this article, there are around four million akiya, slowly rotting with the passage of time with no plans to be put out for rent or sale.
“It’s a serious problem that every town in the country has to deal with. I feel that it’s an issue that must be addressed with the highest priority, alongside the declining population problem,” Fukumoto-san explained. “We’ve got to avoid a situation where we fight over the limited pieces of the domestic pie and instead consider having people move in from abroad.”
Many rural towns leverage their unused property to breathe new life into the community. Some do so by offering affordable housing and community spaces, while others invest in tourism. Onomichi does both, and with a vigor that has made it a model case study among rural Japan’s many akiya initiatives.
Enter the Onomichi Vacant House Revival Project, an NPO that seeks to utilize akiya to harness Onomichi’s potential for growth while maintaining the town’s identity.
“The Revival Project has been tackling the akiya problem for longer than most other organizations in the country,” said Fukumoto-san. “They’re breathing new life into the old homes that form Onomichi’s unique ‘miniature garden-style city.’”
The organization juggles a colorful array of initiatives that are perhaps most simply represented using the “5 Pillars” listed on their website: abandoned house × architecture, abandoned house × environment, abandoned house × community, abandoned house × tourism, abandoned house × art. It is in large part thanks to these five pillars that Onomichi has managed to maintain its labyrinth.
Maintain is the key word here. Regardless of how much these buildings are partially rebuilt, reinforced, or reused, they can’t change the fact of their age. However clean, however strong they become, they nevertheless continue to speak of the past. This is its charm though; this is cool. A fashionable decay–in a positive fungal sense, like everyone’s favorite shiitake mushroom–remains in place of the physical decay that once threatened these buildings.
I felt this fashionable decay most keenly as I walked down–or climbed up, rather–Neko-no-Hosomichi, literally Cat Alley. The alley gets its name from the community of stray cats that call it home, along with the extensive cat theming visible almost every step of the way. As it snakes its way up Mount Senkoji, ropeway cars gliding overhead, you get cat murals; you get little cat shrines; you get cat statues; you get rocks with cat faces painted on them. To top it all off, you get an eclectic jumble of cafes, restaurants, and shops, nearly all of which have precisely the sort of retro charm that gets me rumbling. The labyrinth really feels like a labyrinth here, and as such, I felt like the freest bird in town, when I emerged from Cat Alley and began my trip up to Senkoji Temple.
What awaited me was open air and a magnificent piece of Taisho period (1912-1926) architecture that seemed to watch over the labyrinth like a castle of sorts. I later learned this was a guest house by the name of Miharashi-tei.
Miharashi-tei is one of the great successes of the Onomichi Vacant House Revival Project. As with all great successes, however, its revival was an uphill battle.
According to the guesthouse’s website, Miharashi-tei was one of the first properties to be registered with Akiya Bank, “a database for ‘abandoned’ houses.” The Revival Project–who had just taken over operation of the bank from the city–was daunted, “We were just a volunteer-run organization at the time. We never thought we could handle such a large-scale property!” Evidently, potential buyers felt the same, and so it sat in the Akiya Bank. “…it was too large. In the end nobody wanted it.”
Nevertheless, the Revival Project and Miharashi-tei’s aging owner refused to just let the building rot. There was an opportunity here to preserve a piece of Onomichi’s Saen culture:
“The term Saen usually refers to tea plantations. But in Onomichi, it has historically referred to villas used for enjoying tea and welcoming guests. Onomichi prospered as a port town from the Edo period (1603-) to early Showa (-1930s). Wealthy merchants and successful business owners built villas on hilltops. Such villas were elaborately designed and showcased the owners’ success. In such a beautiful environment where the sea and mountains are three-dimensionally ‘intertwined,’ Onomichi’s unique Saen culture flourished.”
Built in 1921, Miharashi-tei is a striking example of this Saen culture. With particular regard to the three-dimensional intertwining mentioned above, the building occupies a frustratingly perfect location, just below Senkoji Temple and just above the great mountainside labyrinth of Onomichi’s neighborhoods, resulting in a flabbergasting view of the Onomichi Channel.
“The sunrise is particularly spectacular. It’s one of the big draws here,” noted Fukumoto-san, who works part-time at the guest house.
The building was a steal, confidently dual-wielding natural beauty and cultural heritage. So it was then that in 2012 the Revival Project began renting the property and after much discussion, planning, and research into Onomichi’s Saen culture, started their renovations in 2015 with the aim of repurposing the building into a guest house. The grand opening came at last in the spring of 2016; Onomichi Guest House Miharashi-tei was born.
Today, Miharashi-tei is doing well for itself. “Foreign guests make up about half of the customer-base,” Fukumoto-san told me. What’s more, the guest house’s support of the local community goes beyond simple tourism. “One thing I’ve gotta mention is the ‘helper system,’ where both Japanese and foreigners alike can work short-term as live-in employees. I think this ultimately leads a lot of people to consider moving to Onomichi for good.”
Did I mention that Miharashi-tei also has a cafe?
Miharashi-tei has one other really excellent quality: it provides bang-up access to Senkoji Park.
On foot, the journey up to Senkoji Park is physically demanding for the average Joe. That’s why the famous ropeway exists. But I think there’s something to be said about entering the park with a spot of weariness. You’re all the more likely then to get just sucker-punched by the character of the place. I certainly was, but the weariness was only one part of the equation in my case.
Putzing through the park and really feeling its steep bits in my knees, I kept getting distracted from my ultimate goal of the observation deck at the park’s highest point by all manner of side-quest-esque diversions.
One was Tsuzumi Rock, lovingly referred to as “Pon Pon Rock,” for the strange sound it emits when struck at certain points along its length. There’s even a hammer chained to the rock, which I was sure to thwack the stone with, comparing sounds here and there. I soon found what I was looking for: pon pon. It was a light, empty sound, the same as those rubber super bounce balls that ruled the elementary school black market. At first, I thought I was being taken for a ride; the hammer looked awfully rubbery. I struck my knee with it to be sure, testing its strength, and lo and behold, it was indeed a real hammer with real strength, and my ailing knees only ailed more from then on.
Walking away from the rock, I was struck by a realization, a bit of a personal one. I have had this lovely photo of my girlfriend in the liked folder of my camera roll for some time now. She was standing out on a rock that overlooked a canal and a small town. For some reason, I thought this was Okayama. And thus my realization before the rock then: No, it was Hiroshima. It was Onomichi. I then had my picture taken in the same pose as her and sent it off, later receiving a nice 笑-filled (the Japanese equivalent of lol) response that evening.
Continuing along, there were more diversions. There was a stone with hand imprints from famous sumo wrestlers, memorializing a tournament that had been held there. Resting my hand on the hollow left by that of a mighty wrestler, I was reminded of the fact that I hadn’t yet seen a sumo match, and of just how much Japan I still had left to experience.
Another diversion: Bungaku-no-Komichi, the Path of Literature, a little path lined with big rocks with little excerpts from big name writers who had some connection to Onomichi. I say “big name writers,” but I was only familiar with two of them–Naoya Shiga and Masaoka Shiki. The latter is perhaps one of the biggest names in modern Japanese literature, as the father of the modern haiku. Everyone knows the guy. Naoya Shiga, on the other hand, I knew as a novelist but not much else. He had written a novel by the name of Anya Kuro, or was it Anya Koro. Let’s bet on the latter.
I turned to my guide who was still grinning after having flexed his erudition in introducing Naoya Shiga, “Have you read this Naoya Shiga guy before?”
The grin disappeared, “Ahhh…no.”
I looked over at another Japanese gentleman accompanying us. He laughed, “Me neither.”
The three of us scratched our heads for a moment and quietly moved on from Bungaku-no-Komichi.
No, I hadn’t read Naoya Shiga–or Fumiko Hayashi or Suiin Emi or Sazanami Iwaya or any of the authors etched into the stones of Bungaku-no-Komichi. I was out of my depth. But, this made the trip all the more exciting. Onomichi didn’t just have two-times as many authors tied to its history and local character as my hometown. No, it had like twenty-times as many. It had lore, deep lore. And running through all of that was, I’d like to think, a love for the town and its charm. I punched Anya Koro into my Amazon Wishlist as we continued on through the park.
Senkoji Park gets its name from Senkoji Temple, as does Mount Senkoji. The jolly red temple is one of the big draws here, with just as many diversions as the wider park.
When I visited the temple with Fukumoto-san, he pulled me into an alleyway of sorts, sandwiched between the grey stone of Mount Senkoji and the temple’s main building. He gestured up at a big flat circle that had been carved into the rockface, “This is Kagami Iwa, Mirror Rock. It’s said that a mirror was once placed within that depression, and sunlight and moonlight alike would reflect off it, visible from even a good ways away. Some say this was done out of a belief that gods reside in mirrors. Others say the mirror functioned similarly to a lighthouse, signaling ships as they traversed the Seto Inland Sea.”
Either way, people have been gazing up at Mount Senkoji for quite some time now. I felt something akin to solidarity in that. This mountain and whatever it represents to us now–or to them then–harbors a magic that keeps people gazing up and dreaming. I’d like to think there was truth to either side of Fukumoto-san’s explanation.
I can picture it clearly. A lone seaman–maybe in the Edo Period (1603-1868 CE), maybe in the Heian (794-1185 CE), or maybe from a more distant past–traveling by the moonglow Mount Senkoji once breathed upon the sea. He’s not just grateful for the safety it provides, but also awestruck by the power of the gods who call that mountain mirror home.
I too said my thanks to the mountain then.
Senkoji Temple also offers one of the best views you can get from a temple in Japan. It’s such a stunner that it occupies one in every five photos that Google spits out when fed “Onomichi.” The rest of the photos are either occupied by the star of that view–the Onomichi Channel–or the Senkoji Ropeway that cuts across the view. Each of these images, Senkoji, the Onomichi Channel, and the ropeway serves as a symbol of Onomichi.
My first ride on the ropeway was a real joy, when I took it up the mountain during a separate visit. It showed me a new side to the labyrinth. I was a bird in flight, slowly ascending the mountain, gliding over the rows of houses and their uniform black kawara tiles, and engaging in a sort of Mexican standoff flyby with Tenneiji Temple’s handsomely decayed three story pagoda, before perching on top of the mountain.
Whether I was looking out from the temple or from the window of the ropeway, I was getting one hell of a view. But, something in me wanted more. There were still higher heights left to climb.
On the peak of Mount Senkoji sits an observation deck. It’s a long white structure that coils like a snake on one end and then has a more traditional switchback staircase on the other, appearing from a distance like someone with horribly broken legs planking like their life depends on it.
On my first visit, I felt some solidarity in this sight too, as days of travel and hours of walking had begun to take their toll on mind and legs alike. Pulling myself up the spiral end with long, labored steps, I was ready to put a lid on the whole Onomichi thing, at least for the day. The town had been a real treat, and venturing into the labyrinth, learning of the Onomichi Vacant House Revival Project, and hearing a true blue Onomichi native, Fukumoto-san, talk so passionately about it all had given the whole experience a shade of reality and truth. It was the complete package. But, again, something in me wanted more.
I arrived at the top of the observation deck. Despite the cold January air, beads of sweat were sprouting up on my forehead. I threw my arms over the railing and looked out at it all: First, there was the mountain brush, sitting at the bottom of the image like green fire. Then, there was the labyrinth of old homes and temples and black roofs and narrow roads and aged brown wood and latticed doors. Then, there was the genkan, with squat, pug-like hotels and stores and restaurants and Onomichi City Hall sitting down by the waterfront as if a bulwark against anything that could threaten what lay behind it. And beyond that was the Onomichi Channel–blue, alive–snaking out into the distance. And still beyond that, Mukaishima, with its warehouses and docks and cranes, and then the mountains of the Inland Sea, and more and more of them, stretching on and on into a bluish haze.
Brilliant. And, strangely familiar? I’d seen this view before.
The Girl Who Leapt Through Time… I had unwittingly wandered into the world from that film. And I remembered then, with a rush of nostalgia, what it felt like to be looking at that world from the outside in. Something like a circle was completed then, one that started and ended with Onomichi.
I later learned that Onomichi’s connection to cinema extended beyond this one film.
“I feel like Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953) was probably the start, but the Onomichi we know today owes itself to Nobuhiko Obayashi. Through his films, I was charmed by Onomichi all over again,” said Fukumoto-san. “I get the sense that a lot of people who grew up watching his ‘Onomichi Trilogy’ have gone on to use Onomichi as the setting of their own films and commercials.”
The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is the second entry in this “Onomichi Trilogy,” the films of which are connected not by narrative but by setting. The other two entries are I Are You, You Am Me (1982) and Miss Lonely (1985). The former seems to be a particular favorite among Onomichians.
For Fukumoto-san, I Are You, You Am Me captures the spirit of Onomichi better than just about anything else out there, and he was kind enough to relate his first encounter with the film to me.
“When I entered university, I told a friend of mine that I was from Onomichi. He said he was jealous, which came as a real surprise to me. Apparently he had become an Onomichi fan after watching I Are You, You Am Me. Right then and there, I went and found a theater playing the film and gave it a watch… Later on down the line, I invited that same friend to Onomichi and guided him around the shooting locations from the film.”
Onomichi calls out in this way, drawing people from across the country like Fukumoto-san’s friend–and others from across the globe like yours truly. It invites visitors to not only maintain and continue its history but to weave their own personal histories within that tapestry. And, in the same way that it has inspired throngs of artists, writers, and filmmakers, it compels visitors to dream and to create, to live and to grow.
Visiting Onomichi for myself invited me to reflect on my time in Japan thus far–invited me to consider that, while reality might not always stack up to fantasy, I would never have embarked on my adventure if not for that Japan-obsessed dreamer and his busted laptop. I had thought that time, experience, and reality had diluted my enthusiasm, but Onomichi taught me that that need not be the case. I had not, in fact, lost anything. I’d simply learned, simply grew. I’d changed in just the way I needed to, if not the way I expected. Staring out at the Onomichi Channel from the peak of Mount Senkoji, I felt more confident than ever in my decision to move to Japan–more confident than ever in my decision to dream.
All images not owned by WaWo Japan Travel were obtained from the following sources:
★ The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (1983, Dir. Nobuhiko Obayashi, Toei Company)
★ Onomichi Akiya Saisei Project
[http://www.onomichisaisei.com/]
★ Onotsute Building
[https://onotsute-building.com/]
★ Onomichi Guesthouse Miharashi-tei
[https://miharashi.onomichisaisei.com/]
★ Onomichi Guesthouse Miharashi-tei
[https://miharashi.onomichisaisei.com/]
★ Tokyo Story (1953, Dir. Yasujiro Ozu, Shochiku)
★ Miyajima Villa
★ Senkoji
★ I Are You, You Am Me (1982, Dir. Nobuhiko Obayashi, Kadokawa)
Please hover over the images for specific credits.
<Author>
Joseph Bayliss
Travel Consultant at WaWo Japan Travel