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CNA
12-07-2025
- CNA
What's it like to attend a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
CNA
12-07-2025
- CNA
What's it like at a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or chanoyu?
An unusually hot April sun blazed over Kyoto as we arrived for a private tea ceremony, or chanoyu, in a centuries-old temple usually closed to outsiders. Our rare access came through Aman Kyoto where we were staying, and our travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes who had organised our three-week Japan journey. At the imposing wooden gate, we were greeted by an imperiously statuesque, monk, the hauteur of his high cheekbones matched by dignified black robes with white trim, an elegant fan in hand. We were immediately struck by the simplicity and beauty of the perfectly manicured garden of small shrubs and young saplings, its soft green punctuated by granite boulders and bordered by stone pavement – all compactly set against interlocking, single-storey buildings of black-tiled roofs and shaded porticos. Shadowed eaves provided welcome shade from the heat, and a profound stillness enveloped us. Dating back to 1631, the temple exists in another dimension entirely. I won't name it here out of respect for its privacy. Many of Kyoto's sacred sites maintain their seclusion not from exclusivity, but to preserve their essential purpose as places of worship rather than tourist attractions. The cultural treasures housed within also require thoughtful preservation, and daily spiritual practices would lose their essence if constantly intruded on. Our host monk led us along shaded timber corridors framed by a second interior garden. Like the first, this one contained few colours beyond varying shades of green, its moss-cloaked rocks, peppered with azaleas, pine and maple trees, showcasing a restrained palette typical of Zen aesthetics. Every so often, he'd pause and direct our attention through sliding fusuma doors to high-ceilinged rooms lined with exquisite paintings, including works by masters of the Kanno school dating from the 16th-century Momoyama to early Edo periods. Polished cypress floors, cool underfoot, and beautifully aged cedar doors spoke of centuries of care. Rather than using the traditional tea house, made of bamboo and tree bark, tucked at the back of the grounds, we entered a vast tatami room with perfectly framed views of the garden – a kindness toward foreign guests unaccustomed to kneeling in the traditional seiza position for long periods. Here the contrast was striking: Inside this quiet sanctuary, time seemed to slow, while just beyond this room, tourists hurried through Kyoto's more accessible attractions. 'The tea ceremony you'll experience today is abbreviated,' our host explained as he settled behind a low table dressed with pots and utensils. 'The full traditional version takes over two hours.' Shorter than Avengers: Endgame, I thought. The service unfolded mostly in silence. Mesmerised, we watched the monk ladle water into a heated pot, and whisk the matcha, each movement precise, graceful. It was like a slow dance. Each gesture had purpose, infused by ritual; nothing existed without meaning. It had taken our host 10 years to master the art. Every chanoyu is uniquely crafted to honour the guests, the season, and even the time of day. This attention to context was reflected in the scroll hanging in the tokonoma alcove bearing the phrase 'every day is a good day' – undoubtedly more poetic in its original Japanese – and in the carefully selected seasonal tsubaki, or camellia, flower arrangement. Our host set before each of us a black lacquered plate so perfectly polished it resembled a lake at midnight, bearing a seasonal wagashi sweet with a kuromoji wooden skewer. To my untrained ear, the red-bean sweet's name sounded like 'haru ulala' which he explained was meant to capture 'the bright, clear quality of the season'. Siri later informed me that the name of the sweet likely rhymed with haru uta, a traditional Japanese song performed only in spring. As he prepared the matcha, our host shared insights that shaped our appreciation of a traditional chanoyu. The earthen tea bowl's shape should respond to the seasons – flared lips for summer to cool the brew, tighter rims for winter to preserve warmth. Even the selection of the bowl reflects the gender of the tea master. Pale green powder in hot water became frothy liquid as he worked the bamboo whisk with both grace and an economy of movement, every gesture choreographed by centuries of tea lore. Eventually, he rose from his seat. Padding towards us on white-stockinged feet, he placed the bowl of frothy matcha beside the wagashi. 'Please eat the sweet first, then drink the tea,' he murmured. He noticed my rings. 'These are low-fired bowls, so they are delicate. Best to remove metal jewellery before handling.' Even the way one drinks the matcha is prescribed. With the bowl balanced on the left palm, you turn it clockwise with the right hand so the front, marked by a delicate design faces you before drinking. The tea was intensely bitter yet complex in a way that demanded complete presence. Our host, a member of the Myoshinji sect – one of Kyoto's eight major Zen Buddhist lineages – explained that the chanoyu isn't merely about tea but about creating a space apart from worldly concerns and drawing participants fully into the moment. As I held the warm ceramic bowl, I felt inexplicably connected to something timeless. We were also refreshed in a way that surprised us. The intentional slowness had created an internal clearing for reflection that's rarely possible in our usual pace of life. I understood then why so many of Kyoto's most precious spiritual sites remain closed to the general public. For what we had experienced wasn't a performance but a practice – one that has continued for centuries, preserved not as a relic but as a living expression of a philosophical approach to life. At the end, as we passed back through the gate into the afternoon heat and crowds, I carried with me a tangible sense of ma – the Japanese concept of negative space that isn't empty but charged with possibility. In the measured pauses of the tea ceremony, we had found something increasingly elusive in our hurried world: A chance to simply stop, breathe and be present.
CNA
28-05-2025
- General
- CNA
What's it like to hike on the historical Nakasendo Trail in Japan
Unseasonal mist still clung to the mountains like a silk kimono when our train from Nagoya pulled into Nakatsugawa. Unlike the coastal plain from which we'd just come where everything was shrouded in dazzling pink and white, cherry blossoms had barely begun to unfurl their shy pink petals, and the buds on the plum trees were still loosely wrapped against the lingering chill. 'This is a lovely time to be walking,' said our guide, Shin-san. Our breath cool in the crisp April air, we'd come to walk the Nakasendo Trail – literally, the 'central mountain route' – one of Japan's five major highways, or gokaido, that once connected Edo (old Tokyo) with Kyoto during the feudal era. Built in the early 1600s, these routes were initially created for military purposes, carrying troops, supplies, and the Shogun's express messages to the ruling daimyos across the country. Of the Nakasendo's original 540km network with its 69 post towns, or rest-stops, only fragments survive today, with the Kiso Valley section being the most beautifully preserved. And whilst I normally detest hiking – considering it a peculiar form of voluntary suffering – the prospect of a fairly leisurely four-day hike tracing the footsteps of samurai, messengers and daimyo processions through time was oddly appealing. 'You'll love it!' the perky Elaine from luxury travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes had promised when we first started planning the trip in late December. 'You'll have a guide throughout the trip. I'll organise trains and car transfers, and sort out the ryokans, so you don't have to stress about anything.' She was true to her word. The affable Shin-san, our guide and constant companion for the next few days, had greeted us at the train station. Our luggage disappeared with remarkable efficiency – whisked away to the ryokan by a courier service Elaine had arranged – leaving us unencumbered, save for light backpacks, and free to have a quick lunch. In a restaurant called Wakuri, squeezed into a space barely larger than a cupboard, we savoured cold house-made soba draped with a warm nutty walnut sauce, accompanied by grilled miso touched with yuzu and a constellation of smoked quail eggs. After this promising start, we set off. Our first modest walk along the storied trail wound through Ochiai and its small villages nestled against terraced fields. Ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of footfall, guided us through forests past old kosatsuba, or wooden notice boards once used by the Tokugawa shogunate to post laws and edicts. Every so often, we'd come across a metal bell hanging from a post, which Shin-san encouraged us to clang. 'For bears,' he explained, though I suspected they were still in deep slumber. Late afternoon brought us to Guest House Motomiya, a 300-year-old hatago inn where time seemed to have paused somewhere in the Edo period. Compact and dignified, it once served the common travellers forbidden from staying at the nearby honjin, or inns reserved for the lords. Its owners Keiko Haruki and her husband, a couple straight out of the opening scene in Up, welcomed us, their faces wreathed in smiles. A long soak in their hinoki timber bathtub, the cypress-scented steam working its magic, was followed by an extravagant dinner of seasonal root vegetables, simmered and poached, and delicately fried river fish that had likely been swimming that very morning. Walking from Ochiai to Magome the next morning, the trail unravelled before us like a Hiroshige block print. Stone-paved paths climbed steeply between wooden houses set on terraced hillsides, and water wheels turned lazily beside moss-covered rock walls. Along the way, Shin-san pointed out details we might have missed – the stone deities hidden by foliage, the architectural distinctions between the various accommodations for the old lords and common folk, the signs on weathered doors. The path between Magome and Tsumago was utterly enchanting, every angle a cinematic still from a Japanese Middle-Earth, the ghosts of history lingering in every shadow. Primaeval forests loomed, and shrines whispered old prayers as we passed. Original Edo-period teahouses stood with their smoke pits intact, alongside stables and restored machiya-style homes. The Odaki and Medaki Falls – one next to the other in roaring tandem – cascaded down green-cloaked cliffs, their spray creating rainbows in the intermittent sunlight. Over three hours and 10 kilometres, we found ourselves not hiking, but time-travelling, each step carrying us deeper into Japan's feudal past. At the Nezame Hotel that evening, we discovered a blood pressure monitor discreetly positioned in the lobby. Because nothing says 'welcome' in Japan quite like the opportunity to confirm an impending cardiac event after climbing ancient mountain passes. The outdoor hot springs of the onsen brought relief to tired muscles, followed by a meal of such abundance we suspected our hosts believed we'd walked the Nakasendo's entire 540km stretch since breakfast, and not a mere ten. Outside, the river gorge, its massive boulders scattered like the playthings of ancient giants, continued its eternal rumbling conversation with the night. The next day dawned misty again as we climbed towards the Nenoue Pass bringing us, at one stage, to the Hakusan Shrine, where an 800-year-old cypress tree stood guard at the entrance. Sunlight broke through just as we entered, illuminating the weathered wood and stone with an ethereal glow that made everyone catch their breaths. Bamboo groves swallowed us whole, creating green cathedrals where footsteps echoed strangely, and reality seemed to bend. For long stretches, we walked utterly alone, Shin-san expertly steering us clear of the more popular sections where other walkers might break the spell. Through stands of towering cypress, we discovered tiny waterfall springs where moss-covered logs lined old stone, the patient work of water over centuries. The Tsutaya Tokinoyado Kazari hotel welcomed us that night with more hot springs and the sort of refined hospitality that makes Japanese ryokans legendary – in other words, fluffy white quilts on low slung beds, corn-gold tatami mats, and yet another feast. By now, despite tired joints and muscles, I had slipped easily into the rhythm of the trail: Walk, observe, absorb, reflect, eat. The final day brought new challenges as we climbed toward the Torii Pass. Birch and maple trees stood leafless against the steel-grey sky, but higher up, we encountered fleeting patches of snow from the previous night. The steep slopes tested our fitness, yet each step brought fresh rewards, not least panoramic vistas soundtracked by birdsong and chilled wind rustling through trees with thickening leaves. We spent our last night at Tobira Onsen Myojinkan – a sumptuous Relais & Chateaux property that Blue Sky Escapes had secured as a treat, where we luxuriated in a steaming hot-spring bath capped by cypress roofs. Dinner was extraordinary: Thick cuts of matsutake mushroom, grilled so the gills resembled salmon flesh, accompanied by seasonal delicacies that arrived in an endless procession of exquisite ceramic vessels. Even breakfast the next morning was a revelation, featuring what I can only describe as the finest croissant I've ever tasted – impossibly flaky, weightless, and buttery – proving that these ryokans considered every meal, not just dinner, an opportunity for culinary theatrics. Reflecting on the journey, it occurred to me that while much of the Nakasendo Trail's original 540km stretch has surrendered to modern development, its preserved sections – especially in the Kiso Valley – offer something precious: A living connection to Japan's past. Walking where daimyo processions once passed along stone paths, through ancient forests and feudal post towns, sleeping in inns that once sheltered common travelers and nobility alike, I found myself woven into a continuing story of a Japan far removed from blazing neon and bullet trains. And for someone who typically avoids hiking at all costs, I found myself oddly reluctant to leave the trail behind. Centuries of footsteps had worn these stones smooth long before mine joined them – and somehow, that connection made all the difference. Not bad, really, for a walk in the woods.
