Close, Yet Far: Discovering Otsu

Text and Photos by Kyle Opitz

Just minutes from Kyoto, the city of Otsu is a rich tapestry of history and culture without the crowds.

Kyle Opitz is Wondertrunk's Travel Manager and Photographer. Originally from Colorado, Kyle has lived in Japan for over 11 years, from remote villages to picturesque craft towns to the mega-metropolis of Tokyo, and is one of the country's most knowledgeable travel experts.

Japan’s pre-industrial demographic landscape looked quite different from the Japan we know today. Before the mass migration of the population into a handful of major metropolitan areas at the turn of the 20th century (Tokyo alone is now home to roughly 11% of the entire population), thriving castle towns and merchant cities could be found in nearly every corner of the country. These historical cities often developed around the walled fortresses favored by the numerous clans ruling over their fiefdoms, or in tandem with locally emergent industries such as textile weaving and rice cultivation that brought immediate prosperity as well as the rapid urban growth that accompanies it. And as is often the case, growth begets even more growth, and additional towns sprung up along the network of busy highways that connected these ever-expanding population centers. 

On the shores of Lake Biwa, the quiet town of Otsu tells one such story.

For much of Japan’s long history, Otsu was a city of critical importance, even becoming the national capital for a short, 5-year period in the late 600s. Geographically speaking, Otsu’s location is enviable. Sitting at the southern tip of the country’s largest lake, it was a crucial freshwater shipping port helping to move goods between Kyoto and other parts of the country. It was also the very last stop of the sixty-nine post-towns dotted along the famed Nakasendo Road, an ancient footpath that once connected the capital in Edo (current day Tokyo) and Kyoto. These factors ensured that thousands of travelers passed though Otsu every year, many of whom brought with them goods, skills, information, cultural trends, and importantly, money. The city thrived as a hub of travel and trade, and even developed its own unique culture of arts, religion, and gastronomy.

Though the advent of modern transportation logistics led to a waning of much of Otsu’s strategic importance, quiet echoes of its historical identity remain. Sections of the city still retain the atmosphere of its post-town past, with wood-latticed townhouses standing shoulder to shoulder along cobblestone streets. In the central market, fishmongers still sell “funazushi”, a pungent, fermented fish dish that originated in Otsu in the 1600s and remains unique to that area alone. The historic temples of Mii-dera and Enryaku-ji remain as important cultural landmarks and touchstones of Japan’s homegrown religious identity. For travelers looking to glimpse a Japan from days gone by, Otsu still has much to offer.

How, then, does one access Otsu? Though the city is most easily accessed by a 9-minute train ride from Kyoto, perhaps the best way to visit Otsu is the same way people did for hundreds of years - by walking. Intrepid travelers can very literally trace the footsteps of past generations, moving steadily over the low mountains that separate Kyoto and Otsu. On a mild day in mid-December, I had a chance to do just that, joining a small group of travelers to make the 5-hour hike to Otsu in search of scenic views, local culture, and a piece of Japan’s forgotten history.

Day 1

Over the Hills and Far Away

At Kyoto’s northeastern edge, the “end” of the city is almost startling in its abruptness - a hard line drawn by Mother Nature denoting the point where urban expansion was stymied by the mountainous sanctuary beyond. Seen from the air, this edge appears as a seemingly impenetrable wall dividing a dense, urban patchwork and the dark green forests that lay to the east. But for those who know where to look, there are plenty of cracks in this wall, places where hikers can slip through and enter a vast green space filled with beautiful trails, expansive vistas, and hidden temples.

Under a cloudless blue sky, our small group gathered at the entrance of Reikanji Temple, the starting point of our journey. The early morning air that enveloped us was quiet, almost silent as the locals went about their business and savored the remaining peace before the day’s first tourists arrived to visit nearby sights such as Ginkakuji Temple and the Philosopher's Path. Popping that early morning quiet like a soap bubble, a hearty cry of “Ohayo gozaimasu!” drew our attention to a man approaching from a side street - our guide for the day.

Into the Woods

Mr. Hattori was older than our group’s most senior member by at least a couple decades and yet possessed a seemingly boundless energy, chatting amiably as he distributed paper maps and hastily stapled information packets containing an assortment of articles scanned from local history books. With a toothy grin, Hattori-san confided that he had assembled the packets by hand late the previous night, the earnestness of this gesture endearing him to all of us immediately and effortlessly. After a brief explanation of the day’s route we turned to the east, away from the familiarity of Kyoto, and began walking along an arrow-straight pathway sloping steadily upward toward the mountains rising in front of us. 

As we passed by the last of the houses, the cement path gave way to gravel strewn over packed earth, and we finally reached the true entryway to the mountain marked by a small shrine next to a fast-flowing creek. The Nyoi Kodo, or Nyoi Ancient Highway, is a winding mountain trail that was one of many overland routes that once connected Kyoto and Otsu before the advent of cars and trains. Pressing onward, we soon found ourselves in a forest of young cedar trees, their trunks so uniformly and geometrically straight that they almost seemed unnatural. And in fact, they are unnatural, planted en masse by Japan’s post-war forestry services to replenish the country’s greatly depleted timber stocks. Still, their yard-stick straightness packed a visual punch that was hard to ignore, as if we had stepped into a surrealist painting.

Lunch With a View

We followed the trail as it meandered through the forest and past small waterfalls, ancient stone stairways, buddhist statues with features long eroded away by the elements, and even a few Japanese maple trees stubbornly clinging to the last of their fiery red foliage. After a couple of hours, the trees parted and we emerged onto a small opening, the vastness of Kyoto stretching out below us toward the western horizon. We had reached the top of the mountain and the halfway point of our hike. Taking advantage of this moment to break for lunch, we sat down on yellowed grass and eagerly lifted the lids off of the special bento lunch boxes we had carried with us from Kyoto. 

The tantalizing riot of color now before us caused several members of our group to audibly gasp in delight, and we all put our hands together before chanting in unison, “itadakimasu”, the Japanese version of “bon appetit”. As we savored tender eggplant, crispy fried shrimp and karaage chicken, tamagoyaki, crunchy togarashi peppers, and rice balls dotted with shirasu whitefish and tofu, I smiled inwardly and recalled the bruised bananas and Nature’s Valley granola bars that usually serve as my hiking lunches, now rendered wholly inadequate by comparison.

The Homestretch

We set off once again toward our goal, moving somewhat slower after our indulgent lunch. A short walk brought us to yet another scenic vista, although this time it wasn’t Kyoto filling our view but rather the city of Otsu, hugging the shores of Lake Biwa. From there, the trail gradually began to slope downward, a sure sign that we were quite literally “over the hump”. The walking was easy and our spirits were high as we continued on, reveling in the fresh air and nearing the finish line with every step. Eventually, the trees began to thin and we spotted several miniature shrines set at seemingly random intervals just off of the trail. Hattori-san explained that we were now entering the sacred grounds of Onjo-ji Temple, more commonly known as Mii-dera. 

Mii-dera is expansive - in fact, it’s one of the four largest temple complexes in Japan. It’s also old, very old, originally founded in the seventh century by Emperor Tenmu. Despite the fading daylight and our own protesting feet, we strolled the temple grounds, drinking in the peaceful atmosphere and marveling at the aged, wooden architecture - pagodas, prayer halls, and more, all built centuries ago without the convenience of modern technologies.

With the sun finally dipping behind the mountains and darkness swallowing the town, we made our way to our accommodation with a new appreciation for the travelers of old who carried heavy loads of goods back and forth across those very same mountains multiple times per week. Our lodging for the evening was a luxurious ryokan, a Japanese-style inn largely defined by its impeccable hospitality and sumptuous meals served onsite. Dinner is often the highlight of a stay at a ryokan, and ours did not disappoint - the day’s second feast made with locally sourced vegetables, meats, and seafoods transformed by expert hands into edible art. Paired with an assortment of locally-brewed sakes, I couldn’t imagine a better way to finish a day of hiking. Hours later when I finally laid down on the plush futon bedding in my room and turned out the lights, I was whisked off to a deep sleep within minutes.

Day 2

Uncovering Otsu’s History

Early the next day, I awoke to faint light seeping into my room from underneath the heavy curtains drawn tightly across the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows. The clock on my cell phone read 6:22 AM. I was faced with two choices: stay safely tucked in the delicious warmth of the futon bed, or grab my camera, throw open the curtains, and see what view awaited beyond. I’m glad I chose the latter. The windows of my lakeside room faced eastward across Lake Biwa, offering an unobstructed view of the sun rising over the hills on the far banks of the lake. Sitting in a comfortable chair by the window, I watched in silence as the orange sphere climbed steadily over the horizon before finally lifting off into the air like an enormous balloon.

Memory Lane

After breakfast, our group reconvened and met our new guide, Ms. Onishi. A native of neighboring Kyoto and well-versed in the sights, culture, and history of the entire Kansai region, Onishi-san would take us on a walking tour of Otsu’s charming highlights. Our first stop was a preserved stretch of road dating all the way back to the area’s post-town past. Drawing on her deep knowledge and passion for the area, Onishi-san deftly evoked the bustling atmosphere of Edo-period Otsu, our minds conjuring images of hundreds of travelers, shopkeepers, food hawkers, and local citizens of every kind moving about the quiet street where we now stood.

From there, we strolled to a nearby machiya townhouse, its appearance largely unchanged from its original construction over one hundred years ago. Viewed from the front, the machiya appeared quite small, but as we soon discovered, looks can be deceiving. Buildings in Japan were historically taxed according to their width and frontage, and the predictable result of this was an architectural trend of almost comically narrow constructions hiding vast depths of square footage behind their street-facing facades. The friendly owner of the machiya beckoned us inside and gave us an impromptu tour of the house, complete with old-fashioned wood burning stoves, tatami flooring, an internal garden, and massive timber beams spanning the ceiling.

In a Pickle

Just a short walk from the machiya, we arrived at Otsu’s central market, a lengthy covered pedestrian street lined with shops selling everything from fresh produce, to electronics, to kimonos, to the area’s own unique (and somewhat challenging) dish, funazushi fermented lake fish. We stopped to chat with the proprietor of a pickle store, and he dazzled us with tales of his family’s long history of selling pickled produce at that very spot, excitedly showing us handwritten order forms from generations long gone. For most westerners, the word “pickle” refers almost exclusively to the crunchy, briny cucumbers picked off of hamburgers and discarded by fussy kids. But in Japan, pickles or tsukemono as they are called, can be made with nearly any vegetable or fruit - cucumbers, radishes, cabbages, plums, and more. The result is a colorful smorgasbord of different flavors, textures, and culinary uses.

A Splash of Local Color

The last stop of our walking tour was a traditional shop selling otsu-e, the region’s own unique form of brush-painted folk art named for the city in which it originated. Behind the shop’s sliding doors, whimsical paintings of maidens, demons, tigers, flowers, sailing ships, and more covered every surface, their bright colors and bold brush strokes contrasting starkly with the somber, dark wooden beams and furnishings. As with many cultural practices in Otsu, otsu-e developed in conjunction with the city’s post-town boom economy, sold primarily as souvenirs to travelers passing through on their way to and from Kyoto. 

Part of modern-day Otsu’s appeal lies in its sound, or rather, the welcome lack thereof. As the crow flies, the town is only minutes from the noisy and chronically overcrowded streets of Kyoto, and yet Otsu’s character is wholly different, a sanctuary of serenity and calm. As we ended our tour, we strolled placidly through local neighborhoods, accompanied only by the sounds of our own footsteps mixing with warm conversations spilling out of the windows of nearby restaurants busily preparing for dinner service. Our group bid farewell to Onishi-san and ducked beneath the noren curtain marking the entrance to one of these restaurants, looking forward to recounting the day’s events over more delicious food and some well-earned drinks.

Day 3

A Temple in the Clouds

With our journey to Otsu nearing its conclusion, we had one final stop to make - Enryaku-ji Temple. Rather than hiking up the forested slopes of Mt. Hiei to reach the temple sitting proudly at its top, our group opted to take the cable car, which rattled its way up the steep grade and provided stunning views of Lake Biwa in the distance. 

Enryaku-ji is often cited as the birthplace of Buddhism in Japan. The temple was founded in 788 by the famous monk Saicho, who first brought the beliefs of Tendai Buddhism to Japan from China. From its inception, it has remained one of the country’s most important and influential temples, and many notable monks who would later go on to start their own sects received their first teachings at Enryaku-ji. Low clouds had settled over the mountains and shrouded the temple’s buildings and pagodas in a white fog, but rather than detract from the scenery it merely added to the atmosphere, the indefinable sense of spirituality becoming almost tangible in the form of the mist clinging to our clothes.

A Spiritual State of Mind

Our final guide for the trip, Ms. Taniguchi, escorted us though the vast grounds, slowing at regular intervals to explain various fascinating details related to the temple including its architecture, the sect’s beliefs, and the many historical events that had taken place there over the centuries. Stopping us outside the doors of a seemingly nondescript building, Taniguchi-san explained in a hushed voice that a monk had once confined himself inside its cramped walls for 10 years as an act of devotion, never once stepping foot outside during that decade-long period. The impact of this legend, true or not, was profound and our group fell into a pensive silence, many of us surely lost in private thoughts and awe at the sheer power of will required for such an act.

Here Comes the Sun

As if signaling our emergence from the spirit world back into the corporeal, the fog began to lift, burned off by the midday sun overhead. Now bathed in bright sunshine, our group began the final leg of our trip, hiking down from Enryaku-ji to Otsu where we would board a train to carry us swiftly back to Kyoto. As we crunched our way through fallen leaves strewn over gentle switchbacks, slowing occasionally to tiptoe down a few short boulder fields, the light streaming in through the trees began to take on the golden hue of afternoon and I was reminded of one of my favorite words in Japanese - “komorebi”, the dappled light that shines down through a forest’s canopy.

Upon reaching the base of Mt. Hiei, a short car ride brought us to Otsu Station, humming with activity as hundreds of people rushed to catch their trains at the end of the work day. After the previous three days’ experiences, boarding a train that would speed us away to Kyoto in just nine minutes, barreling through a tunnel bored straight through the mountain, almost felt like cheating. Gone are the days when travelers wearing waraji straw sandals had to make the arduous trek over those very same hills carrying heavy loads of textiles, ceramics, tea leaves, washi paper, and other goods. But the crucial words here are “had to”. For modern visitors who can, who choose to walk these historic trails, I can think of no better way to visit one of Japan’s oft-overlooked cities, a hidden gem that is so close and yet so far from the normal tourist beat, just waiting to reveal its rich history, culture, and small town charms to those curious enough to look.

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