Japan

A Tall Tale of Two Ancient Cities

Justin Jamieson embarks on a pretty packed itinerary full of ancient temples, enchanting districts, traditional eats and spiritual experiences to squeeze as much culture out of Nagano and Kanazawa as humanly possible. This is how it went.

NAGANO: Stepping into Nagano is like walking into a world carefully tucked between tradition and quiet rebellion against the modern rat race.

My first stop is Zenkoji Temple, one of Japan’s oldest Buddhist temples and, more importantly, a treasure trove of secrets that don’t surrender easily. It’s before dawn as I shuffle in, eager but hushed, feeling the weight of the place. The temple hosts a morning ceremony—a nod to the ages-old belief that no day should begin without a blessing.

The priest’s chants fill the hall like smoke, thick and unmissable, coaxing my mind to an almost meditative state. The centrepiece of the ritual, though, remains unseen. A sacred statue of Amida-Nyorai, the Buddha of infinite light, is hidden within the altar’s depths. The statue was brought from Baekje, one of the Three Kingdoms of Korea, in 552 and has never been viewed by mortal eyes, not even the head priest’s. As the chanting settles, I’m ready for what’s next: the Okaidan passage.

The Okaidan is not just a passage; it’s a rite of passage. This pitch-black tunnel wriggles beneath the main hall, right under where that hidden Buddha rests. It’s said you emerge changed and reborn. So, of course, I dive in. There’s nothing to see (it’s complete darkness), but I hear shuffling footsteps. The stone walls press in like a heartbeat, steady but somehow intimidating. Suddenly, my fingers graze something cold: it is the ‘key’ to paradise. According to the locals, touching this lock, known as the 'key’ to paradise,' which connects you to the Buddha, grants you safe passage into the afterlife.. An odd calm comes over me a second later, as if I’ve brushed against something profoundly ancient.

Back above ground, the sun is fully up. Feeling slightly changed and reborn I’m ready for breakfast the Nagano way: street food. I hunt down a stall selling Oyaki, a bun stuffed with everything from sweet red bean paste to savoury miso eggplant. It’s as warm and filling as it sounds, and honestly, I could eat these things all day.

Next on my itinerary is a visit to the Hokusai-kan Museum. The name Hokusai alone has the art nerd in me buzzing—yes, that’s the man behind the iconic “Great Wave off Kanagawa.” His art moves from delicate landscapes to bold brushstrokes, capturing Japan with an intensity that feels raw and unapologetic. I leave feeling a touch more artistic than I did before and head to the Nishinomon Yoshinoya Sake Brewery, a 400-year-old establishment that’s practically a shrine to Japan’s love affair with rice wine. After a few taste tests, I conclude that my appreciation for sake has just been elevated from “polite interest” to “sign me up.”

Back at Shinshu Zenkoji Yakuoin (my accommodation for the night), the simplicity of the traditional inn is like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. But before I sleep, I try my hand at Shakyo, the art of hand-copying sutras. Sitting there with brush and ink, each stroke feels purposeful, like part of me is being carved away and left on the page. By the time I finish, my mind is oddly still, like I’ve stumbled into a meditation I didn’t know I signed up for.

Dinner at the inn is a monk’s vegetarian spread, and while that may sound austere, it’s anything but. There’s a miso soup that’s so delicate and complex it practically deserves its own ceremony and an assortment of vegetables so fresh they taste like the very essence of the fields. The Japanese lager I down with it feels like a rebellious twist to the meal—who knew monks could be so fun?

The next day, I met Mr. Shimizu for a forest bathing experience. There’s a pseudo-science to it: cedar trees, like the ones towering around us, release antibacterial particles that, when inhaled, have a positive effect on the body and mind. Mr. Shimizu leads me down a hidden path, and soon, I feel the deep hum of nature seeping in, grounding me with every step. The trees stand tall, unbothered, just doing their thing. And all I’m supposed to do is breathe and exist. It’s magic, pure and simple, but it’s about to get even more spiritual.

In the remote mountains of Nagano, the tradition of the Yamabushi, ancient mountain ascetic monks, still lives on through one of its last practitioners: Shida-San. The Yamabushi practice is a unique form of spiritual training, blending elements of Shintoism, Buddhism, and nature worship.

Shida-San, one of the last Yamabushi in the region, offers visitors the rare opportunity to experience this ancient tradition firsthand. Participants embark on a journey into the sacred mountains, engaging in meditative forest walks, waterfall rituals, and fire ceremonies. These practices, designed to cleanse the body and mind, bring participants closer to nature while deepening their understanding of themselves.

The last Yamabushi of Nagano doesn't look like someone who could outpace a middle-aged travel writer through a mountainside forest. Yet, there I was, bent over a gnarled cedar root, panting and drenched, while Shida-san was halfway down the trail, barely breaking a sweat.

It started innocently enough. On our descent out of the spiritual forest, I challenge Shida-san to a race to the gate. He’s small. I’m not and I thought my legs gave me an advantage. I thought I had a chance. Wrong. Within minutes, Shida-san had transformed from the calm, almost mystical presence at our briefing into a flash of white robes disappearing down the trail, his traditional staff tapping out a steady rhythm.

“Mind, body, nature—all one!” he called over his shoulder, as I stumbled over something that might have been my own foot. Somehow, he made it look like he was floating over the terrain, while I looked more like an overstuffed backpack with legs, crashing through branches.

Halfway down, my lungs decided they’d had enough of this “enlightenment” nonsense, and I slowed to a pathetic shuffle, my ego in tatters. Shida-san’s laughter rang up from below, and he paused, offering a few words of Yamabushi wisdom about “releasing the self.” I think he meant giving up the need to win, though I’d already figured that part out.

But here’s the twist: losing to Shida-san was almost... liberating. By the time I crawled to the end, he’d somehow transformed the race into a ritual, a reminder that these mountains don’t care about time or trophies. Shida-san’s teachings are embedded in every cedar and waterfall—quiet reminders that in this forest, you’re just another wandering spirit, learning to let go.

Back at the base, he gave me a nod. “You’re ready for next time,” he said. Maybe he was just being polite, or maybe he really saw potential. Either way, next time, I’m bringing a shortcut.

My Nagano escapade nearing its end, I head to Hatano Restaurant for dinner. Nestled in a countryside house, the restaurant serves a seven-course feast with ingredients sourced from nearby farms. Each dish feels like a love letter to Japan’s culinary soul—meticulously plated and packed with flavours that are both foreign and comfortingly familiar. By the time dessert rolls around, I’ve declared it the best Japanese meal I’ve ever had.

As I savour the final bite, I realise Nagano has somehow seeped into my bones. It’s not just the temples or the food or even the cedar-scented air—it’s the mix of reverence and playfulness, of secrets kept and secrets shared. Nagano is not a place you visit; it’s a place that stays with you, quietly transformative in ways you might only understand later. For now, I raise a final glass to the day and think: if paradise is real, it’s hiding somewhere in the shadowy corners of Zenkoji Temple, waiting for those brave enough to reach out and find it.

It's hard to believe I’ve only been in Japan for four days. I’m not sure if it is the spiritual nature of Nagano or the breadth of experiences but home feels much further away now. As Nagano disappears out the window of the Hokuriku Shinkansen and we race north to the ancient samurai city of Kanazawa, I promise to get back someday.

KANAZAWA: ARRIVING IN KANAZAWA CITY FEELS LIKE UNCOVERING AN OLD LEGEND THAT SOMEHOW NOBODY ELSE HAS STUMBLED ACROSS.

Arriving in Kanazawa City feels like uncovering an old legend that somehow nobody else has stumbled across.

Nestled on Japan’s western coast, this city is a tapestry of samurai legacy, artistic tradition, and cuisine that could even humble Tokyo. Kanazawa managed to escape bombing in WWII, which is perhaps why its ancient streets and perfectly preserved buildings seem so resolute against the march of time. Today, Kanazawa feels like Japan’s best-kept secret—a harmonious blend of tradition and high-concept cuisine that will have you questioning why it’s not on every travel itinerary (because it should be).

After checking into my hotel, I head for lunch at Tile. The restaurant’s menu is a work of art, and each dish lands on my table looking too perfect to eat—sashimi plates that look like pastel waves and desserts that would make an Instagrammer quiver. My reluctance to destroy the aesthetic loses out to my appetite, and I tuck in. The sashimi is delicate and fresh, while the miso-infused main leaves me wanting more. I’m not sure how Tile does it, but it feels like I’ve dined on more of an art gallery than a meal.

Afterwards, I wander the Higashi Chaya district, a perfectly preserved neighbourhood of teahouses and narrow lanes. Back in the day, this was where geishas entertained merchants and samurai alike. Today, it’s as enchanting as it sounds, with lattice windows and old-world vibes.

I stop by Fukumitsuya, a sake brewery that’s been in the game since 1625, using pure water from Mt. Hakusan that’s been filtering underground for over a century. The sake is soft and clean, with a depth that hints at its ancient roots. I raise my glass, imagining samurai toasting over the same stuff centuries ago.

With a slight sake buzz, I enter Kenroku-en, Kanazawa’s crown jewel and one of Japan’s “Three Great Gardens”. Established over centuries by the Maeda family, the feudal lords of the region, Kenroku-en means "Garden of Six Qualities." These qualities—space, seclusion, artifice, antiquity, water features, and wide views—are rarely found together, but here they blend seamlessly. Meandering through its winding paths, past tranquil ponds and elegantly twisted pines, is like stepping into a classical painting.

A tea ceremony follows, and I learn the art of Chado, the skilled craft of preparing and serving matcha, a finely ground green tea. It consists of much ceremony, bowing and whisking bitter green tea until it foams—a skill that, after about ten minutes of trying, I’m actually not too bad at. I’m told this ceremony is about cultivating a peaceful spirit. I wouldn’t say I’m there yet, but the scenery certainly helps.

Dinner that evening is at Crafeat, where the tableware alone is worth a fortune. We’re told the combined total of our tableware is in the vicinity of two million yen. This Wajima-nuri lacquerware is as valuable as it is beautiful—crafted by a 10th-generation artisan, no less.

Chef Okumura serves up an 11-course tasting menu, each dish a testament to Kanazawa’s culinary flair. Smoky sashimi, exquisitely tender fish, and sake that pairs so well it’s borderline miraculous. Crafeat raises the food game to new heights, and just when I think I’m done, out comes the dessert—a delicate block of chocolate that we spear onto a square stone and eat with an exquisite vanilla ice cream. It feels almost too indulgent for a place so steeped in tradition, but that doesn’t stop me from devouring it.

Stuffed and satisfied, I venture out into Kanazawa’s Katamachi district to check out the vibes of the night in this Samurai town. I find myself in Chuo Mishokugai, a labyrinth of tiny bars and restaurants, each with its own style. These little hideaways offer everything from rare sake to French potato gratin. Why am I in Japan, eating potato gratin in a bar the size of a closet? I don’t know, but the blend of East-meets-West in these quirky corners just works. The night ends with me arm in arm with a sake dealer trying to teach him Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues.

The next day dawns too soon, and after a refreshingly deep sleep at Kanazawa Sainoniwa Hotel, I’m off to try my hand at the Kaga Yuzen art of kimono design. Kaga Yuzen is a silk dyeing technique from the Edo period, known for its detailed naturalistic designs. My brush strokes, however, make it clear that I’m no artist, and my “masterpiece” won’t be gracing any boutique any time soon. But for a guy that can barely draw a stick man, I’m pretty chuffed.

The samurai culture of Kanazawa pulls me in next with a Kyudo lesson, the Japanese martial art of “archery”, but it isn’t just archery; it’s an art form, every movement calculated, from gripping the bow to releasing the arrow. We’re dressed in traditional Kyudo clothing and my teacher, a reserved but determined master, reminds me several times as I pull back the bow like a giant Japanese Robin Hood, “This is not archery!” I then shoot my first two Ya’s (arrows) into the roof.

Kyudo is about form, breathing, and presence. The entire practice has a ceremonial vibe, with each move as deliberate as a dance. Watching a master in action feels like witnessing something ancient and sacred, each shot landing with purpose, not in the roof.

Later, I step into Nomura-ke Samurai residence, an authentic samurai residence. Its sliding doors, tatami rooms, and modest decor give insight into the disciplined lifestyle of the samurai class. While they trained in martial arts and lived by a strict code, their homes were surprisingly minimalist—proof that they valued duty over luxury. And while the house itself was simple it was built around yet another stunning garden. The samurai discipline is clearly on display.

Unfortunately, the weather nixes our plans to visit Kanazawa Port Ikiiki Market, an open-air bazaar where vendors hawk the freshest catch from the Sea of Japan. Known for its fish, squid, and shellfish, the market is a haven for seafood lovers, and I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. I remember visiting the Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo long before it closed to the public and feeling, even then, that it was somewhat touristy. This market, like most of Kanazawa is the real deal.

Thankfully, dinner at Dozan makes up for it. The skewers here are something else—crispy, juicy, and full of flavour. I wash them down with a final few rounds of sake, feeling content and, admittedly, a bit sentimental about my last night in Kanazawa.

On our final day, it’s only fitting that we are blessed one final time. We take in an Asakatsu experience at Josho-ji Temple which translates loosely to a samurai morning activity. Ours includes a kendo lesson (samurai sword training) followed by a traditional samurai breakfast of porridge. It is simple yet surprisingly enjoyable. I’m summoned to the altar and blessed amid the swirling incense smoke. I don’t know if it’s because it’s my last day in Kanazawa, but it’s strangely emotional.

Energised, I join a three-hour cooking lesson at Nakata Cooking School. This isn’t just any cooking school; it’s a slice of culinary history served up with a healthy dose of local pride. Founded over three generations ago, Nakata’s been teaching the fine art of Japanese home cooking since long before I even knew which end of a sushi roll to bite into. And it’s a good thing I’m here, because the Japanese have techniques down to a science, even in something as seemingly straightforward as rice rolling. Spoiler alert: It’s not straightforward.

In the spirit of immersion, my instructor patiently shows me the ‘thumb placement’ to make sushi rice behave like ‘it’s supposed to’. I follow, and mine looks like a cross between a burrito and a squashed dumpling. Not exactly the elegant bites you'd expect, but hey, it’s a start.

They also teach you to flip your sushi upside down before eating, which apparently helps the flavour profile. I nod like I totally get it (I don’t), but the taste speaks for itself—it’s fresh, umami-packed, and downright delicious. By the end of the class, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve actually learned a new life skill... or at least a new party trick.

As I wrap up, I realise that nothing I’ll make at home will likely match what I’ve eaten on this trip. Nagano and Kanazawa feel like Japan’s best-kept secrets, the lesser-known cousins of Kyoto and Tokyo, but with every bit as much charm and half the crowds.

Nagano is a spiritual sanctuary tucked between ancient temples, lush forests, and mountain air that somehow tastes crisper and Kanazawa—a city that might just be Japan’s answer to art and craftsmanship, where lacquerware and sake share space with cutting-edge cuisine.

Together, they offer an unfiltered taste of Japanese culture without the tourist treadmill, places where you can walk temple paths in the quiet dawn, stumble upon a centuries-old sake brewery, or witness tea ceremonies without a selfie stick in sight. For travellers seeking authenticity, Nagano and Kanazawa are everything you didn't know you were looking for—old Japan, alive and well, with a few modern twists.