I longed to experience the Edo period more deeply by hiking the Nakasendo and feeling a closer connection to Hiroshige and Hokusai. I decided I would amble my way towards Obuse, a town where Hokusai spent some of his later years fulfilling some artistic commissions via the old route. Known as the “Central Mountain Route,” the Nakasendo (or Kisokaido) is a portal to another time. As I set out along this ancient highway, it felt as though I had stepped into a woodblock print from Hiroshige and Eisen’s iconic series 69 Stations along the Kisokaido. Once alive with the footsteps of travellers, samurai, and merchants, the route winds through picturesque towns like Magome, Tsumago, and Narai. Here, the wooden machiya houses and dirt roads seem to echo the spirit of the Edo era, transporting me to a world of timeless beauty and tradition. I was reminded of Yoshii Isamu’s haiku:
"Totally alone I walk right through Hokusai’s print. Summer at dusk on the Kiso road."
My journey began in Kyoto, a city steeped in tradition and timeless beauty. On my first day wandering its streets, I stumbled upon a temple quite by accident. To my surprise, it stood beside the grave of Ogata Korin, the celebrated founder of the Rinpa school of art.
The grave itself was modest, almost unremarkable—I even walked past it once without noticing. Yet here lies the man who painted the iconic Irises on Gold Screen, a masterpiece that has inspired generations. Now, his resting place is quietly hidden, surrounded by rubble and overgrown weeds, a stark contrast to the grandeur of his work.
After Kyoto, I went to Nagoya, where I visited Nishikakesho Temple. It was here in 1817 that Hokusai, ever the showman, painted a colossal Daruma—the patriarch of Zen Buddhism—as a dramatic display of his skill. In an age long before TikTok and social media, Hokusai understood the power of spectacle, creating events that would draw crowds and cement his reputation. This giant Daruma became a pivotal moment in his rise to nationwide fame. Sadly, the temple and Hokusai’s remarkable painting were lost to the devastation of World War II bombings, leaving only a solitary bell tower as a silent witness to the past. Yet, standing in that hallowed space, I felt a connection to his legacy—a quiet reverence for a moment in history that still echoes through time.
The Betsuin Bell Tower is a rare survivor of the ravages of war, offering a tangible connection to the past. Said to have been donated by Baishoin, the concubine of Tsunanari Tokugawa, Lord of Owari Domain, the tower carries a fascinating historical legacy.
In Nagoya, I had the pleasure of meeting my friend, the puppeteer Shinji Hayashi, whom I affectionately call "the Elephant Man" because of his enchanting elephant puppets. During our visit, he kindly took me to a nearby station of the Tokaido, Narumi, which Hiroshige famously depicted in his Fifty-Three Stations of the Tokaido.
Narumi remains closely tied to its textile heritage, just as Hiroshige portrayed in his print. Walking through the town, I was struck by how much of its character endures. The long, broad roofs of the merchant houses still line the streets, evoking the bustling atmosphere Hiroshige captured so vividly. It was remarkable to witness the dialogue between art and reality, where the lines of his ukiyo-e composition seemed to resonate with the textures and tones of the present-day town.
Seeing Narumi through Hiroshige’s lens while standing amidst its living history deepened my appreciation for how art immortalises a moment in time, yet continues to evolve in conversation with the world it depicts. It felt as though the past and present were stitched together, much like the textiles that have defined this town for centuries.
From Nagoya, my journey on the Nakasendo began in Magome and continued to Tsumago, Kiso Fukushima, and finally Narai. Along the way, I was terrified of bears and rang the bells dotting the road vigorously to scare them away.
Though it is said that Hokusai never personally traversed the Nakasendo, he created a remarkable single-sheet print capturing the entirety of the route. His depictions of places like the Ono Falls invite us into an imagined landscape, born of his genius and inspired by guidebooks of the Kiso Road. The falls, shimmering in their cascading beauty, seem to resonate with his visionary interpretation.
It may be unfair of me to place so much emphasis on Hokusai when, in truth, it was Eisen and Hiroshige who brought the Kiso Road to life in their celebrated series, The Sixty-Nine Stations of the Kisokaido.
Travelers walking through Tsumago may see a boulder resembling a leaping carp, alongside the ruins of a checkpoint. Until the early 17th century, this checkpoint regulated traffic along the Kisokaido and the roads leading to Mino and Ina, which intersected at Tsumago. Scholars believe this area may have inspired Hiroshige’s depiction of Tsumago in his Kisokaido series, though it is unlikely he travelled the route himself before creating the design.
Hiroshige's composition is brought to life with his familiar cast of wayfarers. A white-clad pilgrim carrying a portable shrine makes his way along the path, while a traveller heading in the opposite direction carries a bundle of straw strapped to his back—likely containing fermented soybeans. Straw hosts bacteria essential to producing this pungent and protein-rich food, enjoyed in eastern Japan for millennia. Further ahead, a courier with panniers and two more travellers cresting the hill add a sense of movement and narrative to the scene.
Like many post towns, Tsumago fell into decline after the abolition of the alternating attendance system (sankin kotai). However, by 1968, before much of its heritage was lost, local residents launched a campaign to establish a preservation district. Today, Tsumago's preservation area—the largest in Japan—includes buildings primarily from the late 19th and early 20th centuries, long after its heyday as a post town. These structures have been carefully restored, and the surrounding hillsides protected, preserving the village’s historic charm. The area now attracts nearly a million visitors annually, drawn by its timeless atmosphere and connection to Japan’s past.
As I walked along parts of the Kiso Road, what struck me most was how vividly Hiroshige captured the colours of the Japanese landscape, their intensity perfectly reflecting the unique qualities of the Pacific light. The strong blues of rivers and skies, the deep greens of forests, and the golden hues of autumn fields—all seemed to resonate with the landscapes I experienced firsthand. His use of bold, striking colors not only mirrors the natural beauty of Japan but also imbues the scenes with a timeless energy, as though the landscapes themselves pulse with life.
In that light, it seems almost irrelevant whether Hiroshige painted from memory, imagination, or direct experience. His prints convey something deeper than a faithful representation—they evoke the essence of the Kiso Road, a place where history, nature, and art converge in a vibrant, enduring harmony.
Another memorable experience during my hike along the Kiso Road was the chance to visit a traditional tea house. Interestingly, it’s now run by Christian missionaries who warmly welcome travellers, offering free tea and some food, with donations accepted if you wish to contribute.
What truly sets the place apart, however, is the traditional iron hearth at the center of the room. It radiates a rustic charm but also fills the space with a surprising amount of smoke, as there’s no chimney to guide it away. After just a few minutes, I found myself retreating outside, my clothes thoroughly infused with the scent of wood smoke.
It made me wonder: how did Edo-period people endure this daily reality? They must have grown so accustomed to the ever-present smoke from these hearths, sleeping and staying in rooms where the air was thick with it. Surely, they carried the scent of fire smoke everywhere they went.
Before arriving in Obuse, I made a stop in Matsumoto to visit the Ukiyo-e Museum. Unfortunately, it was much smaller than expected and somewhat disappointing. From there, I continued to Nagano before finally reaching Obuse, my ultimate destination. My Journey’s culmination in Obuse was a celebration of this connection to Hokusai. The town itself, with its quaint streets and storied history, is a testament to the artist’s enduring legacy. The Hokusai Museum houses his remarkable painted floats, each a vivid tableau of myth and history. Standing before them, I marvelled at the sheer vitality of his brushwork, so alive.
Next to the museum, I also visited Takai Kozan’s house, an unexpected gem filled with many paintings. Among the treasures, I saw a wood tray attributed to Hokusai himself. I didn’t know he carved, if this is true, but it added another layer to his multifaceted talent. Other gems included a screen painted by Ito Jakuchu featuring cockerels and the preliminary painting Hokusai created of the phoenix for Ganshoin Temple. Each piece was a testament to the rich artistic heritage of this small town.
Yet, the true highlight awaited me in Ganshoin Temple. From the outside, the temple seems unimpressive — nothing like the grand Zenkoji Temple in Nagano or the type of place one would expect to house a masterpiece by one of the great Edo-period artists. Stepping inside, the contrast was striking. The interior was extremely cold, and walking around in socks sent a shock of chill through the wood and into the legs. The temple was quiet, with only one other Japanese couple visiting alongside us, heightening the sense of solitude and reverence.
And then, there was the phoenix. Its vibrant and bold colours, painted on the ceiling, command the entire space. The sheer scale and dynamic energy of the artwork leave an indelible impression long after you’ve left. In some ways, the vivid hues and intricate details reminded me of bright Tibetan thangkas, with their spiritual intensity and radiance. The phoenix, a symbol of rebirth and immortality, felt alive, soaring above us with fiery majesty. To think of Hokusai, in his 80s, creating this massive masterpiece, only added to the awe and admiration. Sadly I wasn't allowed to take a photo of is, so you will just have to visit it yourself.
No visit to Obuse would be complete without sampling its famed chestnuts. The traditional confections made from these local treasures were a delight, their subtle sweetness and smooth texture a perfect complement to the day’s sensory feast. Whether in steamed buns, jellied yokan, or candied treats, the chestnuts seemed to encapsulate the essence of Obuse: simple, elegant, and deeply rooted in tradition.
As I left Obuse and the Nakasendo behind, I couldn’t help but feel a profound connection to the past. Walking these roads, gazing upon Hokusai’s art, and tasting the fruits of the land all wove together into a tapestry of experience.
In Tokyo, I visited Hokusai's grave for the second time, drawn by a desire to pay my respects in a deeply personal way. I brought with me a pencil from the Royal Academy shop—a small but meaningful offering. I had purchased it during the Summer Exhibition when my painting was selected and displayed, and this gesture felt like a way to express my gratitude to the master who continues to inspire me.
I also carried English tea as a gift for the caretaker, but she wasn’t there this time. It was a quiet Sunday, the stillness of the cemetery amplifying the reverence of the moment. Standing there, I felt a connection to the artist whose spirit seems to linger in the air, a reminder of the enduring power of creativity across time and place.
There are many books and writing about travel along the Nakasendo and I simply dont have the space to go into in detail on this blog, but for those interested, I recommend these two books: Hiking the Nakasendo, and also Walking the Kiso Road. For Hiroshige's and Eisen's series on the Kisokaido, see The Sixty Nine Stations on the Kisokaido.
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