Kyoto’s Quiet Edges
Written by Ayesha Mu
Monday June 1st 2026
On a quiet narrow road, away from the bustle of Arashiyama’s bamboo forest, with golden fields and machiya all around, I find a red torii gate erect on the path. I search for a shrine. Find none. A small squared truck passes beneath it, stopping a few houses away to unload. Red torii symbolise entry into the spirit realm in Shintoism, the prevailing religion in Japan, so I pass gently and bow on the other side.
Suburban Arashiyama is dotted with small stone statues called Jizō, protectors and guides of travellers and children. I’m reminded of offering apples at these altars in The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, cut scenes throwing a gentle breeze through a sun-dappled roadside. My character accepting hearts from spirits to aid on my heroic journey.
My current on-foot trudge is far from heroic, yet as wind sweeps fallen leaves to the base of the statue, a strange nostalgia overcomes me. Japan is entangled with visual cues from childhood animation and games; every vending machine reminiscent of an earnest friendship, every street at sunset a fumbled confession, and every viewpoint of a new town, a Pokémon adventure.
Walking through Japan is a delight to the senses. The put-put rumble of a kei truck; a sun-browned hand resting on the open window edge; the waft of kicked soil and fuel at its heels. Children race bicycles in a practiced line, 7-Eleven goods passed around mid-cycle as their indistinct chatter fades with distance.
I walk a cobbled path for a few hundred metres before spotting fabric-woven animals in a display cabinet, a hand-marked sign directing my attention to discreet stairs. I follow them upward to a small shop. Animals made from traditional fabrics brim the space and an elderly woman fans herself behind the counter, welcoming me in Japanese. She quickly notices my handful of sandwich wrapping from lunch — which I’ve been holding onto for the last 45 minutes in hopes of finding a rubbish bin. Without words she gently pries the plastic from my sweaty grip and disposes of it out back. She returns with a small sweet and accepts my sheepish thanks with a hand wave bemusedly reminiscent of my grandma.
Japan is a magic-scape of small moments, where what you remember is never the grandiose but the Sakura petal falling gracefully into your lunch. I recommend keeping a travel journal while exploring the country. A collection of half-formed thoughts describing the fluff-balls that are the baby monkeys in Arashiyama, followed by a cheeky “…” where you remember running off to an udon restaurant for lunch. The memories aren’t in what you wrote, that’s just the kick-off point. That perfect sentence that utterly encapsulates your days or weeks in the one town? It will come, but nestled amongst a mess of train station stamps, hoarded sentences, and glossy highly edited and silly purikura photo strips.
Back to exploring Arashiyama — I gamble westward toward the mountain of monkeys. The ascent is a test of lung capacity — gulping for oxygen a quarter way up, stretching out a forming stitch — and a game of spotting the staring monkey without making eye contact. “No show of teeth or eye contact”, a battery of ominous signs warns, raising my distrust of the species.
You know that panoramic Pokémon view I mentioned earlier? There it was.
Pokémon Narrator: After a tiring journey, our hero has finally made it to Arashiyama Monkey Park. What perils and magic await at the peak of the mountain? Stay tuned to find out. The adventure continues…
The monkeys are adorable, and I form a quick, transactional friendship with a babe pushed into a corner. Monkeys are fed through a mesh wall — us on the inside, the monkeys in the wild. Peanuts and apples slices are available for feeding for a few yen. My friend liked peanuts; he shoves a palm out for a two-fisted handful, mouth already engaged.
After the monkeys, I walk along the Katsura River to a rustic restaurant facing the water. The sun sends its last blood-red rays, the warmth of the day dissipating swiftly as the blue-black night settles in like watercolour.
I watch the lapping waters as I eat. It’s much too dark for journaling but I can hear the composition in my head — tangled bits of poetry I’ll forget the exact shape of but will backlight this memory later.
Tomorrow I will venture up the river on a cruise, brave the local onsen, and finish the day with a chin-wag in the hostel common room.
The orange glow of the restaurant smears into the dark hues of the water. A fish flips against the current.
A Pokémon journey indeed.
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