Kyoto’s Quiet Edges
Written by Ayesha Mu
Monday June 1st 2026
Category: Travel and Personal Essay
Location: Kyoto, Japan
Theme: Travel, self-reflection, childhood media
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 delicately 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, from Pokemon cards to high school anime and Ghibli films.
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 waved hand.
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 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 wall of ominous signs warn.
Despite my trepidation, the monkeys were disarming in their butt-scratching, dirt-rolling habits. Peanuts and apples slices are available to feed the monkey for a few yen. I grab a bag and fondly feed a baby monkey who shoves out a palm for a two-fisted handful, mouth already engaged.
After the monkeys, I walk along the Katsura River to a rustic restaurant along the waterfront. The sun sends its last blood-red rays and the warmth of the day dissipates swiftly as the blue-black night settles in.
I watch the waters lap at the shores 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.
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