A visit to a likely-heaving (Buddhist) temple to see out the old year (when the 108 worldly desires of attendees are, helpfully, sent packing by the corresponding number of strikes of a bell), and a New Year’s Day excursion to a, possibly equally frantic, (Shinto) shrine, are just two (of the many) grand traditions of the Japanese oshogatsu (New Year) festivities.
Oshogatsu
Avoidance of crowds in general, and organized events at almost any cost, being two of my own grand traditions, and having long-settled into a grudging coexistence with earthly temptation, I’ve decided this year, to once again, skip these potentially oversubscribed red-letter occasions.
Feeling the need, however, to mark the turning of the year, if only in the quietest of ways, I’ve decided to combine these popular customs into a contemplative year-end ritual of my own. And so, two days before Christmas, I am walking between Tokyo’s most famous shrine and its most famous temple, leaving myself free to sit quietly at home with a plate of sandwiches when the big day(s) finally arrive.
Meiji Shrine
To the not-especially tranquil accompaniment of a petrol-driven leaf blower, I make my way through the Kitasando torii gate on my way to Shibuya’s Meiji Shrine, from where I will cross Tokyo on foot to Asakusa’s Sensoji Temple.
The path towards the shrine is straight and gravelly (and almost completely free of autumnal debris), and the sky, when glimpsed through branches overhead, is an impossibly pure and cloudless shade of cobalt blue. The cheerful chattering of unseen birdies comes from the dense and sun-dappled woodland on either side of me, blending with, and then overtaking, the sounds of human attempts to tidy-up nature; they don’t pay it any mind, and soon enough, neither do I.
A few minutes trudge through this city-center idyll brings me to one more torii gate and then the shrine itself. Dedicated to the modernizing Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, and originally completed in 1926, it was built with wood from across the then-Japanese-empire, before being destroyed by American bombing during WWII. The current iteration was completed in 1958, and funded by public subscription.
Entering the inner complex, I find myself in a large and elegant courtyard, with buildings on all four sides. The space, although completely enclosed, seems very open after the canopy of the approach, and in its tidy formality gives the slightly unreal impression of a film or theater set. Robed priests dart about officiously, and bobble-hatted overseas visitors move carefully around kimonoed and Vuitton-handbagged locals, who offer their silent prayers with enviable panache.
Not being given to prayer myself, I take a moment to listen to a breeze that blows agreeably through the century-old camphor trees, share some thoughts about the past and coming-years with the irreligious crows that perch atop them, and am on my way. As I depart, I see a groundsman sweeping leaves with a gnarled witch’s broom. This strikes me as a more picturesque and environmentally appropriate weapon to wield in the ultimately Canute-like campaign against the tides of the trees.
Omotesando
Leaving the shrine grounds I can see Kenzo Tange’s National Gymnasium to my right and, unfurling before me, Omotesando, that other place of pilgrimage for ladies-and-gents-about-town. The much-perambulated pavements of the well-heeled avenue are not quite so adventurously stylish as they once were, but still offer plenty of fashion-bang, with some of this afternoon’s nattiest boulevardiers being somewhat pampered dogs on their afternoon walkies.
Enjoying the parade, I make my way past the new Tokyu Plaza building with its overflowing rooftop garden, cross Meiji Dori and continue past Ralph Lauren’s faux-classical warehouse and the angular glassiness of Dior and Fendi, before taking a left turn onto Aoyama Dori.
Gaien-Mae
Before long I find myself at the entrance to the Icho Namiki (Gingko Avenue) that forms the much-loved centerpiece of the Jingu Gaien park complex, supposedly a protected “Scenic Zone” since 1926. Tragically, it is clear that highly-protested redevelopments of the area have already begun, with green plastic fencing and mounds of mud signaling the outbreak of an ugly capitalist rash that threatens to scar the face of this once-arcadian beauty spot.
Enjoying it while I can, I make my way between the towering gingko, wondering as I go, at those who would take the riches of a city to benefit themselves.
At the end of the avenue I find a not-quite-bustling Christmas market, but having drunk mulled wine just as many times at it took to learn not to (once), and not being in need of bewhiskered wooden nutcrackers, I decide to give it a miss, turning right at a hedge full of carol-singing sparrows, and heading along the well-policed road that skirts the Akasaka Palace grounds.
Sotobori Dori
From the nearby Yotsuya Station, as far the electronic candy-floss of Akihabara, and then eventually Ueno, I become locked into a bracing, but ultimately non-eventful plod, which for the most part takes me down Sotobori Dori alongside the old Edo moat, leisurely ticking off the stations of the Chuo-Sobu Line. If I wasn’t so keen to get good wear out of my old lace-up shoes, it would have made sense to do this portion of the journey by train, but instead I enjoy watching them rattle by, the citrus colors of their livery pleasingly picked out against the dazzling winter sky.
Asakusa Dori
Entering Asakusa Dori, close to Ueno Station, I sense a change in the air, and the further I progress, the more old-world the surroundings become. Small shrines and quaint houses line the streets that stretch away on either side, and the logos and signs of the businesses take on a well-worn vintage aspect. There are soba shops, brush-makers, stationers and haberdasheries, as well as many craftspeople whose business revolves around remembrance of the dead.
Just as proximity to the paraphernalia of bereavement threatens to put the mockers on my jaunt, I pass by the pots-and-pans madness of Kappabashi, the supply hub of Tokyo’s catering trade. The gleaming kitchenware and crockery on offer, with its life-affirming suggestion of nourishment and good times ahead, puts the spring back in my step.
Sensoji
Traveling with the very last of the day’s light, I make a left turn onto Edo Dori and am finally on the approach to Sensoji, Tokyo’s oldest established temple, with a history that stretches back to the year 645. Like Meiji Shrine, much of the temple complex was destroyed by American bombing in WWII, with rebuilding of the temple itself finished in 1958, and the surrounding buildings only finally completed in 1973.
Before long, the Kaminarimon gate is ahead of me, lit up, appropriately enough, like a Christmas tree, with its almost four-meter red lantern spreading a welcoming glow. The arrival of evening having thinned the crowds, temple visitors and rickshaw drivers stand around in roughly equal number, and I make my way first between them, and then through the rather more imposing figures of Fujin and Raijin, the gods of wind and thunder who stand guard at this sacred threshold.
With the even-grander lantern of the temple acting as a beacon, I make my way down Nakamise Dori, a cheerful parade of souvenir shops dealing in all manner of appealingly retro bric-a-brac and goodies, before at last, climbing the stairs of the great hall, and soaking in the gold of its illumination.
I turn to look back the way I’ve come, and gaze down at other visitors who are making their way along the path that I’ve just traveled. They are drawn, like me, towards the temple’s radiant glow, each instinctive footstep an acknowledgement of the power of color and light over the cold and dark of winter. I silently wish them a happy and peaceful 2025, a wish I extend to all who are kind enough to read these words.
