September is already drawing to a close. It’s still hot here in Nagoya, but it feels like I’ve been wearing short sleeves for nearly half a year now. Should I buy new short sleeves, or should I just make do with what I have until long sleeves are needed… The question of what to wear in September and October is starting to arise for me.
By the way, the other day I came across an ancient literary work describing daily life on September 20th, roughly 700 years ago.
It’s Yoshida Kenkō’s Tsurezuregusa, written around 1331 during the late Kamakura period. Within it, there’s a passage describing September 20th (by the old calendar) nearly 700 years ago. One section is titled “Around September 20th” (Section 32), and the title itself is the date.
Around the twentieth day of the ninth month, I was invited by someone and went moon-viewing until dawn. Something came to mind, so I had them guide me, and I entered. In the overgrown garden, the thick dew and the unforced fragrance wafted softly, creating a hidden atmosphere that was profoundly moving.
Though he left at a good hour, I still felt the tenderness of the moment and watched from my hiding place for a while. He pushed open the sliding door a little more, as if to view the moon. Had I rushed in then, I would have spoken out of turn. How could I have known someone was watching from behind? Such matters depend solely on one’s vigilance day and night.
I heard that person soon disappeared.
This is the passage.
Simply put, on the night of the full moon in late autumn, around the 20th of September, two people were enjoying moon viewing together. Kenko and his acquaintance visited a certain person’s house. While waiting, Kaneko observed the house: the garden was untended and overgrown, yet carried a natural fragrance. Such details seemed to deeply resonate with him. What impressed Kaneko even more, however, was the owner’s demeanor, leading him to watch the person for a while.
It’s truly a casual, rambling account, simply recording the everyday life of the Kamakura period without any particular focus. Some readers might feel a sense of kinship, thinking, “Even people 700 years ago had sensibilities similar to ours…” while others might admire, “Well, that’s Kenkō for you! It’s that uniquely first-rate perspective only he could have.”
By the way, did you assume the person being observed was a woman? I myself had assumed so, but actually, the original text doesn’t explicitly state that the observer is a “woman.” Many modern translations seem to imagine a woman, conjuring an image of quiet, ephemeral grace, but the truth is, who this person was, where they came from, and what they were like remains a mystery.
As autumn nights grow cooler, why not take on the challenge of solving this mystery from Yoshida Kenkō, who lived over a thousand years ago?
The Tokyo 2025 World Athletics Championships, which opened on September 13th, have been making headlines daily. Since it’s being held in Japan, the viewing times are convenient for us, but I can’t help but worry about the athletes competing in events after 10 PM—isn’t that too much of a burden?
Even so, the physical abilities of the world’s athletes are simply astonishing. Yesterday, Kenya’s Faith Kipyegon won gold in the women’s 1500m. Despite her petite frame at just 157cm tall, she dominated the race with an overwhelming performance, leaving no room for others and carrying the air of someone who simply belonged in first place. After crossing the finish line, while other athletes collapsed, she was seen smiling brightly and cheerfully, showing concern for her fellow Kenyan competitor. Her charming demeanor instantly won me over as a fan. I’m looking forward to seeing her battle it out with the Japanese athletes in the 5000m.
And then there’s the pole vault, which always gets me hyped (or is it just me?). This time, Sweden’s Armand Duplantis cleared an incredible 6m30cm, setting a new world record. He also achieved the remarkable feat of winning the event for the third consecutive Olympics. It’s a sport I could never do myself, but I love how it makes me feel like my own body is floating along with the athlete. The exhilaration when they clear the bar is truly special. Even if it’s just a mental simulation. Watching the pole vault always makes me wonder what ability is most crucial for this sport. Muscle and flexibility are obviously necessary, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s some hidden special talent involved.
Also, during the recent pole vault final, the sense of camaraderie among the athletes was strong. Though rivals, they felt more like comrades striving together to reach new heights. When Duplantis broke the world record, seeing the other athletes rush over, embrace him, and celebrate wildly nearly brought me to tears. Maybe it’s my age… I find myself wishing this spirit of sportsmanship could permeate everything.
While glamorous events like the 100m are certainly intriguing, personally, I find myself worrying about false starts so much that the race feels over before I know it. After all, a false start means instant disqualification. Moving within 0.1 seconds of the starting signal constitutes a false start. This rule is based on the medical fact that it takes humans at least 0.1 seconds to react to an external stimulus. Moving within 0.1 seconds is considered moving before hearing the starting gun. However, there are studies suggesting that with training, reacting within 0.1 seconds might now be possible.
The judgment of a false start is now made using a false start detection device attached to the starting blocks. Sensors detect even slight changes in pressure. That long tube attached like a tail behind the starting block is likely this device. This equipment is reportedly made by Seiko. While Japan doesn’t win a large number of medals, it makes me proud to think that Japanese technology supports fair competition.
Incidentally, the starting signal apparently doesn’t come from a pistol. This is to account for the time lag before the sound reaches the athletes. The actual starting signal comes from speakers at the athletes’ feet or within the track. To ensure fairness, the technology has advanced this far.
Even so, since no athlete deliberately false starts, witnessing the disqualification is painful to watch. The sight of a referee approaching an athlete at the starting line to declare a false start seems cruel, but it’s probably unavoidable for the sake of fair competition. Until 2002, a second false start led to disqualification. However, this led to more athletes taking a gamble at the start, so from 2003, a single false start resulted in disqualification. Many will remember when Usain Bolt, hailed as the fastest man alive, was disqualified for a false start in the 100m final at the 2011 championships. It really brought home the intensity of a race decided by thousandths of a second.
At this Tokyo meet, a rare occurrence?—a false start in the men’s marathon—also happened. While comments flooded in saying there was no need to panic, considering the athletes’ seriousness, it’s no laughing matter.
I’ll be enjoying the World Athletics Championships for a while longer.
Mid-September is approaching, and we’re finally transitioning from summer to autumn—a season where we can gradually feel the light, refreshing breeze.
For those celebrating birthdays in this crisp September month, your birthstones are sapphire and kunzite, both possessing refreshing, soothing colors. Originally, sapphire was the sole birthstone for September in Japan, but kunzite was later added as a new birthstone.
Some sources list two birthstones for September: sapphire and lapis lazuli. Why does this happen? Upon closer reflection… when exactly, and by whom, were birthstones first determined? Why were these particular stones chosen from the vast array of gemstones?
Tracing the very origins of birthstones, their history surprisingly dates back to the Old Testament, around 3,500 years ago.
It is said that the description in the Old Testament of a Jewish high priest wearing a breastplate adorned with 12 types of gemstones became the root of birthstones. Inspired by this, around 1,300 years ago in Europe, a culture began to spread where people would “own 12 types of stones and wear the appropriate stone for each month.”
However, since one had to own all 12 gemstones, it was an impossible task for anyone but the wealthy. It is said that the rule gradually evolved into “wearing the stone corresponding to your birth month will bring good fortune.”
By the 18th century, jewelers had established monthly birthstones, and as trade flourished, this culture spread worldwide.
However, the specific birthstones varied widely by country and region at this time.
A major change came in 1912. The American Jewelers Association established birthstones by assigning stones to each month. While the selection was based on biblical references, it also incorporated stones gaining popularity at the time, like diamonds, which weren’t mentioned in the Bible, reflecting revisions suited to the era. This list was revised several times afterward, and in Britain, the Goldsmiths’ Company also selected birthstones. Today’s birthstones are based on these two systems.
Incidentally, Japan’s birthstones were established in 1958 by the National Jewelers Association. That was only about 60 years ago.
While largely based on the American and British birthstones, Japan’s list incorporates uniquely Japanese elements, adding “coral” for March and “jade” for May. (Jade is also Japan’s national stone.)
Just as Japan has its own unique birthstones, birthstones overseas are also established based on each country’s customs and climate. Even though the origin is the same, differences in birthstones between countries exist because of religious backgrounds and stones deeply familiar to each nation. It’s not a matter of “which one is correct?” but rather “all are correct.”
Learning who decided birthstones and their origins reveals you don’t necessarily have to wear your own birthstone. Since birthstones themselves were decided later, it’s perfectly fine to wear any stone that resonates with you—whether it’s your birthstone month or not—if you feel drawn to its color or intrigued by its shape.
I’ve been rushing around Fukui Prefecture these past few days, visiting spots that caught my interest, but there was one more place I really wanted to see—a building I adore.
The ‘Nenjima Museum’
This museum is a work by my favorite architect, Hiroshi Naito. Naito’s representative works often involve public projects, art museums, and museums. For instance, you might know the Marunouchi Station Plaza in front of Tokyo Station. His work is characterized by deeply understanding the local climate and environment, then establishing architecture through rational methods. Based on a design philosophy of “thinking from the perspective of people,” he creates buildings designed for long-term use, anticipating the diverse lifestyles of users and the future vision of the city. This museum has also won numerous awards.
While his early work pursued ultra-low-cost construction by pushing concrete to its limits, he later focused on distinguishing architecture’s “unchanging elements” from its “changing elements.” This approach incorporates flexible spatial configurations, enabling buildings to adapt to shifts in era and family structures. Many of Naito’s works are found in Fukui Prefecture; in fact, the Ichijōdani Asai Clan Ruins Museum I visited recently is one of his creations.
pon ascending to the second floor, a 45-meter-long, 70,000-year-old annual ring display traces events from the past to the future. A massive concrete wall is positioned at the gallery’s center, supported overhead by steel trusses and beams made from locally sourced cedar. The roof is a simple gable design, and with glass walls on all sides, the structure appears to float lightly within the surrounding landscape.
Gazing at this scenery, you peer into annual rings growing at a rate of 0.7cm per year. Over 73,000 years, they reveal multiple ice ages, volcanic eruptions like the Aira Caldera (Kagoshima Prefecture), changes in CO₂ levels, and more—truly a chronicle of Earth’s history. Since one year is just 0.7cm, deciphering each 0.7cm within the 45m seems like it could lead to new discoveries.
Gazing at these long annual layers, one realizes that the years of one’s own life amount to just a few centimeters. Even the trivial worries of daily life fit within these few centimeters… It’s something everyone might think about. Yet, these layers, this building, and this view—all built upon 45 meters of accumulation—compel one to feel a deep respect for those few centimeters.
May the landscape with these annual rings and this building continue to peacefully accumulate time together.
It’s already mid-September, yet next week promises a return to summer-like heat during the day. As the saying goes, “The heat and cold last only until the equinox”—perhaps we just need to endure a little longer.
Yet the seasons are shifting undeniably. Even when the sun beats down in the daytime, making sweat pour, the cool breeze that brushes your cheeks as the sun begins to set reminds you of autumn’s approach.
This season always brings to mind the waka poem by Fujiwara no Toshiyuki, included in the Kokin Wakashū:
“Autumn has come—
Though my eyes cannot yet clearly see it,
I am startled by the sound of the wind.”
Translated into modern Japanese, this means: “The signs of autumn haven’t yet become clear enough for me to see and truly feel, but I was startled to sense its presence in the sound of the wind.”
For me, it’s not the sound of the wind that startles me, but its coolness. My point of feeling differs slightly from the poet Fujiwara no Toshiyuki, but we share the same experience of being suddenly startled by the wind and recognizing autumn’s arrival. So, every time I feel a cool breeze, I can’t help but recall this poem.
Another thing that makes me feel autumn is when I notice the sky has grown high and I spot autumn clouds.
Speaking of autumn clouds—scales? Mackerel? Sardine? Sheep? They all sound so similar, don’t they?
Actually, they’re all correct and are seasonal words for autumn.
Scales, mackerel, and sardine clouds are all colloquial names for cirrocumulus clouds, which form at altitudes of about 5,000 to 15,000 meters. They appear as numerous small clusters. Sheep clouds are the common name for altocumulus clouds, which form at altitudes of about 2,000 to 7,000 meters.
While all can be seen almost year-round, autumn brings clear skies with good visibility all the way up, making altocumulus and cirrocumulus clouds easier to spot. Additionally, since they are frequently seen in autumn when typhoons and moving low-pressure systems often approach, cirrus clouds, sardine clouds, fish-scale clouds, and sheep clouds are considered seasonal words for autumn.
Although they look similar, there is no clear definition to distinguish them, so none of the terms seem incorrect. If forced to differentiate, it seems they are distinguished by their visual appearance.
By the way, do you know how to tell fish scale clouds and sheep clouds apart?
The difference between these two types of clouds is simply the “size of each individual cloud.” Altocumulus (sheep clouds) are at a lower altitude, so they appear larger because they are closer to the viewer.
There’s an easy way to tell these two clouds apart: hold your thumb up and extend your arm straight toward the sky. If the individual cloud pieces fit behind your finger, it’s a fish-scale cloud; if they extend beyond your finger, it’s a sheep cloud.
Additionally, fish-scale clouds, mackerel clouds, sardine clouds, and sheep clouds tend to appear when a low-pressure system or front is approaching. This indicates the weather is turning, and rain is likely on the way.
There are old sayings like “When fish-scale clouds appear, rain comes within three days” or “When sheep clouds appear, rain comes the next day.” These seem to be quite reliable and useful proverbs, so you can probably count on them being about 70% accurate.
Next time you look up at the autumn sky, try remembering this little tip.
Yesterday I shared my museum daydreams, and now I’m finally heading to the castle town ruins of the Asakura clan at Ichijōdani. If you’re interested, please join me.
About a three-minute drive from the museum, we approach the entrance known as Shimojido Ruins. The scattered giant stones have been carefully stacked back into their original form. However, the entrance stones are arranged at a right angle, blocking the view into the town itself. This arrangement conveys that this area holds special significance.
Entering the Ichijōdani area here, you immediately find yourself in a valley flanked by mountains on both sides. A few private homes and expanses resembling farmland catch the eye. This appears to be the site of the residence of Asakura Kagezane, the fifth head of the clan. Even within the valley, the head’s residence occupied a remarkably large plot.
After driving a short distance, the iconic Karamon gate of the Asakura residence comes into view on the left. We parked the car around here and finally began our stroll through the Ichijōdani Asakura Clan Ruins.
This Karamon gate was originally the mountain gate of Shoun-in Temple, built around the mid-Edo period to honor the soul of Asakura Yoshikage. Its appearance, visible across the peaceful, empty plain, is very striking. The gate is carved with the Asakura clan’s three-petaled quince crest and Yoshikage’s personal crest, the three paulownia. In spring, the view of the gate framed by the cherry blossoms in full bloom behind it must be beautiful. How lovely.
This area on this side of the valley seems to have been where the main lord’s residence and temples were clustered, so I really need to let my imagination run wild here. Passing through the Karamon gate, the ruins of that Asakura residence, which had been reconstructed at the museum earlier, are now laid out for viewing.
Combined with the clear skies after the typhoon, the late summer blue sky, the slightly autumnal breeze, and the nearby mountains forming the backdrop, the scene of the Karamon gate standing there quietly makes you wonder if it looked the same 500 years ago… It’s the kind of view that makes anyone’s thoughts wander. “Summer grasses, warriors’ dreams lie in ruins…”—such words slip from one’s lips. Yet, knowing this place once held a splendid, flourishing mansion, the quiet scene now feels strangely poignant.
Moreover, on the mountain side behind the mansion lie four gardens that well preserve the style of late Muromachi period gardens. The Asakura Mansion Site Garden, which borrows the view of the mountain behind the mansion, was completely buried and is now fully exposed, clearly showing its relationship with the buildings. Furthermore, the dense cluster of standing stones in the Yudo Site Garden evokes the fierce spirit of the warlords of the Sengoku period. The Suwa Residence Site Garden is the largest and most magnificent, renowned for its splendid autumn foliage. The Nanyoji Temple Site Garden is said to have hosted banquets for Ashikaga Yoshiaki. While only stone arrangements remain today, all four gardens are now designated National Special Places of Scenic Beauty.
Across the river lies the so-called restored townscape district, lined with samurai residences and merchant houses. This is no ordinary period drama set, however. Archaeologists excavated a 200-meter stretch of the area, using the unearthed moats, stone walls, stepping stones, usable timber, and building foundations to recreate the original structures. Roads were deliberately curved for “distant sight blocking,” and the merchant district included dead-end streets, all designed to obstruct sightlines. In the Warring States period, defensive functions were essential even in townscapes and road layouts.
And then there was an interesting discovery at the Ichijōdani ruins. Numerous mysterious holes were excavated at each residence. There were about 400 of them, and for a while, people wondered, “What could they be?” But through soil analysis and the discovery of gold coins, it was revealed they were actually toilets from the Warring States period. It was apparently a major discovery in medieval archaeological history. Not just toilets—infrastructure was quite advanced too. Each residence had an outdoor well and toilet, and numerous drainage ditches were also found.
Now, regarding this reconstructed area: the residences on the mountain side appear to have been home to officials and renowned physicians. The difference in the grandeur of their gate structures indicates the status of their inhabitants. Furthermore, based on excavated artifacts, the townhouses have been restored to reflect the work and daily life within them, suggesting a diverse range of artisans lived here. Casters, blacksmiths, rosary makers, bentwood craftsmen, seamstresses, master carpenters, polishers, brush makers… We even found weights used for rod scales, suggesting merchants were present too. Though a small castle town, it must have been a rich and bustling place where diverse people worked and lived.
The tragic scene of the entire castle town being burned to the ground following the fall of the Asakura clan… and yet, 500 years later, it revives as a town visited by numerous tour buses… My mind keeps jumping back and forth between 1573 and 2025, tangled in these thoughts. The overlapping coincidences and the passage of time make me wonder… how could something like this happen? My mind wanders in all sorts of directions.
Right now, though, I’m fully immersed in the role of a townsperson who sadly fled, chased away with only the clothes on their back, glancing back at their town engulfed in flames. So please leave me be for a while… lol.
Since my last post, I’ve been sharing musings from my trip to Fukui. Today’s stop is
the Fukui Prefectural Ichijōdani Asakura Clan Ruins Museum.
This museum is essential for preparing and fueling your imagination before visiting the Ichijōdani Asakura Ruins. It reopened after renovations in October 2022 and, remarkably, reached 500,000 visitors just last month in August. It’s been featured on programs like Bura Torimori and other media, and there are many reasons for its popularity.
First, let’s briefly explain the museum itself.
The Ichijōdani Asakura Clan Ruins are a site where the entire castle town from the Warring States period remains intact. When the Asakura clan fell in 1573, the entire castle town was burned to the ground in a three-day, three-night siege. However, the burned town was largely converted into farmland afterward. Consequently, the town as it stood in 1573 remained untouched and preserved underground, largely undeveloped. You could call it Japan’s Pompeii. (The residents at the time apparently relocated to Fukui City.)
Despite being a large-scale site of an entire Sengoku-period castle town, full-scale excavations only began in 1967 (Showa 42). Having remained undisturbed underground for 500 years, numerous artifacts directly conveying the appearance of a Sengoku-period town were unearthed. In 1971, the 278-hectare site including Ichijōdani Castle was designated a National Special Historic Site. In 1991, the gardens at the Suwa-kan Site, Yudono Ruins Garden, Asakura Residence Ruins Garden, and Nanyoji Temple Ruins Garden were designated as Special Places of Scenic Beauty. Furthermore, in 2007, 2,343 artifacts excavated from the site were designated as Important Cultural Properties. Excavation surveys and site development have continued for over 50 years since then.
Well then, let’s head inside the museum.
The museum is broadly divided into a guidance space, a structural remains exhibition space, an exhibition space, and a full-scale reconstruction of Asakura Castle. Passing through the guidance space, you’ll find stone-paved remains discovered during the preliminary excavation for this museum’s construction, displayed exactly as they were unearthed. This was a river port on the Asuwa River near Ichijōdani, likely a bustling place where many boats and people came and went, transporting goods and such.
Then, going up to the second floor, you’ll find displays of the approximately 7.1 million artifacts excavated at Ichijōdani.
A large reconstructed water jar
Many ceramic shards from China, Korea, Thailand, and elsewhere were also unearthed. This shows how active Ichijōdani’s exchanges were both domestically and internationally.
Besides Echizen ware, pottery from Seto, Mino, Shigaraki, Bizen, and other regions was also unearthed.
Window frames, fittings, and daily necessities
Scissors. Even small daily items seem to have been left behind as they hurriedly abandoned the town.
Personal grooming tools lol.
Door latches (hardware to keep doors and fittings from opening or closing).
The well remains intact too.
Surprisingly, this is the site of a gold cache.
Based on academic analysis of the gold cache and other remains, the mysterious holes scattered throughout the town appear to be toilet structures.
The fascinating thing about the Asakura Clan Site in Ichijōdani is how the ruins of people who actually lived there—regardless of status, in the same town, same era, same time—remain preserved as if time itself had stopped. While historically valuable items passed down through generations can still be seen today, it’s the everyday objects used by ordinary people that remain intact. This brings the entire life of 1573 vividly back to life.
In the center stands a restored model of the castle town.
I found such a great property, I ended up picking my own house on the spot lol.
Then, on to the restored space of the Asakura clan’s residence.
It’s easy to forget with this heat, but we’re already into September. Today in Nagoya, the cloudy skies finally give my body a chance to catch its breath.
I suddenly realized something: even in the height of summer, I have a ravenous appetite in the morning, but lately, I wake up with no appetite at all. Since skipping breakfast isn’t an option for me, I’m desperately trying to force food down. The shops are lined with delicious autumn seasonal foods like plump, fresh-caught Pacific saury and bonito, Kyoho grapes, and pears. Normally, I’d be excited about the arrival of autumn, the season of appetite, but for some reason, I just can’t get into the mood this year.
This summer in Nagoya, the number of scorching days exceeding 35°C (95°F) reached “50 days” as of yesterday. Recently, more people are complaining about “autumn fatigue,” a weather-related illness now considered a modern ailment. Factors like summer exhaustion, seasonal transitions, and typhoon-induced atmospheric pressure changes seem to disrupt the autonomic nervous system. While I managed to get through summer fatigue, I feel like autumn fatigue is now manifesting in my body.
One cause of autonomic nervous system disruption is “change.” In summer, moving between hot outdoor temperatures and air-conditioned indoor spaces, plus struggling to sleep comfortably even with AC, makes getting normal sleep difficult. Dehydration and overindulging in cold drinks and food tire the digestive system, putting strain on the autonomic nervous system and leading to summer fatigue.
In autumn, the greater temperature fluctuations between indoors and out, along with changes in atmospheric pressure from low-pressure systems and typhoons, disrupt the autonomic nervous system. Shorter daylight hours lead to sleep disorders caused by serotonin deficiency, resulting in autumn fatigue characterized by lethargy and loss of appetite.
It all sounds rather hopeless, and I want to find a way to manage it. However, as the name “autonomic nervous system” suggests, it functions independently of our conscious will and cannot be controlled. As you know, the autonomic nervous system alternates between dominance of the sympathetic nervous system—which activates the body and mind, acting like an accelerator—and the parasympathetic nervous system—which lowers heart rate, promotes relaxation, and improves gastrointestinal function. Ideally, these two systems work in balanced harmony, and both must be maintained at a high level of functionality.
If we can’t control the autonomic nervous system, how can we improve our condition even slightly? Upon looking into this, it seems that when fatigue builds up due to autonomic imbalance, it’s crucial to “move!”—within reason, without overdoing it. Huh? Am I the only one who thought that sounded impossible? But determined to tackle this “autumn fatigue,” I’ve recently been consciously making small changes, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator.
When I get home from going out, I feel exhausted and just want to rest. But apparently, once the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, it becomes really hard to switch back to the sympathetic one. I totally get that. Seeing all the things I need to do just adds more stress, and the fatigue when I finally manage to get up is insane. It’s brutal, but I’m trying to tackle chores while my sympathetic nervous system is still active after getting home!… I’m trying.
A friend who’s into weight training told me there are two types of muscle fibers: “slow-twitch” used when starting movement, and “fast-twitch” used when the load increases. If you don’t use your muscles, the slow-twitch fibers weaken. Then even minor movements feel like a load, forcing you to start using fast-twitch fibers sooner. Using fast-twitch fibers makes you produce lactic acid more easily, leading to energy depletion. The body then judges “moving more is dangerous,” making you feel tired and discouraging further movement. Does this mean that if you have little muscle, your body makes you feel tired to prevent movement for survival? That’s terrifying.
Furthermore, if you lead a life where you don’t use your muscles, your brain apparently judges that “this person can’t catch prey” and starts breaking down muscle tissue in advance to create nutrients. Naturally, your muscles become even more emaciated. That’s why my friend advised me to do strength training.
And for the autonomic nervous system, a balanced diet is also fundamental. Eating foods good for autumn fatigue, like fermented foods and seasonal ingredients, is also important. However, when you genuinely have no appetite, it’s apparently okay not to force yourself to eat. In our modern, convenient society, we don’t need to move our bodies as much as in the past, so choosing not to eat can also give your stomach a rest.
I used to force myself to eat even on mornings with no appetite. But in this age of abundance, I might indeed be eating more than I need. I’ve reconsidered my approach a bit.
Today, September 10th, is “Beloved Ogura Toast Day.” As a Nagoya native, I can’t just ignore it.
The long-established Bonbon, and then there’s Compal, now practically a Nagoya specialty (though if I go there, I get the shrimp fry sandwich instead of the Ogura, lol). Nagoya people have one or two favorite Ogura Toasts!
Yes, Nagoya locals are known to be huge fans of sweet red bean paste. They’ll go out of their way to visit a coffee shop first thing in the morning just to eat “Ogura Toast” – buttered toast generously piled high with sweet red bean paste. Crisp toasted bread, butter, sweet red bean paste of course, and fresh cream. It’s a combination you wouldn’t dare try at home (lol), but it’s delicious once you eat it.
Now a Nagoya specialty, it boasts a rich variety ranging from unique sweet red bean paste dishes to souvenirs. The origins of this specialty trace back to the Taisho era.
It was born in 1921, during the height of the Westernization craze, at the Matsuba coffee shop in Nagoya’s Sakae district. Legend has it the owner saw students dipping the then-popular buttered toast into sweet red bean soup and started serving anko-filled toast instead.
The Tokai region had a deep-rooted tea ceremony culture dating back to the Edo period, with many shops specializing in traditional Japanese sweets. Matsuba itself originally started as a wagashi shop but shifted to running a coffee shop when the war made glutinous rice scarce.
Propelled by the times, the fusion of the then-popular bread and the long-cherished Aichi-style sweet red bean paste gave birth to the hybrid “Ogura Toast.”
While the original “Matsuba” closed in 2002, a branch shop called “Kissa Matsuba” can be found in Nagoya’s Entonji Shopping District.
Today, Ogura Toast reigns as one of Nagoya’s signature dishes.
Even though it’s called “Ogura Toast,” various types exist. Roughly speaking, there are three main types:
1. Topping style: Butter toast topped with Ogura bean paste
2. Self-serve style: Butter toast served with the bean paste on the side for self-application (e.g., Komeda Coffee)
3. Sandwich style: Bean paste sandwiched between slices of bread
While these are the basic types, Komeda Coffee’s self-serve style might be more familiar to people outside the prefecture.
Recently, beyond the traditional Ogura toast, there are various creative versions: topped with ice cream or whipped cream, using cheese or cream cheese instead of butter, or with unique toppings like matcha, chestnuts, or fruit. However, they’re such calorie bombs that you might hesitate to eat them.
The indispensable “Ogura an” for such Ogura toast. Depending on how it’s made, sweet red bean paste is called “tsubu an” (whole bean paste), “tsubuan” (smooth paste), “tsubushi-an” (crushed paste), or “kurogawa-an” (Kurogawa paste).
“Kurogawa-an” is sometimes mistaken for “tsubuan,” but the methods differ. While ‘tsubuan’ is made by simmering adzuki beans without crushing them, “kurogawa-an” is created by mixing sweetened, simmered Dainagon adzuki beans into either “tsubushi-an” or “koshian.”
Among Nagoya’s local dishes, Ogura toast is incredibly easy to enjoy. If you ever visit Nagoya, be sure to try the authentic version. For Japanese people familiar with anpan (red bean paste buns), its deliciousness should feel instantly familiar.
The other day, I attended the ONE PARK FESTIVAL in Fukui Prefecture.
I headed to the festival in the evening, but since Fukui is full of spots I’ve always wanted to visit, I busily made my way around as much as time allowed. Over the next few installments, I’ll be sharing about some of the places I visited in Fukui, so please follow along if you’re interested.
First up, I went to Maruoka Castle early in the day. As you may know, a “genson tenshu” (original castle keep) is a valuable historical structure, and Maruoka Castle in Fukui Prefecture is one of them, designated as a National Important Cultural Property.
There are currently 12 castle keeps that remain from the Edo period or earlier. Many people may have visited famous ones like Himeji Castle or Hikone Castle, but Maruoka Castle seems to be a favorite among castle enthusiasts. I’ve personally conquered 8 of the 12 so far, and this one was a keep I had admired from photos and TV for a long time.
Let’s head inside.
The keep is a small one, standing at just 12 meters high, but the stone staircase immediately took me by surprise. I had a feeling it was going to be tough, but I’ll get to what made it so tough later…
Maruoka Castle is an early example of a castle architectural style. Until academic research was conducted, the prevailing theory was that the keep was completed in 1576, meaning it might have been the oldest castle in Japan. However, recent research has found that Inuyama Castle is actually older. Various studies now suggest that Maruoka Castle was renovated after 1626. While castles have been modified over time to become what they are today, this one is certainly a precious original keep.
The castle was originally built during the Sengoku period. While the current keep was constructed later, it is said that Shibata Katsuie’s nephew, Katsutoyo, built it under the command of Oda Nobunaga to prepare for the Ikkō-ikki rebellion. During the Edo period, the castle was held by the Honda and Arima clans, but due to the abolition of castles, only the keep remained in the Meiji period.
Although it was designated as a National Treasure in 1934, the Maruoka Castle keep was completely destroyed along with its stone wall during the 1948 Fukui earthquake. With the strong desire of many people for its restoration and donations from all over Japan, it was miraculously rebuilt in just seven years, reusing over 70% of the main pillars and beams. Since then, it was designated as an Important Cultural Property in 1950 and is preserved as a historical heritage site.
So, what did I have a feeling about? This staircase.
The stairs from the first to the second floor are at a 65-degree angle, and from the second to the third floor, they’re at a 67-degree angle. This is rare nationwide and is the steepest staircase among all original keeps. You can’t place your feet flat on the steps; it’s practically a wall. You have to “climb” sideways, gripping the rope along the handrail. An ordinary ladder wouldn’t have been appropriate for a castle, I suppose. Matsumoto Castle had a pretty steep incline too, but I can’t imagine a lord or guest climbing these stairs daily. How did they even carry meals? Just in case, I took off my slippers before climbing.
Here’s the second floor.
From the outside, it looks like a two-story building, but it’s actually three stories inside. Since there are no continuous pillars between the first and second/third floors, the first floor seems to support the upper two floors. I climbed the steep 67-degree stairs again to reach the third floor.
I was so focused on the tense climb up the stairs that I forgot to take pictures from the windows.
Sweating nervously, I safely descended. A lot of people started entering the castle as I was leaving, so the staircase area began to get a little crowded. I was glad I came first thing in the morning.
Another unique feature is that the roof is the only one among the original keeps to be covered with stone tiles. More than anything, the combination of the stacked stone walls and the small castle’s various architectural details creates a beautiful appearance. Since I was there so early, I was able to take some great photos with no one else in them.
Since I failed to take a photo from the keep, I highly recommend you take your time climbing these stairs, carefully make your way up the steep ones, and enjoy the view from the top.
The next installment of my Fukui journey continues next time.
