Ryokan stay a balm for the soul
With mats piled high and not a pea in sight, serene surroundings and great food, Lorna Thornber can see why ryokan are so beloved.
Iam not in the best frame of mind when I arrive at a thatched-roofed ryokan (traditional Japanese inn) deep in the wooded mountains north of Kyoto. Our group of three Kiwi women has just taken classes in organic farming and roof thatching – the rural Miyama area is best known for its farmhouses with steep kayabuki (thatched roofs) – and proved woeful at both – particularly the thatching, which involved listening to translated instructions on how to tie a complicated knot. Our teacher smilingly admitted we were the worst thatchers he had seen, but kindly added we were the most fun.
I forgot to bring a jacket and, chilled by the early evening autumn air, am alarmed when I learn I will be sleeping in a hard-to-heat loft. Crossing the threshold of the 150-year-old cottage, however, I am too charmed to care about whether I get hypothermia (a needless worry, thanks to high-powered heaters).
The boyhood home of our thatching teacher, this Miyama Futon & Breakfast cottage is about as authentic a ryokan as you can get, albeit with modern amenities such as a fully equipped kitchen, hot shower, and hi-tech Japanese toilet. We sleep on futons on tatami mats, learn to cook local dishes with a 70-year-old grandmother, and wake to artfully arranged traditional breakfast trays prepared in part over the irori (open hearth).
Dating to the eighth century AD, ryokan were once places of rest and reflection for wandering samurai and, these days, are highly sought after by Japanese and overseas travellers. Often located by hot springs, they are a kind of spa for the senses – their minimalism and world-famous omotenashi (Japanesestyle hospitality) proving a balm to stressed-out city souls. Some have luxurious touches such as Michelin-starred restaurants and spa services, but ours is the old-school real deal.
Typically for a ryokan, our cottage is minimalist, with little more downstairs than the tatami mats and calligraphy on the walls. As well as calming the mind, the lack of clutter focuses it on the things that are present: the smell of the straw roof, the beauty of the valley ablaze with the colours of autumn outside.
Pulling futons off shelves and from behind decorative screens, we follow the repeat ryokan visitor in our group’s advice and stack them Princess and the Pea-style to create more of a buffer to the wooden floor. Soon, the grandmother trained in macrobiotic cooking arrives with other women to teach us how to cook a proper Japanese meal. Much is lost in translation, but watching them is mesmerising.
Once again, we prove terrible students, struggling to de-vein prawns and get ginkgo nuts out of their shells. Thankfully our teachers are able to correct our mistakes, or at least make the best of our poor efforts.
There are tea cups filled with chawanmushi (silky sake-infused savoury custard with prawns and ginkgo nuts), steaming bowls of sea bream and rice and miso soup, and a big pot of tofu, daikon and potato skewers for dunking into a delicately sweet mirin and miso sauce. Followed, of course, by cups of green tea.
An equally exquisite feast awaits us the next morning. I am a sweet-toothed smoothie woman ordinarily, so there is something special about sitting down to a selection of mostly savoury dishes: fish from the local river; bonito flakedusted green vegetables, salty-and-sour umeboshi (pickled plums), and sweet persimmons.
The ryokan we stay at a couple of nights earlier in Yoshino, where 30,000 blossoming cherry trees attract thousands of visitors each spring, is as enchanting, and waist-expanding.
Built by Prince Shōtoku, who reigned from the late sixth century to early seventh, as a Buddhist temple, Chikurin-in Gumpoen once housed monks who practised asceticism (which involves strict self-discipline in an effort to attain spiritual growth) in the mountains.
While those who walk its maze of corridors these days are pleasure-seeking tourists, it retains a Zen-like aura. Guests pad about quietly in the supplied slippers and yukata robes, and rooms – in typical ryokan fashion – are sparsely furnished yet have everything you need (including good wi-fi).
Wandering past inscribed rocks, an intricately carved shrine, and stylishly lopped trees towards a garden pond reflecting the fiery reds and golds of the autumn leaves, I feel like I have stepped into an illustrated Japanese folktale.
The onsen (communal bath) calls my name, particularly as the day’s warmth evaporates but, in the end, all I manage is a peek through the door to the women’s one. If you decide to brave a nude bath yourself (togs are not allowed), double-check the sign before entering: the pools for each gender are often switched to ensure guests get to experience the full range.
Sitting cross-legged around a table in a private dining room that evening, we cook buttery beef on mini teppanyaki grills, and eat them alongside sweet gold-flecked black beans, sashimi, bowls of newly harvested rice, and the one recipe from our lesson I am determined to master: the addictive chawanmushi.