When it comes to Japanese icons, “The Great Wave Off Kanagawa” is almost as ubiquitous as Hello Kitty.
You’d find the image of the cresting storm-tossed sea on T-shirts, totes and on posters usually hung in some Japanophile’s room. Some might think that “The Great Wave off Kanagawa”—a woodblock print by Hokusai—is the encapsulation of the Japanese art form, ukiyo-e (“picture[s] of a floating world”). But that’s so far from the truth.
Ukiyo-e came about as a response to Edo’s hedonistic lifestyle (think: kabuki theatre; geishas; the pleasure districts) due to rapid economic growth. Hishikawa Moronobu painted beautiful women; Tōshūsai Sharaku delved into portraitureof kabuki actors. It was during the Tenpō Reforms (1841-1843) that the suppression of overt luxury led to the increase in travel scenes and images of nature.
Two masters dominated the ukiyo-e landscape scenes—the aforementioned Hokusai and Utagawa Hiroshige, the last great master of the ukiyo-e tradition.
Hiroshige’s work not only immortalised the beauty of the Tōkaidō (Japanese for “Eastern Sea Road”) but also influenced Western Impressionist artists such as Van Gogh and Monet. Hiroshige’s most famous work is “The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō, which depicts the outlook and daily life along the fabled highway.
The Tōkaidō was the most important and busiest route among the Gokaidō .Stretching over 500km alongside the Pacific coast of Honshu, it linked Edo to Kyoto and proved to be the lifeblood in Japan’s economic, political, and cultural development; one that’s etched into the core of Japan’s history.
Under the rule of the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868), it was a time of relative peace, stability and economic growth. Seeking to maintain political stability, the Sakoku (Japanese for “chained country”) isolationist policies were enforced, closing off trade and travel to most foreigners.
When you shut the country off to the rest of the world, you have nowhere to turn, except within. Thus, the formation of the Gokaidō (“Five Highways”). Carrying on what his great-grandfather started, Tokugawa Ietsuna, deemed the Gokaidō as important in bridging the capital of Japan at Edo with the outer provinces. So crucial were these major routes, that shukubas—staging posts that offer lodging, food, and stables for horses—were constructed at primary highways.
I’m reminded of migrating monarch butterflies. Where each autumn, millions of monarch butterflies fly from America and Canada to the mountains in central Mexico. There, they wait for the passing of winter until favourable conditions allow for a return flight in the spring.
Because of habitat loss, the population of monarch butterflies are at risk. Due to herbicides in croplands, the monarch butterflies’ source of food—milkweeds and nectar—dwindle. To combat the loss of milkweeds and nectar sources, the organisation Monarch Watch urge residents along the monarch butterflies migration path to add milkweeds and nectar sources to their home gardens, at parks, nature centres, along roadsides, and such.
These are monarch habitats or monarch waystations.
So, “The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō”.
These stations were rest stops. Save points, if you forgive the video gaming parlance. They were respites on the long and winding Tōkaidō and in my travel, I came upon the Tōkaidō Hiroshige Art Museum, the only institution dedicated to Hiroshige.
Located in the old post-town of Yui, the fishing village is known for sakura-ebi—those little pink shrimps. Yui is one of the aforementioned 53 stations in the Tōkaidō and I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other visitors at the institution in the midst of this sleepy residential area.
Entry to the museum is about SGD5 and I spent a good two hours perusing a detailed history of ukiyo-e, Hiroshige’s work as well as the portrait variants of “The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō” (or as I like to call them, the B-sides). Further on in my journey, I’ll get to see some of Hiroshige’s imagery come alive.
During the Edo period, the average commoner could walk the Tōkaidō in 16 days; a government relay runner in three days. These days, one can hop onto the Tōkaidō Shinkansen bullet train that crosses from Tokyo and Kyoto in a little over two hours. Modern living, while expedient, does not allow for living in the moment. As the ancient highway still remains, what better way to truly experience the Tōkaidō than to walk in the shoes of the people who once trekked it.
Founded in 1992 by academics looking to deepen their understanding of Japanese history and culture, Walk Japan has since become a leader in walking tours. These tours are opportunities to experience Japan at a slower, more immersive pace.
The guided tours comprise small groups that journey on routes like one of the sacred pilgrimages of Kumano Kodō or the Izu Gizo Trail, which winds along the Izu peninsula. Each trip is designed for that off-beaten approach, while allowing you to loll in Japan’s past.
I opted for the self-guided tour ("own time, own target"), where detailed itineraries, maps and recommendations are readily at hand. Each morning, my luggage will be transported to my next abode for that evening, while I hike, unencumbered, along the proposed route from Walk Japan’s handbook.
Coupled with my GPS, the instructions from the guidebook is surprisingly scrupulous. Not only does it highlight the timings of train and bus timings, it is also generous with the history of the places on the Tōkaidō that I’ll encounter.
Walking the Tōkaidō isn’t as straightforward as it used to be. Industrialism has broken up the highway with cities, train stations and roads. And to fastidiously adhere to the entirety of the Tōkaidō would take far longer than the original five days I’m allotted.
A flight into Tokyo, followed by a Shinkasen to Hakone, there is where my Tōkaidō journey would begin.
Or so I thought as circumstances would remind me that travel is never a straight line.
Hakone’s lush beauty surrounds the Yumoto Fujiya Hotel. Situated near the Hakone train station, the hotel also has the serendipity of having a rich supply of hot spring water. Given the age of the hotel, a shroud of venerableness covers the structure.
As a shorthand, the place is reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel from The Shining—barring murders and ghosts, the Yumoto Fujiya Hotel is sprawling. With commodious corridors and hallways that you can walk in and won’t even see hide or hair of another human being. (My travel period was during the winter, where tourism is at its lowest.)
But loneliness withstanding, I was plagued with an entirely different spectre. I was down with the flu. At the time, a week ago or so, reports of Taiwanese actor and musician Barbie Hsu’s death topped my newsfeed. She’d died from pneumonia-related complications from the influenza that she caught while vacationing in Japan. This was the worst flu outbreak the country had to deal with in 25 years. Being kancheong spiders, my family back home flooded my WhatsApp with concerned messages about my well- being. Because if international star Barbie Hsu could die from the flu, what hope would I have?
I wasn’t perturbed by the symptoms. Sure, there were the inconveniences of aches and coughs but with a mask on, it was socially bearable… up to a point. I found out when the cold seeped into my lungs, and I broke into a coughing fit—like the sputtering engine of a jalopy—and someone unconsciously inched away from me.
My Tōkaidō journey was supposed to begin at the Sukumogawa Nature Trail (a 4km walk on an asphalt terrain from the hotel) and would have me pass by some amazing landmarks like the Amazake Chaya Tea House (famous for their sweet tea); Lake Ashii; Hata-juku (a small post-town known for its Yosegi Zaiku woodwork); the recreated Hakone Barrier Station. Instead, I’m heading to see a doctor.
Instead, I'm off to the doctor. Jaime from Walk Japan checked with the clinics within my ambit and found one. English isn’t the country’s first language (duh) so instead of having to deal with the embarrassment of a mistranslation, most clinics would rather turn me away. The Yamada Clinic was the only one willing to see me. Situated near the Hakone-Itabashi station, it required a detour from my intended route to the next hotel. But this trip is all about taking the road less travelled and this diversion was apt.
Instead of the waiting room, I was ushered to a car outside in the lot—engine running, the inside is warm and inviting. The nurse gestured for me to wait inside for a consult.
I’m not sure if this is the SOP for foreign patients but I’ve read about Japanese clinics occasionally refusing to see foreigners. It’s not an official policy but there are some practical reasons involved like the language barrier (miscommunication in a medical context is a no-no) and insurance.
About 20 minutes later, a doctor approached the car and mimed “rolling down the window”. We had to do a swab to determine whether I was infected with Covid.
“It will hurt,” he said. “Sorry.” And then stuck a testing swab in my nose. This took me by surprise and there was a sharp pain that plummeted to a dull ache. “Wait,” he said as he looked at his watch. I count the seconds along with the throbbing in my nasal passage. Time stretches.
The doctor finally looked up and said, “Sorry again,” before extracting the swab, which hurt just as much as going in. Eyes watering, I sneezed on reflex as the doctor took his leave. Ten minutes later, the diagnosis: no Covid but I had Influenza A. I was prescribed medication with the dosage instructions in Japanese. I paid up and made my way to Fujisan Mishima Tokyu Hotel to rest. It was a fitful evening.
I’ve always enjoyed walking. Not only is it one of the simplest yet most effective forms of exercise, it allows me to be in my thoughts. I could hoof it from Orchard all the way to Bugis without complaint. Given my predilection for walking, I’ve also developed my own pace. More often than not, you’d find me walking at a brisk pace, I’m a receding dot in a crowd. It took me a while to slow down when I started dating, which helped with patience.
Aside from the health benefits (improved cardiovascular, calories burnt), there are also the mental pros of it, especially when you’re in a place like Japan, where remnants of the past still linger. The place is replete with flora that you’re reminded by a Ghibli film. This is an experience where AI isn’t needed. Walking in natural environments, such as parks or forests, significantly reduces stress, anxiety, and symptoms of depression. Psychologist Dr Kelly McGonigal emphasises that “Walking is a powerful stress reliever. It releases endorphins, enhances creativity, and helps us process emotions more effectively.”
Aside from the flu, my mind is an empty bowl. It’s large and welcoming for any experiences that come my way.
Exiting the Tōkaidō Hiroshige Art Museum, I continued along my journey in Yui.
As one of the 53 post towns along the old Tōkaidō, Yui-shuku sits between the sea on and the mountains. You can almost see a Hiroshige print come to life—the curve of the coastline, the sloping roofs, the misty horizon.
It was recommended to eat at Izutsuya, a family-run restaurant, that’s renowned for its sakura-ebi dishes.
Before I could enter, the woman at the door, bowed apologetically—they were closing for the day. I looked at the lunch crowd in the restaurant, envy replacing the hunger in my stomach.
On the Satta-toge Pass, the hiking trail overlooks Fuji and the deep blue of Suguru Bay. Lined orange trees—their plentiful fruits—some hanging within reach. I was tempted to pluck some from the branches but instead, I picked up the fallen ones by the roadside.
I’m not the only one travelling the Tōkaidō. I’d encountered many elderly Japanese and a handful of tourists (recognisable by the extensive camera set-up) on my journey. I bumped into a group of retired local trekkers; exchanging konichiwas as we passed. We ended up at a special look-out post—the 16th Station, located in the Shimizu-ku area of Shizuoka, Shizuoka Prefecture—where you can witness the same scene as the one Hiroshige created in his “Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō”.
It’s not as picturesque as Hiroshige's version; mine had Mount Fuji gauzed in the background; modern conveyances drive on highways; a train roars along the Yui rail. Still, it is a sight to behold.
On the Satta-toge Pass, we passed the Okitsu River. In the bygone days of the Edo period, there was no bridge or ferry crossing, which made it hard for travellers. Necessity led to the advent of porters to carry folks across for a fee.
Today, there’s a bridge over the Okitsu River that leads into traffic. But danger is still ever-present as there’s no sidewalk until you make your way to the other side.
I spent the night at Nishimiyama Inn. It is a convivial place with a communal and private baths. As the flu rages in my body unabated, through no fault of the inn, I’m unable to find pleasure in the food nor the accommodation.
I do, however, look badass in the yukata that the inn provided.
My trek on the Tōkaidō isn’t solely on foot. I utilised the local trains and buses to get around. I’m ever impressed by the punctuality of the transport. One can expect their arrival down to the scheduled minute. Oh, what a time we are living in.
I got off at Abekawa Station for my 3.5km walk to Chojiya. The trek passes through a lot of residential areas. For journeys of that length, I’d catch up on my comedy albums playlist. If you must know, I listened to Rory Scovel’s Religion, Sex and a Few Things In Between (2024). Highly recommend it.
A turn-off leads to Yatsu Shrine, where the main attraction is this huge camphor tree. The camphor is a symbol of health, vitality and its thick trunk (six metres in circumference!) and old age (1,000 years old!!) exemplify that notion.
A bus ride later to Utsunoya-Iriguchi and I took respite at the road station for lunch. My nose is rubbed raw from the flu as my jaw hurt from chewing a cold tonkatsu sando purchased from a convenience store.
From where I stand, across the busy highways is the historical landmark, Utsunoya Pass. It’s the only portion of the original Heian period road left standing.
Connecting the former towns of Mariko-juku (now part of Suruga-ku, Shizuoka) and Okabe-juku (now part of Fujieda) there are towering bamboo groves and cedar trees; these green giants tower over the village at the eastern foot of Utsunoya Pass. With their traditional thatched-roof houses and wooden buildings, it feels like a piece of the past that fell into the present.
There’s the Utsunoya Tunnel that was built in 1876. This was the first toll tunnel in Japan; its red-brick passageway cut through the pass to the other side. You can still enter the tunnel but I chose to climb the Edo-era stone-paved path up the mountain. The cobblestones were installed by the shogunate to improve the walkability of the muddy ground. It’s an uneven trek. It rained that morning, leaving the round rocks slick; my modern shoes found it tricky to grip the ground. You’d think that the straw sandals worn by travellers centuries ago would be useless on cobblestone but in reality, they had a far better grip.
Panting and sweating, I reached the mountain’s crest. My breath caught in my throat as I surveyed the lush mountains and the winding road that I was just on; that travellers during the Edo-period once walked.
River crossing, especially when it comes to the Ōi River is a difficult feat. Given that the river bordered the Sugura Province and the Tōtōmi Province, the Eastern and Western sections of Shizuoka Prefecture respectively. The Tokugawa shogunate forbids the construction of bridges or ferry services for defensive purposes. This meant that travellers had to wade across the shallows or rely on kawagoe (river porters) to carry them across.
Hiroshige immortalised this scene in “The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō”—travellers sit on the broad shoulders of the porters, their belongings bobbing on makeshift rafts. You can see the tension on their expressions, in the lines. The risk of drowning was especially high after a long rain, sometimes a crossing would be impossible, stranding travellers who had no choice but to stay at the post- towns (Kanaya-juku on one side of Ōi and Shimada-juku on the other) and wait for the waters to subside.
Wealthier travellers could pay for a kagokaki, a palanquin-style ride where multiple porters held a sedan chair above the waves. Prices soar according to the rising of the water.
A bridge was eventually built in 1879; finally ending years of precarious crossings. Several bridges soon followed like the Hōrai Bridge, which held the Guinness World Record for the world’s longest wooden pedestrian bridge (897.422 metres in length) or the Shiogo Suspension Bridge—not the longest suspension bridge in the world but the longest (220m) over the Ōi River. I took the Ōigawa Bridge instead.
It’s not famous like its sister bridges but it was the nearest crossing over Ōi River from Shimada Station past the River Crossing Office.
(“Desire path” came to mind, where an unplanned small trail is created from heavy human or animal traffic. This is usually the shortest or easiest navigated route between an origin and destination. In my case, the 17-section truss bridge is today’s desire path.)
From the east side of the Ōigawa Bridge, I started my march. The river below is a shadow of its summer self when the ice from the mountains would melt. The wind gusted against me, leaving me teetering; the rushing cars added to the instability.
Weeks later, I discovered that the length of the Ōigawa Bridge is 1,026.4m. Had I known how long it would be, would it have deterred me from walking it? Would I have opted for a more convenient form of travel?
Back then the kawagoe wouldn’t forfeit payment when the tide rises and I guess, I wouldn’t give up this opportunity to cross the Ōi River. We brave the journey—no matter how arduous—just for the reward of being on the other end.
My reward at the end of the Ōigawa Bridge is the nearby supermarket that I staggered towards. I needed the warmth of its confines and I was coughing so hard that I was sure I could have thrown up my very lungs. Wheezing and red-faced, it took a good half-an-hour to compose myself.
After the town of Kanaya, I cross through railway tracks, a bridge and two intersections before I got lost.
Twenty minutes later, a small panic forms in my stomach. The guidebook did not account for changes in construction along the road. I paced the main road multiple times as I consult my Google Maps.
Jesus and His Saints... where am I?
I’m thinking of texting Jamie at Walk Japan. He can help. Yes.
Nope. I’ve decided against it as I beeline towards a construction worker, silently praying that he speaks some English.
He doesn’t but after much Google translation and pointing in general directions, I’m back on the proper path of the old Tōkaidō. Time, however, runs ahead as the sun slowly dips.
There’s almost nothing left of Suwahara Castle.
You can find its ruins in the Kanaya neighbourhood of Shimada City, in the Shizuoka Prefecture. Next to a busy road, you can find stone outlines, earthworks smoothed by centuries of rain. There are a few wooden handwritten signs that point out where things used to be: here is the main gate, over there are the turrets, to the right is the lord’s residence. Grandeur is a mere ghost at Suwahara Castle.
Takeda Katsuyori had ordered the castle’s construction in 1573 during the Sengoku period—before the Edo period and during Japan’s age of fractured rule and shifting alliance. The castle was meant to a frontline outpost. It sat on the outskirts of Tōtōmi Province (now Shizuoka Prefecture), high on a hill above the Ōi River. Certainly, it was a good vantage point but a few years after it was built, Suwahara was overtaken by Tokugawa Ieyasu, who would go on to unify Japan.
Among the ruins, you can see out into the wide and open plateau, ringed by mountains and sky. The town of Kanaya spreads out in the distance; trains slide quietly across modern bridges.
It felt like I’m standing on somewhere once important, even though time had flattened it to make way for modernity.
The walking path that passes by the Suwahara Castle ruins is lined with pine and bamboo. In springtime, the ridge blooms with wildflowers but for now, there’s only the presence of a retreating winter. I continue onward, with one more uphill climb.
It’s a steep incline but I lean forward and I put one foot in front of the other. By the time I reach a plateau, my calves and thighs are burning, but the aches wore off as I surveyed the swathes of tea fields.
The Kakegawa region is one of Japan’s most respected tea-producing areas. And within it, the Sayo-no-Nakayama district stands out—not for large-scale production but for its traditional tea farming. Spread across neatly terraced slopes and small family-run fields, they form a seemingly endless sea of green.
This is where much of Japan’s high-grade sencha comes from. The air smells faintly herbal (or I could be imagining it due to my flu).
Most of the farms cultivate yabukita, Japan’s dominant cultivar, known for its balance of umami, astringency and brightness. The rows are meticulously trimmed; it almost feels like there’s something artificial about the layout.
One of the things that makes the tea from Sayo-no-Nakayama particularly special is a traditional farming method called chagusaba, where farmers cut native grasses from the nearby hills, dry them, and then layer them between the rows of tea bushes. It enriches the soil, retains heat in the winter, and helps control weeds naturally. The result? A smoother, more rounded flavour in the final product. It is farming that’s in harmony with the surrounding ecosystem.
I haven’t met a single person at Sayo-no-Nakayama. It is equal parts eerie and comforting.
The pace in Sayo-no-Nakayama is slow, but deliberate. There are no gift shops, no tea museums. But there is a temple of some repute and curiosity in the hills of Kakegawa.
The Kyuenji Temple features a very special stone. It looks like any other sediment but it is different because a story is attached to it. This is the tale of the stone that weeps at night.
A few versions abound but this is a common refrain: a man says his farewell to his lover. Love was professed, promises were made and the woman believed that he would return to her. But the currency of words are less than the value of its actions. Thus, as the seasons turn, the woman’s hope turned to despair while her belly grew large with life.
Sadly, the woman was killed in a robbery near Kyuenji Temple but a stone nearby started to cry, which attracted the attention of the monks. They found her body. They managed to save the baby.
As to the fate of the baby, some say that the child was raised in the temple. Other stories stated that the child was given to the villagers to be raised. The crux of the story is that the crying stone is now housed at in the temple.
Which begs the question: what makes this stone more popular that the stones at Suwahara Castle? What draws more crows to Kyuenji Temple than to that castle’s ruins?
All storytelling is marketing and I’ll say Kyuenji Temple has very good marketers.
You could pass through Nissaka and not know it was ever important. It’s now another bend in the road, part of Kakegawa now. A convenience store. A small clinic. Houses with lace curtains and wind-chimes. But this stretch of road was once the 25th stop on the Tōkaidō.
Back then, this was the prelude to one of the more dreaded legs of the journey—east of Nissaka is Sayo-no-Nakayama, a dense and difficult pass. Travellers would stop in Nissaka to rest and ready. It’s a small town but it knew how to take care of people who needed to keep moving.
Most of the old inns are gone, but the slope of the road is the same. It’s interesting to wander through the neighbourhood. You wonder if they knew that they are sitting on a storied route.
I arrive at the Kotonomama Hachimangū Shrine, where visitors whisper their hopes and wishes to the “word stone” that sits within the shrine grounds. The shrine remains an important spiritual and cultural site. There’s a quietude to the place and it’s made more potent, thanks to the setting sun; the trees and buildings turn a brilliant gold.
The final night ends off at Masagokan Inn. It’s remote and larger on the inside then its exterior proposes. The ryokan opened in 1984, but its design speaks to an older Japan: sukiya-style architecture, garden paths that shift with the seasons. The tatami rooms are clean, spacious and accompanied by a private toilet.
The hosts are kind, patient even to this gaijin. I feast. Dinner is served kaiseki-style in the dining area. The bowl of miso soup is a balm in the cold weather, while the mountain vegetables—served with rice, tastes of the promise of spring.
Maybe it’s the flu leaving the body but I am feeling better than when I started.
In the evening, I walk the hallways towards a private bath that’s fed by a natural onsen source. The minerals are known to leave the skin smooth, but more than that, the experience is grounding. Through the fogged glass, I can see the garden outside. There’s no rush. Just water, wood and steam.
Checking out felt funereal. Like it is the end of something and I suppose it is.
As I hop on the Shinkansen from Kakegawa Station, a quietude settles. Seated next to the window, I watch the passing of a five-day journey squished into a two-hour zip back to Tokyo.
The journey back to Tokyo is efficient but it doesn’t hold any wonder for me. I slept on the train, my head filled with dreams of crying stones, ukiyo-e and shrines.
