2026-01-02

Black-Headed Gull

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Curious Black-Headed Gulls at Shinobazu Pond
不忍池で出会った好奇心旺盛な百合鴎


The black-headed gull, yurikamome (百合鴎) in Japanese, is a relatively small bird that I have only seen in some of the larger parks in Tokyo and Yokohama. I don’t recall ever seeing them along the waterfront of Tokyo Bay, which makes sense given how much of the low-lying marshland has been filled in to make room for towering high-rise condominiums, large distribution centers, numerous docks, and petrochemical facilities.

These charming birds nest on the ground in large reedbeds or marshes, or on islands in lakes. Since Shinobazu-no-ike Bentendō Temple, where I captured this image, sits on a small island in the middle of a naturally formed pond with some marsh-like features, I assume that some of these birds may actually have nests nearby in the park.

Despite the English name, the black-headed gull (Chroicocephalus ridibundus) has a chocolate-brown head and a pale gray body during the breeding season. In winter, however, the brown hood disappears and only a dark ear-like mark remains. The three birds in my photo have orange legs and beaks, indicating that they are juveniles, as adults typically have red or bright red legs and beaks.

When photographing these three gulls, they did not seem intimidated by my presence. My camera is a rangefinder-style camera with a fixed 23mm lens, so the only way to “zoom in” on a subject is with my feet. I was quite surprised by how close I could get to capture this shot.

Fortunately, I didn’t have my border collie with me that day, as she would have gotten excited, tried to herd the birds, and ended up scaring them away.

  • Location: Shinobazu-no-Ike Bentendō Temple, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:32
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 400 for 1/1000 sec. at ƒ/4
  • Velvia Vivid film simulation

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© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
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Kanzakura



Kanzakura: Early Bloomer in Winter
寒桜とは?冬から早春に咲く、ひと足早い桜


Kanzakura (寒桜), or winter cherry blossoms, are one of those small seasonal surprises that always catch me off guard—in the best possible way. They’re an early-blooming hybrid variety that flower for a short window between January and March, depending on the region. Their petals are a soft, pale pink, with subtle differences from tree to tree, and they feel almost out of place against the cold winter air.

Most people, myself included, usually think of cherry blossoms in terms of spring and the iconic Somei-Yoshino (染井吉野). Those are the ones that sweep across Japan every year, starting in the south and slowly moving north, turning parks and riversides into seas of white and pink. Compared to those, kanzakura feel much quieter and more reserved.

Kanzakura are among the earliest of the early bloomers, and in my experience, they’re not especially common. That’s probably why I always feel a little spark of joy when I come across one. It’s like a small preview of spring, or just a hint that winter frigidity doesn’t have much longer to go.

The blossoms themselves are slightly smaller than Somei-Yoshino, though that’s not immediately obvious in my photo. What stands out more is their gentle color and the way the flowers cluster along the branch. When they’re in full bloom, they look especially striking against the clear blue skies we often get in winter.

I took this photo in Ueno Park in Tokyo, but I only recently learned that Mitsuike Park, near my home in Yokohama, has around 78 different varieties of cherry trees, including kanzakura and another early bloomer, kanhizakura (寒緋桜). Apparently, it’s even listed as one of Japan’s top 100 cherry blossom viewing spots, which makes me realize I probably don’t explore my own local parks enough!

Digging a little deeper, I also discovered that kanzakura are more common around Tokyo and Yokohama than I had assumed. They’re not planted in huge numbers, but if you know where to look, you can find them scattered across larger parks throughout the region.

While sakura are usually associated with spring crowds and hanami parties, these winter blossoms felt different. Seeing them during the New Year holidays, in the middle of the cold season, reminded me how even a single delicate flower can completely change the mood of my day. I wasn’t expecting to see anything in bloom at all, so stumbling across these pale pink petals brought an unexpected moment of quiet joy, and a gentle reminder that spring is already on its way.

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  • Location: Shinobazu-no-Ike Bentendō Temple, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:21
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/1000 sec. at ƒ/2
  • Velvia Vivid film simulation

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  • Location: Shinobazu-no-Ike Bentendō Temple, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:22
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/1000 sec. at ƒ/2
  • Velvia Vivid film simulation

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© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
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Daikokuten-do Hall

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Daikokuten-dō Hall: Small Details Reflecting the Coexistence of Shinto and Buddhism
神仏習合を感じさせる大黒天堂の細部


Daikokuten-dō Hall (大黒天堂) in Ueno refers to the hall dedicated to Daikokuten, the god of wealth and fortune, located within the grounds of Shinobazu-no-Ike Bentendō on a small man-made island in the middle of Shinobazu Pond. Despite being part of a Buddhist temple complex in such a unique setting, there are several features of the building that hint at strong Shinto influences.

In my younger years, I always assumed there was a clear line between Buddhism and Shinto, the animistic belief system indigenous to Japan. However, I later learned about shinbutsu-shūgō (the historical blending of Buddhist and Shinto traditions), which challenged that simple distinction.

Daikokuten-dō is associated with the Kan’ei-ji Temple complex, which is home to several Buddhist temples, mausoleums, and notable statues of Buddhist monks. The kami enshrined here, Daikokuten, is a deity of fortune, luck, and wealth. Interestingly, Daikokuten is an amalgamation of the Shinto god Ōkuninushi and the Buddhist Deva, which itself originated from the Hindu warrior deity Mahākāla.

What initially sent me down this rabbit hole, however, was what I noticed in the photograph itself: the Imperial chrysanthemum crest (菊紋・kikumon) on the paper lanterns and on the ornamental engraved metalwork known as unokedōshi (兎毛通) beneath the central portion of the Chinese-style gable (唐破風・karahafu). There are also clear Shinto elements, such as the shimenawa (注連縄) rope adorned with shide (紙垂) paper streamers. At the same time, it is unmistakably a Buddhist hall, marked by the cauldron-shaped incense burner (屋根付外置香炉・yanetsuki-gaichi kōro) at the base of the steps and the colorful banners draped across the façade in the Five Primary Colors (五正色・goseishoku) associated with Buddhism.

For me, this hall is especially compelling because it quietly embodies the long history of syncretism between Buddhism and Shinto—two belief systems that once coexisted without conflict in Japan. That balance was disrupted in 1868, when the Meiji government enforced the separation of Shinto and Buddhism in an effort to elevate Shinto as a state ideology and strengthen imperial authority. 

In the end, these policies were never fully realized. Daikokuten-dō, rebuilt in 1968, remains a subtle but powerful example of how both traditions continue to coexist in practice, visible to worshippers, tourists, and photographers alike; a reminder that what first catches my eye visually often leads me to stories I hadn’t expected.

  • Location: Shinobazu-no-Ike Bentendō Temple, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:18
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 250 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/13
  • Classic Chrome film simulation

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Shinobazu Pond

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Shinobazu Pond: A Quiet Wetland Beneath Tokyo’s Skyline
不忍池:高層ビルの下に広がる静かな湿地


This view of Shinobazu Pond shows a section where lotus plants fully cover the water’s surface. In winter, much of the color is gone, so I’d like to return in summer, when the lotus flowers are in full bloom.

When I first visited Ueno Park, home to Shinobazu Pond and Bentendō Temple (弁天堂・Bentendō), which you can see in the distance at the center of the frame, I was completely unaware of the fascinating history behind this seemingly humble place.

During the Jōmon period (c. 12,000 BCE), this entire area,which is now about 5.27 km (3.27 miles) from the edge of Tokyo Bay, was once a vast coastal inlet. Over time, particularly throughout the Heian period (794–1185), the sea gradually receded due to regional cooling and sedimentation, leaving behind a naturally formed pond.

The extensive marshlands that remained became an important stopping point for thousands of migratory birds each year. By the 15th century, the surrounding area had developed into a small castle town and was already known as Shitamachi, a name that locals still use today.

In the early Edo period, during the 17th century, a Buddhist priest created a small island in the center of the pond and established Bentendō Temple, visible in the middle of this photograph. Around the same time, the southern portion of the pond was planted with lotus, which now fills the surface with pink blossoms each summer from July through August.

During World War II, water was drained from the pond and the area was temporarily used for rice cultivation due to food shortages. At one point, developers even proposed filling in the pond entirely to build a baseball field. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed: in 1949, those plans were rejected, and Shinobazu Pond was restored to a form that we can still enjoy today.
 
  • Location: Shitamachi Museum, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:10
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/10
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
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Post Box

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Vintage Japanese Post Box: A Warm Design Rooted in the Meiji Era
火事に強い鉄製の朱色丸型ポスト(郵便差出箱1号)


After a short photowalk through Tokyo’s Ameya-Yokocho shopping district, I wandered into a nearby park where, near its entrance, I came across this vintage Japanese post box. Though its design dates back to the postwar years, it remains in everyday use, standing quietly in front of the Shitamachi Museum (台東区したまちミュージアム).

The continued presence of this post box aligns naturally with the museum’s mission to preserve and document the everyday culture of Tokyo’s Showa era (1926-1989). It serves as a small but tangible reminder of how ordinary objects once shaped daily life.

This particular cylindrical post box design traces its origins to 1949, when iron once again became widely available for civilian use following the end of World War II, allowing durable public infrastructure to return to cities across Japan.

Nearly eight decades later, I still encounter this style of post box in rural towns and older urban neighborhoods, and it is these small, human-centered design choices that continue to draw my attention. 

Unlike the boxy, utilitarian design of modern post boxes in use today, this earlier form feels warmer and more considerate: the softly rounded lip extending over the slot like a well-worn cap, designed to keep out the rain; the cylindrical body, less obtrusive and better suited to the narrow, crowded streets of Tokyo and other cities at the turn of the twentieth century; and the use of fire-resistant iron, painted in a bright vermilion red (朱色, shuiro), a color also closely associated with Shinto torii gates.

While my initial impulse to photograph this post box was rooted in a sense of nostalgia, standing in front of it prompted a deeper reflection on how thoughtful design, particularly from the Meiji era (1868–1912), seems to have been shaped by everyday needs. In cases like this, those practical considerations have allowed certain forms to quietly persist long after their era has passed, continuing to function as part of the modern city.
 
  • Location: Shitamachi Museum, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・14:05
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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© 2011-2026 Pix4Japan. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use for AI training is strictly prohibited.
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Punk Icon

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Sid Vicious Imagery in Ameya-Yokocho, Tokyo
東京のアメ横に現れたパンクアイコン「シド・ヴィシャス」


I captured the back of this leather jacket worn by a middle-aged Japanese man while he was shopping at one of the small stalls beneath the railway tracks of Ameya-Yokocho in Ueno, Tokyo. What immediately caught my attention were the vivid neon colors and the unmistakable image of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen rendered across the jacket’s back panel.

I’m not entirely sure why the image felt familiar at first, especially since I was never a devoted punk rock fan. Thinking back, it may trace to a shipmate I had in the early 1980s who was deeply into the Sex Pistols and the Ramones. I likely encountered this image on an album cover or a T-shirt during that time, even if I didn’t consciously register it then.

While researching the origin of the photograph, I learned that it was taken by Steve Emberton, a staff photographer for Record Mirror, a British weekly music newspaper published between 1954 and 1991. Emberton worked extensively during the 1970s, producing images that later appeared in television commercials, album artwork, and publications connected to major artists, including the Rolling Stones.

I’m old enough to recognize many of the musicians Emberton photographed: Cher, Blondie (Debbie Harry), Rod Stewart, Kiss, the Rolling Stones, Joan Jett, Lou Reed, Billy Idol, and, of course, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. The photograph of Sid and Nancy carries particular weight. Emberton has spoken publicly about the shoot, which took place in an apartment in England just a few months before both of their deaths, lending the image a haunting historical proximity.

Emberton primarily worked in black and white, which raises an obvious question: why does this image appear here in such bold, saturated color? The answer seems to lie with Mosquitohead, a graphic T-shirt brand known for reworking punk-era imagery. Their versions of Sid and Nancy introduced false color treatments that became popular in vintage punk fashion during the 1980s and 1990s, extending the afterlife of these images far beyond their original documentary context.

Ultimately, I’m drawn to this photograph for its color, the smooth, worn texture of the leather jacket, and the quiet confidence of the wearer, his collar turned up in a way that recalls pop-culture archetypes like The Fonz from Happy Days. The image unexpectedly pulled me back to my late teens and my first exposure to the music of the Sex Pistols and the Ramones, often playing in the background of chaotic barracks parties during my days in the Navy. In that sense, the photograph became less about punk itself and more about how certain images resurface decades later, in places and moments I never would have expected.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:46
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 1000 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2
  • Astia Soft film simulation

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Komo-Daru


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Komo-daru Outside an Izakaya: A Small Detail of Tokyo’s New Year
居酒屋の前に置かれた菰樽が語る東京の正月


The sake barrels (kazari-daru・飾り樽) often seen stacked high at Shinto shrines, especially around New Year’s, are purely decorative. They are left empty, partly for safety, as securing heavy, liquid-filled barrels overhead would pose a risk to worshippers. As the name suggests, kazari means “decoration,” while daru refers to a cask or barrel.

The barrel in my photograph, however, is a komo-daru (菰樽), the term used for a straw-wrapped sake barrel that is traditionally filled with sake. Komo refers to the straw matting that surrounds the barrel and serves as the surface for decorative labeling. Beneath the straw, the barrel itself is constructed from cedar planks bound together with bamboo braids. I was surprised to learn that these barrels were historically used not only for sake, but also to transport bulk liquids such as oil, soy sauce, and even lacquer.

One detail that stood out to me is that wooden barrels are not used for brewing or long-term storage of sake. Unlike oak barrels used in whiskey production, cedar would significantly alter the flavor. As a result, wooden sake barrels, which are also called sake-daru (酒樽), are typically filled only briefly. Those seen at weddings or ceremonial events usually hold sake for just a few days before it is served.

It took some back-and-forth with an older friend, but we were eventually able to decipher parts of the labeling on this particular komo-daru.

The two vertical black characters and the large central character together form a single phrase: 富久娘 (Fukumusume). Literally translated, it can mean “Daughter of Fortune” or “Lucky Maiden.” This is the name of a long-established sake brand produced by 富久娘酒造株式会社 (Fukumusume Shuzō Co., Ltd.), a brewery based in Hyōgo Prefecture with origins dating back to 1681.

The bold calligraphy feels distinctly old-fashioned to me and immediately evokes a sense of tradition. It’s a style I associate with hanging scrolls displayed behind flower arrangements whether in a tatami room or at an ikebana exhibition in my local city hall.

At the bottom of the barrel, the brand name appears again as フクムスメ in red katakana. This was likely added for clarity, as the main calligraphy is written in sōsho (草書), a highly cursive script that can be difficult to read without prior familiarity or context.

On the left side of the barrel, we struggled to fully interpret the red cursive calligraphy and the circular seal beneath it. One element, however, was immediately clear: the text at the top reads 商標 (shōhyō), meaning “registered trademark,” roughly equivalent to the ® symbol.

Resting on the wooden lid is a bamboo ladle, used to serve sake into newly made square masu cups (枡). These cups are typically crafted from hinoki (Japanese cypress) and often branded with a character, symbol, or name commemorating the occasion. Since this photograph was taken in front of an izakaya called Kassen Ichiba, the name of the pub (活鮮市場) is burned directly into the wood of each cup.

From the Edo period (1603–1867), cedar casks were the primary vessels used to transport sake from breweries to Edo (modern-day Tokyo). By the 1890s, glass bottles gradually replaced them. Today, wooden sake barrels are largely reserved for ceremonial use, such as during New Year’s celebrations, which was when I captured this photograph.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5.6
  • Provia Standard film simulation

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Ameyoko

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A Midday Scene at an Izakaya Beneath the Tracks
ガード下の居酒屋、昼のひとコマ


Positioned between the elevated railway tracks of bullet train and commuter lines, several traditional Japanese pubs were already drawing in lunchtime customers, advertising seasonal dishes and freshly caught seafood delivered earlier that morning.

I’m not a foodie in the slightest, so I have no firsthand knowledge of the menu at this particular izakaya. However, while researching its backstory, I learned that it operates under Asakusa Mugitoro (est. 1929), an upscale kaiseki restaurant known for traditional Japanese haute cuisine. There, elaborate multi-course meals emphasize seasonality, artistic presentation, and precise cooking techniques in stark contrast with this gritty, down-to-earth pub, snugly crammed beneath rumbling train tracks and catering to the everyday working man.

While learning about the contrast between this modest izakaya and the refined kaiseki traditions of its parent restaurant, I was reminded of how differently I experience these two kinds of spaces. 

Upscale restaurants often leave me feeling self-conscious and wondering whether I’ve dressed appropriately, or struggling to make the kind of effortless small talk that seems expected in more formal settings. In contrast, mom-and-pop shops and small neighborhood izakayas allow me to relax almost immediately. 

Conversations with the owners or staff come naturally, and the atmosphere feels grounded and unpretentious. As someone who isn’t a food connoisseur, I’m rarely able to tell the difference between an expensive, meticulously plated dish and a simpler homemade one anyway, which makes these everyday places feel not only more comfortable, but also more welcoming and fun.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2.2
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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Lively Alley Tucked between Shinkansen Tracks, Ueno, Tokyo
北陸新幹線と上越新幹線の高架下に挟まれた上野の路地


Positioned between the elevated railway tracks of the Hokuriku Shinkansen (北陸新幹線) on the left and the Jōetsu Shinkansen (上越新幹線) on the right, this narrow alley is lined with shops that make use of every last centimeter of space beneath the bullet trains and commuter trains rumbling overhead.

Set slightly apart from the wider, busier thoroughfares of the Ameyoko shopping district, this alley is easy to miss. While the main streets draw budget-conscious shoppers and steady flows of overseas tourists, this tucked-away stretch has a different character. Alongside the usual mix of eateries, bars, and cafés, there are a few adult-oriented shops that give the alley a more candid, less polished atmosphere.

I likely would have walked right past this alley if I hadn’t been intentionally slowing down and exploring every nook and cranny of the neighborhood. It was the kind of overlooked, in-between space that often catches my attention when I’m out shooting street photography.

  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:39
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/6.4
  • Classic Chrome film simulation

If you’d like to see more from this area, you can find other related posts (1-minute reads), with links to sources for a deeper dive here:


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Uohama in Ueno

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Echoes of the Showa Era in Ameya-Yokocho

上野・アメ横に残る昭和の記憶と賑わい


After visiting Marishiten Tokudai-ji Temple (see previous post), I wandered into Ameya-Yokocho, where the colorful storefront of Uohama Ameyoko-ten immediately caught my attention. This traditional izakaya in Ueno, Tokyo, announces itself with rows of paper lanterns, signaling a classic, old-school atmosphere amid the dense cluster of eateries that define this lively shopping district.

Ameya-Yokocho is home to more than 400 small shops, many tightly packed beneath the elevated train tracks that run between JR Ueno Station and Okachimachi Station. Despite the visual noise and constant flow of people, Uohama Ameyoko-ten stands out. Its oversized tuna replica and glowing chochin lanterns draw the eye upward, almost obscuring the fact that the pub itself is tucked beneath the rumbling tracks above.

While researching the backstory of this izakaya, I learned that it is one of many eateries operated by a larger corporation led by Yoshinobu Hamakura, an unconventional CEO by Japanese standards. Known for his late-Showa-era fashion and flamboyant personal style, Hamakura presents a sharp contrast to the stereotypical image of a conservative, dark-suited Japanese executive.

Hamakura has focused on opening restaurants in former fishmongers’ and grocers’ spaces that were often forced to close as low-cost supermarket chains gained dominance. Rather than discarding what came before, he brings former proprietors into his businesses, valuing their expertise in food quality and their long-standing relationships with fishermen and farmers who supply the ingredients used in each establishment.

A common thread running through Hamakura’s ventures, including the storefront I photographed here, is a desire to revive the optimism and energy of the late Showa era for the generations of Japanese Millennials and Gen Z. These generations have grown up amid decades of stagnant wages and muted expectations, and these spaces aim to counter that mood. 

Beyond nostalgic décor and eye-catching façades, Hamakura’s establishments often incorporate elements of traditional festival culture that incorporate music, dance, and communal participation on a local, intimate scale. In doing so, he wants to encourage interaction among patrons, staff, and neighbors, helping pass down lively traditions that might otherwise fade.

Walking through districts like Ameya-Yokocho inevitably stirs personal reflection. Many of my own old neighborhood haunts have shuttered as proprietors retired or passed away without successors. While market forces ensure that change is inevitable, I cherished those small shops not for bargain prices or branding, but for the human connections we fostered. 

Casual conversations over coffee beans, the familiarity of a local dry cleaner, or a quick visit to replace a watch battery created everyday moments of warmth and community that I fondly remember. Stores like Uohama Ameyoko-ten feel like they are making a  sincere effort to preserve that spirit in a rapidly changing urban landscape.
  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・13:16
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/4.5
  • Velvia/Vivid film simulation
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Copyright Notice for All Images:
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Tokudaiji Temple

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  • Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・12:58
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/2.8
  • Classic Negative film simulation


New Year Prayers at Marishiten Tokudai-ji, Tokyo
上野・摩利支天徳大寺で祈る新年のひととき


Located in the heart of Ueno’s Ameya-Yokocho shopping district in Tokyo’s Taitō Ward, Marishiten Tokudai-ji Temple (摩利支天徳大寺) is dedicated to the Buddhist goddess Marishiten (摩利支天).

In Japan, Marishiten came to be revered as a guardian deity of the samurai. During the Edo period, she was also worshipped by the merchant class as a goddess of wealth, prosperity, and protection.

Although the exact date of Tokudai-ji’s founding is unknown, the temple appears in the Complete Map of Edo (寛永江戸全図; Kan’ei Edo Zenzu) from 1642. This places its establishment sometime during the Kan’ei era (February 1624–December 1644).

A statue of Marishiten was enshrined at the temple in 1708, after which Tokudai-ji gained popularity among both samurai and merchants in Edo (modern-day Tokyo).

The temple’s original buildings were destroyed by fires following the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 and later during the firebombing of Tokyo in 1945. Remarkably, the statue of Marishiten survived both disasters. As a result, many devotees today also pray to the goddess for protection against calamities. The current temple structure dates to 1964.

During my visit, I was somewhat surprised to encounter a life-size marble statue of a boar, its back polished smooth by the hands of visitors rubbing it for good fortune. Marishiten is often depicted in a fierce, warrior-like form, holding weapons while standing or seated atop a boar, or riding in a chariot drawn by seven boars.

The wild boar is traditionally associated with strength and resilience. According to a nearby plaque, rubbing the statue is believed to bestow spiritual and physical strength, as well as financial prosperity.

In this photograph, banners and vertical signboards announce the temple’s New Year Grand Festival Prayer Meeting, held on a reservation basis. Framed by vermilion railings and lanterns, visitors move steadily up the stone steps with some already returning to the flow of Ameya-Yokocho. The temple grounds offered a brief moment of calm and intention tucked inside one of Tokyo’s most energetic shopping streets before I continued my photowalk into the surrounding market.

Links to Google Maps and sources for a deeper dive:

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  •  Location: Ameya-Yokocho, Taito Ward, Tokyo
  • Timestamp: 2026/01/02・12:58
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 320 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5.6
  • Provia/Standard film simulation


Copyright Notice for All Images:
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2026-01-01

Oshogatsu

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A Quiet Start to the New Year with Osechi Ryori

お節料理とともに始まる静かな新年


Osechi dishes are traditional Japanese foods eaten on New Year’s Day. They are typically served in special stacked boxes called jūbako (重箱), which resemble bentō boxes and are often beautifully lacquered. I don’t own any such elegant containers, so my sister-in-law made do with my everyday tableware.

The origins of osechi date back to the Nara period (710–794) and Heian period (794–1185), when early forms of these dishes were prepared for ceremonies associated with annual imperial events.

During the Muromachi period (1336–1573), osechi dishes became more common among feudal lords and the samurai class. By the Edo period (1603–1868), economic growth, particularly among the merchant class, allowed osechi to spread to townspeople, making it a more familiar part of New Year celebrations.

Today, osechi consists of a variety of traditional foods, each prepared and presented with symbolic meaning. Together, the dishes express wishes for good health, longevity, prosperity, a bountiful harvest, success in life, and financial well-being in the coming year.

Below is a breakdown of what we served on New Year’s Day at our home. While my sister-in-law and father-in-law were familiar with the symbolism of osechi, the sheer number of dishes made it hard to recall every meaning, so we checked several online resources. Interestingly, some of the most complete explanations we could find came from Japan Post (the national postal carrier) and Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Main Osechi Plate
  • Buri no teriyaki (鰤の焼き物): Grilled yellowtail, symbolizing success and promotion
  • Datemaki (伊達巻): Sweet rolled omelet with fish paste, associated with learning and culture
  • Kamaboko (蒲鉾・紅白): Red-and-white fish cake, a symbol of celebration and good fortune
  • Kuromame (黒豆): Sweet black soybeans, representing long life and good health
  • Kuri kinton (栗きんとん): Mashed sweet potato with chestnuts, symbolizing wealth and prosperity
  • Kōhaku namasu (紅白なます): Pickled daikon and carrot, expressing wishes for peace and harmony
  • Tazukuri (田作り): Candied dried sardines, traditionally linked to hopes for an abundant harvest

Side Dishes
  • Ozōni (お雑煮): New Year’s soup with mochi, carrot, spinach, and shiitake mushroom
  • Chikuzen-ni / Nimono (筑前煮): Simmered root vegetables (taro, carrot, lotus root, shiitake, konnyaku, and chicken)
  • Kakuni-style simmered pork (豚の角煮風): Braised pork belly served with greens
  • Hōjicha / Bancha tea (ほうじ茶・番茶): Served alongside the meal
  • Tataki-gobō (たたきごぼう): Pounded burdock root

Decorative/Seasonal Elements
  • Nandina berries (南天): Used decoratively and believed to ward off misfortune, adding both beauty and a sense of protection to the home.

  • Location: Yokohama, Japan
  • Timestamp: New Year’s Day 2026
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 3200 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/2
  • Astia/Soft & Provia film simulations

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2025-12-31

New Year's Eve

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A Quiet New Year’s Eve with Toshikoshi Soba
静かな大晦日、年越し蕎麦の時間


A traditional Japanese New Year’s Eve is often marked by a visit to a local shrine or temple. At home, however, the customary meal is toshikoshi soba (年越し蕎麦), which consists of buckwheat noodles eaten to mark the passing of the year.

This tradition is believed to have become widespread during the mid-Edo period (1603–1867), particularly in the 18th century. According to the Tokyo Soba Association, the symbolism behind toshikoshi soba lies in the nature of the noodles themselves: their long, thin shape represents longevity, while their fragility makes them easy to cut, symbolizing the act of severing misfortune from the year just passed and welcoming the New Year with a clean slate.

The New Year’s soba prepared at home for this meal included the following:

The main dish consisted of buckwheat noodles served in a light soy-based broth, topped with sliced green onions, pink-and-white kamaboko (fish cake), and spinach.

Three side dishes accompanied the soba: kakiage tempura (かき揚げ), a mixed vegetable fritter made with sliced onions, carrots, and shrimp; inari sushi (稲荷寿司), featuring sushi rice tucked inside sweetened fried tofu pockets; and tsukemono (漬物), a selection of pickled vegetables including daikon (Japanese radish) and purple pickles. To finish, the soba was seasoned with shichimi tōgarashi (七味唐辛子), a fragrant seven-spice chili blend traditionally sprinkled over noodles.

The past year has been a challenging one, as it often is. Still, as this meal symbolizes renewal and letting go, I quietly hope that the coming year will bring steadier days, better health, and fewer hardships than the one before.
  • Location: Yokohama, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/12/31・21:45
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • 23 mm ISO 160 for 1/8 sec. at ƒ/2.2
  • Provia/Standard film simulation

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2025-09-02

Penny Lane

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  • Location: Nasu Town, Tochigi Pref., Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・15:35
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 48 mm ISO 3200 for 1/160 sec. at ƒ/6.3

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  • Location: Nasu Town, Tochigi Pref., Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・15:36
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 3200 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/5.6

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  • Location: Nasu Town, Tochigi Pref., Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・15:38
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 3200 for 1/125 sec. at ƒ/3.5

Rain-Soaked Nostalgia at Penny Lane Bakery, Nasu
雨に包まれた那須・ペニーレーンベーカリーの静かな時間


Established in June 2009, this bakery and restaurant takes its name from the Beatles’ 1967 hit single “Penny Lane,” a song inspired by a real street in the Mossley Hill area of south Liverpool. From the start, the reference sets a nostalgic tone that feels intentionally transported far from Japan, yet comfortably familiar.

After spending time along the Kinomata River with my border collie, Dale-chan, we made our way here because the bakery offers outdoor seating and welcomes dogs. I had imagined a short break to relax together, but by the time we arrived, the rain showed no signs of easing as the wet terraces and glistening benches in the photos clearly reveal.

I picked up a few pastries to enjoy during the two-hour drive back to Yokohama. Toward the back of the bakery is a restaurant space, and what immediately stood out was the sheer density of Beatles-related memorabilia. Posters, photographs, cups, and collectibles filled nearly every shelf, wall, and hidden corner, all accompanied by a steady soundtrack of Beatles songs playing throughout the shop.

I enjoy some Beatles songs, though I wouldn’t describe myself as a devoted fan. The owner of Penny Lane, however, clearly is. Thinking about it more, many of the passionate Beatles fans I know in Japan are my parents’ age; people who came of age during the 1960s and 70s. In fact, the parents of many of my friends are the ones who have kept the spirit of Beatlemania alive here. Through them, I was exposed to a lot of Beatles music in the 1980s and early 1990s, and as a result, certain songs now carry a quiet sense of nostalgia for me, decades later.

If I were to open an artist-themed café or bakery of my own, choosing just one influence would be difficult. Madonna, U2, David Bowie, Cher, The Smiths, Depeche Mode, The Cure, Sia, or Tom Jones would all be strong contenders, albeit with a very different vibe.

Returning to Penny Lane itself, the element that most captured my camera’s lens was the setting. Lush greenery surrounds the buildings, softened by rain and filtered light, while elegant street lamps cast a warm amber glow throughout the grounds. I don’t know whether this particular style of lamp is common on the streets of Liverpool, but they are a familiar sight in Yokohama, especially along waterfront parks and rose gardens, where many were imported from the U.K. at the turn of the 20th century. In that sense, Penny Lane felt less like an imitation and more like a quiet convergence of places and eras to me.

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Kinomata River

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Finding Stillness in the Waters of the Kinomata River

木の俣川の流れの中で感じたひとときの静寂


The Kinomata River (木の俣川; Kinomata-gawa) flows south from the steep southern slope of Mt. Megadake (女鹿岳; Mega-dake), dropping from roughly 1,700 m (5,577 ft) down to about 500 m (1,640 ft). This 1,200 m (3,937 ft) elevation loss over a short distance of only 17 km (10 mi) gives the river a surprisingly dynamic character, not unlike rivers such as the Little White Salmon in Washington State, the Highwood River in Alberta, or the Afon Glaslyn in Wales.

Despite its energy upstream, the Kinomata River is also known for its crystal-clear water and remarkably cold temperatures, even at the height of summer. The river falls under the jurisdiction of Nasushiobara City, which has invested heavily in preserving the area while keeping it accessible. Low-cost parking, clean lavatory facilities, and well-maintained trails and bridges make the river approachable for a wide range of visitors from elderly couples strolling under the shade of broadleaf trees to young families seeking a cool, nature-filled escape.

For visitors from the Tokyo area, its relative proximity is another advantage: just 132 km (82 mi) north of the metropolis, it takes about 2.5 hours by car when leaving before sunrise, as I did from my home in Yokohama. The river’s gem-blue color is also a major draw. This striking hue comes from the purity of the water and the way tiny mineral particles scatter the sunlight, producing a luminous turquoise glow. These pristine conditions also support healthy populations of ayu sweetfish (Plecoglossus altivelis), which thrive in clean, well-oxygenated streams like this one.

Near the Kyogan Suspension Pedestrian Bridge, the flow of the river slows noticeably compared to the faster currents upstream. This creates several natural swimming holes where adults can wade shoulder-deep into calm water. I also saw sections where parents felt comfortable letting small children splash around in shallow, gentle currents. These calmer conditions gave me enough confidence to stand midstream with my camera, something I rarely get the chance to do, while my border collie, Dale-chan, happily played in the cool water beside me.

What lingered with me most was not any single feature of the Kinomata River, but the quiet rhythm of the flowing water and rustling leaves. The cool air was a welcome break after weeks of summer heat, and the deep greens of the forest seemed to absorb whatever noise I carried in my head.

A quick note of appreciation to FE Sorensen, who helped me curate this set of photos and offered a few fun observations along the way. She pointed out that the large moss-covered boulder with a tuft of grass on its edge almost resembles a fish, which to my mind’s eye, is a mix between a white catfish and a black rockfish; now that I see it, I can no longer unsee it.

Standing in the cold water with my camera while Dale-chan waded nearby, I felt a kind of stillness that’s hard to find in my day-to-day life in Yokohama. The slower-moving water near the swimming holes, the soft light under the forest canopy, and the subtle shifts in the river’s turquoise color gave me a brief but much-needed sense of reset.

Postscript:

For anyone considering a visit, parking is available from 07:00 to 18:00. The fee is ¥1,000 between April 1 and September 30, and free between October 1 and March 31. Weekends tend to be crowded, and the parking lot fills up quickly. I went on a weekday in midsummer, and even then most of the spaces were taken up mostly by local visitors.

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Finding Stillness in the Waters of the Kinomata River・木の俣川の流れの中で感じたひとときの静寂


A quiet section of the Kinomata River in Tochigi, Japan, where clear freshwater flows gently through lush mountain forest. I photographed this scene while standing in the cool river on a summer weekday, surrounded by deep green foliage and the soft sounds of moving water and rustling leaves. The calm atmosphere and shifting turquoise tones of the river offered a brief but welcome escape from the heat and noise of daily life.

  • Location: Nasushiobara, Tochigi Pref., Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・14:14
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 53 mm ISO 100 for 0.4 sec. at ƒ/9
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Cooling Off with My Border Collie in the Kinomata River
愛犬と一緒に、木の俣川の清流でクールダウン


The Kinomata River (木の俣川; Kinomata-gawa), its waters icy cold even in midsummer, flows south from the steep southern slope of Mt. Megadake (女鹿岳; Mega-dake) in Tochigi Prefecture, Japan. For Dale-chan, it was a fun escape from the summer heat of our urban home in Yokohama, offering the perfect combination of cold mountain water and wide-open forest scenery.

This stretch of the river includes walking trails on both sides of the shoreline and is a popular destination for locals, especially young families and groups of students enjoying their summer break. On weekends, the riverbank fills with the sounds of children splashing, couples picnicking beneath the trees, and hikers making their way down from the surrounding foothills.

Near the Kyogan Suspension Pedestrian Bridge, which is located about 520 meters (1,700 feet) downstream from the Kinomata-Enchi Kyogan-Tsuribashi Parking Lot, the flow of the river slows noticeably. Here, a series of natural swimming holes have formed: calm, shoulder-deep pools for adults and broad shallows where parents play with toddlers in gentle, ankle-high currents. The water is clear enough to see every stone on the riverbed, softened by the shade of dense summer greenery.

Although the first step into the water was enough to make me gasp, the chill quickly becomes refreshing. I stood midstream with my camera, letting the cold run around my calves while I worked on a few landscape and pet portraits. Dale-chan waited patiently beside me with her ears perked, dripping wet, and periodically seemed to beg me to splash her with more water. 

Moments like these are what make photographing Japan’s mountain rivers so rewarding: a blend of natural beauty, quiet forest air, and the simple joy of sharing the scene with my loyal companion.

  • Location: Nasushiobara, Tochigi Pref., Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・13:56
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 105 mm ISO 1600 for 1/200 sec. at ƒ/5.6
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After the Storm, Kinomata River Falls Silent
嵐の前、静けさに包まれる木の俣川


A storm was beginning to roll into the Kinomata Valley, where the Kinomata River has carved a winding mountain stream through lush vegetation. Fed by frigid waters flowing down the steep southern slopes of Mt. Megadake (女鹿岳; Mega-dake), the river moved gently through the forest, its clarity revealing every stone beneath the surface.

Just before I took this photograph, distant thunder echoed through the valley, sending the other visitors hurrying back to their cars. Within minutes, the riverbanks, shallow swimming holes, and quiet woodlands were left entirely to me and my border collie. The sudden solitude made the moment feel even more special.

Of the three rivers I’ve visited this year (including the Kawamata River and Gosensui River), the Kinomata River has quickly become one of my favorites. Its remote location keeps it far from boisterous crowds, yet it remains easily accessible by car. The shallow, gently flowing water also makes it a safe and enjoyable place for Dale-chan to wade and explore alongside me.

On my next visit, I’d like to come during the rainy season or arrive just after sunrise, before other visitors appear. I’m especially hoping to capture a glimpse of ayu sweetfish (Plecoglossus altivelis), which are said to thrive in these pristine waters.

After enduring weeks of intense heatwaves while making field visits throughout the Tokyo metropolis for my day job, I felt deeply grateful to have a day off and escape to the cooler air of the Nasu Highlands. Exploring one of its narrow, jagged river valleys felt like discovering a small piece of paradise, especially one that I could share with my dog.

I’m also thankful for a chance encounter with a local housewife I met while visiting the Aoki Villa (see my post from Nov. 27), who was out walking her dog. When I asked about dog-friendly spots loved by locals, she warmly recommended this stretch of river. Thanks to that brief conversation, I was able to experience a place I might otherwise have missed.

  • Location: Nasushiobara, Tochigi Prefecture, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/09/02・14:27
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 800 for 1/160sec. at ƒ/4

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