Exploring Kyoto: Shokoku-ji Temple – Kamigoryo Shrine – Shimogamo Shrine – Kawai Shrine & Kamogawa Park

After class that day, I had a slight headache and was planning to go home. But as soon as I stepped out of the school gate, I saw white clouds parting to reveal patches of blue sky, and the air was so cool and pleasant that I felt it would be a shame to waste such a perfect walking day. Sitting on a stone bench on campus, I flipped open my map and set my sights on Shimogamo Shrine, thus beginning today’s ramble.

Cutting across campus, I exited the east gate and turned left. In the distance I spotted an imposing temple gate. Approaching it, I saw a tall stone stele on the left inscribed with large characters: Daihonzan Shokoku-ji. In the classic Chinese novel Water Margin, Lu Zhishen uprooted a willow tree while gardening at the Daxiangguo Temple in the capital—who would have thought Kyoto had a temple with the same name.

Let’s read the introduction first. This temple is the head temple of the Shokoku-ji branch of the Rinzai school of Zen, one of the largest Zen temples in Kyoto, with twelve sub-temples (tatchu) in its precincts. It was founded by Ashikaga Yoshimitsu, the third shogun of the Muromachi shogunate. Ashikaga Yoshimitsu? The name sounds so familiar. Right, isn’t he the shogun who was always being outwitted by the clever monk Ikkyu in that anime? Yes, that’s him. But he was nothing like the buffoon depicted in the cartoon. Like the Kangxi Emperor, he came to power at a young age, inheriting the shogunate at only eleven years old, yet he harbored the ambition to reunify the Northern and Southern Courts. With the support and guidance of Shun’oku Myōha, the abbot of Tenryu-ji (what a name!), he made a grand vow to build a great Zen monastery. After ten years of construction, Shokoku-ji was completed in 1392.

There’s another temple associated with Ashikaga Yoshimitsu: Kinkaku-ji, a must-see for anyone visiting Kyoto. But Shokoku-ji seems little known by comparison. In fact, it ranks second among the Kyoto Gozan (Five Great Zen Temples), holding a very high position. Its temple complex and architecture are broad and dignified, and the main hall in particular is the finest surviving example of a Zen-style structure from the Momoyama period. Over its 600-plus-year history, it was burned down four times, including during the Ōnin War. The current buildings were reconstructed under the patronage of Toyotomi Hideyori.

Entering through the main gate, on the left was the life-release pond brimming with white and pale pink lotuses, each with a little placard giving names like ‘Intoxicated Concubine’ and ‘Buddha Throne Lotus.’ An arched stone bridge spanned the middle of the pond. Verdant pines and cypresses lined the path, half-hiding the small sub-temples. Some were open to enter; others had a single bamboo pole barring the door—but you could still peek inside and see every courtyard immaculately swept, with elegant flowers and trees.

Because the entire temple complex is free to enter (just think of the admission fees at temples back home—an insult to Buddhism!), I saw students on bikes whizzing along the flagstone paths, and almost no one stopping to look around.

The pagoda to the left of the main hall.

This is the main hall. It houses a statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, but what it’s most famous for is the coiled dragon painted on the ceiling. Painted by the renowned artist Kanō Mitsunobu, it’s said that when the monks chant sutras, the echoes sound like a dragon’s roar, hence its nickname ‘Nakiryū’ (the Roaring Dragon). Unfortunately, the dragon painting is only on display each spring from late March to early June. I’d come just days after the exhibition ended, so I had no chance to see it.

The uniquely styled bell tower. And a glittering Inari shrine.

This courtyard seemed to be a training hall; the sign at the door read ‘No Visitors’—an intriguing phrase.

The abbot’s quarters and the kitchen-office.

Shokoku-ji promotes the oneness of painting and Zen, so it has produced many artistically gifted ink painters, such as Josetsu and Shūbun, as well as Shūbun’s disciple Sesshū—all celebrated masters in Japan. As a result, it has its own museum, the Jotenkaku Museum. The museum charges admission, but the garden of Jotenkaku can be browsed freely. The trees are trimmed into immaculate shapes.

Exiting Shokoku-ji’s west gate, I headed north. Many small temples and shrines lined the road.

After about ten minutes, I turned right and soon saw a stone torii gate. This is Goryo Shrine. Because there’s another Goryo Shrine near Kodo Hall to the south, this one is also called ‘Kamigoryo Shrine.’

People in the Heian period believed that epidemics, natural disasters, and calamities were caused by vengeful spirits and resentful ghosts. Back then, aristocrats fought fiercely for power, and fratricidal conflicts were common. The losers in those struggles, as the saying goes, couldn’t even die in peace, and their burning resentment turned into grudges that drifted over Kyoto, bringing plagues and disasters as revenge. To soothe these vengeful spirits, shrines had to be built to enshrine and honor them, and this shrine is mostly home to such spirits. You could say it was a shrine built to keep the capital safe. But peace did not last as people had hoped. In 1467, a clash over shogunal succession unfolded right here, marking the start of the infamous Ōnin War. In that decade-long conflict, the Heian capital was almost reduced to ruins. The nearby Shokoku-ji was, of course, destroyed, and Kinkaku-ji’s buildings were nearly all lost to it as well.

Even so, the rites to appease vengeful spirits have continued without interruption. The Goryo Festival that originated here later evolved into the famous Gion Festival. Those lucky enough to be in Kyoto in mid-July can witness its grand spectacle.

Now that peace has finally arrived, the shrine exudes a tranquil atmosphere. In the grounds, there’s a stone monument inscribed with a haiku by the master Basho.

There’s also a thatched gate with a panel explaining the art of cogon grass knotting. Cogon grass is said to have purifying properties.

Leaving the shrine and heading east, I came to the Kamo River.

In Japanese, both ‘Kamo River’ and ‘Kamo River’ are pronounced Kamogawa, but upstream from where it merges with the Takase River, this stretch is written with the characters for ‘Kamo River.’

I was used to the bustling Kamo River around Shijo and Gojo, flowing amid buildings and traffic. But standing on Demachiyanagi Bridge today, I realized how wild and natural it is here. Cherry trees line both banks in neat rows. One year, we walked all the way from Kitayama to Shijo-Kawaramachi along the riverbank, and in full bloom, it felt like walking through colorful clouds. Now, looking out from the bridge, I could see ranges of mountains in the distance: Kitayama, Hiei-zan, Daimonji-yama, and even the sixteen peaks of Higashiyama all clearly visible. The clouds and sky reflected on the calm river surface—it was hard to believe this was still within Kyoto city.

Crossing the bridge and walking straight, I passed through quiet streets and soon spotted a sign for Shimogamo Shrine.

The official name of Shimogamo Shrine is Kamo-mioya Jinja, a World Heritage site. It’s one of Kyoto’s most venerable ancient shrines. Its location is very special. The Kamo River, fed by abundant spring water from the Kitayama mountains, flows down from the northwest and meets the Takase River coming from the northeast. At the confluence, a Y-shaped delta called ‘Tadasu-no-mori’ is formed, and Shimogamo Shrine stands guard on the north side of this delta.

It is said that before the capital moved to Heian-kyo, the local clan was surnamed Kamo (also written as ‘Kamo’—good heavens, it’s better to keep it as Kamo, or their son’s name would be a joke). This shrine was dedicated to their ancestral deities, hence the name ‘Kamo-mioya Jinja.’ After the capital shift, it gained the imperial court’s trust and developed into a grand shrine to protect the capital, growing ever more prosperous. Even the kitchen for preparing offerings (the Ōidono) became impressively large. The Aoi Festival, which originated here, is one of Kyoto’s three great festivals, rivaling the Gion Festival.

Passing through the large red gate with corridors on both sides, the many shrine buildings inside are all National Treasures. A unique feature is the several small altars in front of the main hall marked with the twelve Chinese zodiac signs—people are supposed to pray at the one corresponding to their birth year for it to be most effective.

Unlike the monks and nuns back home who peddle high-priced incense, temples and shrines here don’t push anything on you. Amulets, votive tablets (ema), and the like are entirely voluntary purchases. Devotees also make offerings by paying for cypress bark to re-roof the shrine buildings and for white stones to be used in the Shikinen Sengu ceremonial renewal of the shrine.

What are these white stones for?

Well, every twenty-one years, Shimogamo Shrine undergoes Shikinen Sengu. In the past, a new shrine would be built each time, but now that it’s a World Heritage site, only large-scale repairs are done. During Shikinen Sengu, white pebbles are spread on the ground to welcome the deities. There are as many as fifty thousand of them! In the old days, people would collect clean stones from the riverbank to donate to the shrine, but later it was forbidden to gather stones, so the old ones have to be washed clean and reused. The next Shikinen Sengu will be in April of next year, and these stones were all cleaned and placed here by worshippers.

Between the shrine buildings runs a quiet little stream crossed by a beautiful arched bridge. The water is channeled into a pond nearby for washing the white stones.

Between the tip of the delta and the shrine lies a large expanse of primeval forest known as Tadasu-no-mori. I have to admit I don’t know how to pronounce that character, but in Japanese it means ‘justice and correctness,’ probably signifying that the rites and judgments held at the shrine must be fair. A straight path cuts through the forest, and the moment you step in, you’re enveloped in coolness. Back in my student days, I used to come here every year for the secondhand book fair in this forest.

Tadasu-no-mori is home to over forty species of trees, and a clear stream winds its way under the shade.

At the edge of the forest, on the right, stands a small shrine called Kawai Shrine. The name, you can easily guess, comes from where two rivers meet. What makes it special are its ema. On these mirror-shaped votive tablets, you draw how you hope to look, and voilà—hello, beauty! Girls praying for good looks should definitely not miss it.

There are three classic essays representing medieval Japanese literature: Yoshida Kenkō’s Tsurezuregusa, Sei Shōnagon’s The Pillow Book, and Kamo no Chōmei’s Hōjōki. This is the ten-foot-square hut where Kamo no Chōmei wrote Hōjōki. It’s said that as he watched the Kamo River flow ceaselessly by, he had a revelation of life’s impermanence, so he retreated to the mountains and built a grass hut for writing. The structure of this hut is said to have been inspired by the way shrine buildings were constructed during Shikinen Sengu.

Leaving Shimogamo Shrine, I walked to the tip of the delta, to Kamogawa Park. That year during cherry blossom season, I had seen many university students here barbecuing and enjoying the blossoms, and I had felt so envious. Today, only a few leisurely elders and young mothers with children playing were here.

Standing on Kamo Ohashi, the first bridge over the Kamo River, it felt as though both rivers were slowly flowing into my embrace. On my left was Demachiyanagi Bridge, which I had crossed earlier; on the right, the bridge over the Takano River was called Kawai Bridge. I thought this bridge was prettier—what about you?

Back in the day, the Ohara women living in the mountains used to carry firewood and local produce down the Wakasa Kaido to sell in the capital. The first settlement they reached was right here, which is why this place is called ‘Demachi.’ To this day, there’s an old-fashioned stone pillar at the roadside—the Oharaguchi waymark, which is even a registered cultural property of Kyoto.

That earth-colored building over there is the Demachiyanagi Station of the Eizan Electric Railway, which goes up to Mount Hiei. For some reason, it reminds me of the ‘Nippori’ station mentioned in Lu Xun’s writing—both names carry a certain nostalgia that tugs at the heart.