The Walk of Ropoyaki

A story-walk with Asha through the fog, the forest, and a warm red bean sweet

This walk — like the treat it’s named after — has six sides.

Six gentle angles. Six flavors of place.

It’s a loop of land and story, folded like a Ropoyaki sweet: simple on the outside, quietly rich within.

I took the walk again today, this time with Asha — a quiet, observant mapmaker staying at Aoba-an for five days. Half Nepalese, half Japanese, she’s spent the last year flowing between places: volunteering at a coffee farm in Costa Rica, studying sustainable design in Denmark, drifting through Kyoto like a leaf in water. Her rhythm matched the walk — slow, aware, and wide open.

As we passed the ridge near the first bend, we saw the old carpenter — the Door Maker, hunched over his woodblock, eyes just visible beneath his cap. He looked up, paused a moment, then muttered:

“トッドさん…いい奥さんだなあ。”
Todd-san… what a beautiful young wife you have…

I laughed. Asha blinked. And later, at the Autumn Festival, I made sure to tell him with a smile that she wasn’t my wife — just a student, a guest, a quiet walker of forest paths. He grinned, toothpick in mouth.

That moment marked the start of our loop.
We stepped into the first of six stages.

⸻

① Door Maker Agari

Where the walk begins — and something opens.

This first stage is both literal and symbolic: a gentle rise through narrow lanes where time thickens. The homes here wear their carpentry like old kimono — cedar slats, carved eaves, whispering hinges.

These were the Door Maker’s grounds. He and others like him shaped temples and tea rooms across the region. Walking here feels like entering something — not just a route, but a rhythm.

⸻

② Nakadera Uma

Where a white horse stood above the sea.

The temple sits quietly above the bay, watching like an old sailor. The story passed down is this:

Long ago, fishermen were caught in a thick fog offshore.
They had no bearings, no horizon — just white all around.
Then one of them looked up and saw it —
A white horse, glowing against the sky, standing motionless at Nakayama Dera.
They turned toward it. The fog parted.
They made it home.

Asha paused here, sketchbook half open. Mist was rising off the sea. She said nothing — but I wondered if she’d seen the outline, too.

⸻

③ Inoshishi Path

Where fear narrows the trail.

This is the wild stretch. Less a path, more a suggestion.
It was here that a wandering monk once startled a wild boar. Startled himself, he fled — slipping down a ravine slick with springwater. Midway down, he grabbed a root and hung there.

Above: the boar.
Below: another one, waiting.
No way forward. No way back.

But beside him, nestled in the moss, grew one perfect strawberry.

⸻

④ Mori no Michi (Sagari)

Where descent brings quiet.

This forest stretch is thick with bamboo and shadow. The path softens. The slope humbles you. We walked in near silence, footfalls muffled in moss and leaf.

It’s here the monk made his choice.
He let go of fear.
He picked the strawberry.
He tasted it.

Juicy. Sweet. Now.
In that moment, the past and future faded.
There was only presence.

⸻

⑤ Ropoyaki

Where sweetness returns.

The shop sits low and unassuming — Daijirō, known only to those who walk or rise early.
Ohagi told me about it years ago. “Opens at 6. Go while it’s still warm.”

We did. And we did not regret it.

Ropoyaki is a simple sweet: red bean folded into lightly baked dough, six-sided and soft.
Asha held hers for a while before biting in.

“It’s like the strawberry,” she said.
“But with a recipe.”

We laughed, but I think she was right.

⸻

⑥ Okaeri or Kawa no Michi

Where every return is a choice.

The final stretch splits.
One path hugs the river — quiet, slow, winding.
The other cuts back toward Aoba-an, where tea waits and sandals dry on the stone step.

We took the Okaeri path — “Welcome home.”
But the water path remains, always.

⸻

Epilogue

Back at Aoba-an, we set our shoes aside and stepped onto the cool wooden floor.
Asha turned back for a moment and looked out toward the trees.

The white horse was the mountain.
The strawberry… was the moment.
The sweet bean cake — Ropoyaki — was the treat.

She smiled.
The walk was over. But something stayed.