Mid-April. A walk from Aoba-an: 古縁光 (Ko-en-kō) — “Ancient connections, touched by light.”
Lately, I’ve been drawn inland.
Most folks in Takahama wander toward the ocean — toward Ebisu’s blue mirror and the morning breeze off the bay. But something this spring has called me away from salt and sand, back toward the mountain’s edge, where the road bends past tea and time.
I leave Aoba-an just after first light.
The house sleeps behind me as I step into the cool hush of a mid-April morning. The plum blossoms are mostly gone now, and the cherry trees are just beginning to stretch themselves open.
I pass low houses and shrines tucked behind garden walls, and follow the slope toward the Tochucha tea fields. The scent of leaf and soil hangs in the air. The processing plant hums softly — a mechanical exhale in the quiet countryside.
Or maybe it’s just my imagination, the lingering taste of hot tochucha still on my lips from earlier that morning.
Then I see it — not far from the base of the mountain.
A rise in the earth.
Subtle. Overgrown. But unmistakable.
The kofun.
I’ve passed it before, but never stopped like this. The shape is gentle, thick with bamboo — like a sleeping back, rounded by centuries.
It doesn’t ask for attention — it remembers. That’s enough.
And then, Daisan.
“The earth does not forget what the sea has carried ashore.”
He’s right, of course.
This mound dates to the Kofun period — perhaps 1,500 years old. A resting place for a local chieftain, one of the salt lords of ancient Wakasa.
Grave goods found in nearby mounds — bronze mirrors, Korean-style earrings, imported metalwork — speak of a world far broader than this quiet valley suggests.
Maybe he came from the peninsula.
Maybe he married into a Korean clan.
Maybe the bloodlines here still carry that salt — that story.
There are Koreans here still.
I think of them often.
Like the night I wandered into Yakiniku Kashin, back in mid-January. My first month at Aoba-an. A cold one.
Tomoko — a yado owner from Kyoto — had come to help.
A nurse, a climber, a friend.
Her hands know how to build, and her laugh heals walls as well as wounds.
We patched the front rooms with shikkui and sweaters — a skill we learned together on a recent trip to Kyoto, now eager to share with Aoba-an.
A renovation ritual by firelight and faith.
A dance with ancient limestone plaster — a process I now believe all couples should do together, to test compatibility before vows are exchanged.
That night, we were hungry. The dark wrapped around the village, and we were sure nothing was open.
But then — the scent of charcoal.
Kashin.
Inside: warmth, meat, and memory. Kimchi and cuts we couldn’t name.
We ate until the day’s edges blurred.
Liam, my brother from Canada, was with us too.
Fueled by the manic joy of meat and miso, the two of them decided to climb Aoba-yama at dawn.
I declined.
Snow covered the ridge, waist-deep in places.
But they found a path — small animal tracks guiding them upward.
Liam would later say:
“If those tracks hadn’t been there, it could’ve been bad.”
Maybe it was a wild boar.
Or a hunter from long ago.
Or maybe — the woman in white, seen once near this very kofun, watching the sea from behind a boy’s shoulder.
Not to haunt.
To guide.
I leave a sprig of pine near the mound, then continue.
The trail leads me down into the rice fields — newly prepped, some already planted.
Their mirrored water now tipping toward green.
The valley opens, quiet except for frogs and the low murmur of wind.
It is April, and everything is unfolding again.
I swing up through the forest, where cedar shadows stretch long, then loop past Herbal Village — rosemary and mugwort pushing through stone.
One final stop: Nakayama-dera.
I pause at the gate at the top of the stone stairs.
The sea appears again in the distance, framed by red beams and blue sky.
I bow slightly — a thank you to the morning, to spring, to the stories still held in soil.
The path winds down toward the tennis park, where a boy and girl toss a ball, their laughter skipping ahead of them like sunlight on water.
I wonder if it was this boy who saw the woman in white sitting atop the mound — so the story goes…
I descend, and arrive back at Aoba-an.
I am blessed to be here.
And humbled by how deeply each path around speaks — if we walk slowly, between sea and mountains — enough to listen.
Daisan’s Whisper
「海が運んだものを、山は静かに守っている。」
“What the sea once carried, the mountain now quietly keeps.”
Three Kanji for the Path
古 (Ko) — Ancient
縁 (En) — Connection / Fate
光 (Hikari) — Light
古縁光 (Ko-en-kō) — “Ancient connections, touched by light.”
Postscript — Where the Story Feeds Us Now
I don’t know if the man beneath the kofun had Korean blood.
But I know this: Korea still lives here — not in textbooks, but in kitchens. In warmth.
In oil and laughter.
There’s Cafe Zoo, nestled just beyond the familiar curve of the road.
A Korean mother and her daughter run it — part café, part gathering place.
Genbatsu staff come to throw darts.
Surfers from Nabae lean in to share tales of waves they haven’t quite caught.
Ryokan okamisans and locals sing karaoke on Saturday nights — off-key, unapologetic.
And me?
It was the first place I visited after I became the caretaker of Aoba-an.
I’ve returned many times since — to sip cold beer, devour seafood pizza, and dip the best fries in town into something sweet and healing.
Then there’s Noboko — my spot for tonkatsu, kaki fry, and karaage.
Run by a generational Korean family whose quiet smiles have fed this town for decades.
It’s a local favorite. And also a sacred stop for solitary riders from Kyoto — those who chart their pilgrimages by the teishoku plates they remember best.
They ride to the sea.
Eat.
And return.
Salt, fire, and memory — Not unlike the man in the mound.
Daisan says:
“Even gods get hungry.”
English 
日本語