Upon arriving at Demachiyanagi Station in the morning, a cool wind across the water surface gently brushed my cheek. The journey to “Ohara – Mount Hiei – Sakamoto” begins here. Looking out over the delta where the Kamo and Takano Rivers merge, the sparkle of the water hit my eyes, as if celebrating the start of the trip.

As the Eizan Electric Railway train rattled onward, the townscape receded, and thick greenery pressed in outside the window. Even the sound of the carriage creaking sounded like a tune that made my heart leap.

After transferring to a bus and arriving at the first destination, “Ohara,” the air completely changed. The babbling of the river, the sound of birds. From the pickle barrels lining the approach to the temple, the sour scent of shibazuke (pickled shiso eggplant) wafted, tickling my nose. Walking along the moss-covered stone path and passing through the Sanzen-in Temple gate, nestled in the sunbeams filtering through the trees, I felt the flow of time softly shift.

Sitting down in the garden, a flower petal fluttered down onto the carpet of moss. A faint sound of a bell melted into the mountains. Here, even my own breathing became a part of nature.

Ohara was once the terminus of the “Saba Kaido” (Mackerel Road) that transported mackerel from Wakasa to Kyoto. Merchants carrying the scent of the sea were said to have crossed the pass and arrived at this village. The remnants of the bustle created by that traffic still lie hidden deep within this quiet mountain village.

The Oharame—women from Ohara—dressed in indigo cotton kimonos, with a head towel and a bundle of firewood on their heads. In their dignified posture, I felt a beauty and fortitude that transcended the ages.

The air of Ohara was somehow nostalgic. Life and prayer, daily work and stillness seemed to overlap in a single breath.

Leaving Ohara, I headed for the second destination, “Mount Hiei.” As the cable car ascended the slope, the rustling of the trees enveloped my ears, and the wind on my skin grew colder.

Upon reaching the summit, the view that unfolded before me was Lake Biwa to the east and Kyoto to the west. I was speechless at the height that embraced these two landscapes.

Stepping onto the grounds of Enryakuji Temple, mist drifted between the cedar groves, gently enveloping the roofs of the temple buildings. This is the head temple of the Tendai school of Buddhism, the mother mountain of Japanese Buddhism. The “Fumetsu no Hoto” (Inextinguishable Dharma Light) flickering in the darkness of the Konpon Chudo (main hall) is a symbol of prayer that has burned for over 1,200 years. Gazing at that flame, I felt my own existence quietly dissolving into the endless flow of time.

Beside the approach to the temple, the footprints of gyoja (ascetics) engaged in rigorous training continued. The Sennichi Kaihōgyō (Thousand-Day Circumambulation)—I recalled the sight of the ascetics called Ajari (Acharya) becoming one with nature as they repeated prayers and severe austerities, and my heart quietly trembled. This mountain itself seemed like a living sutra.

Descending the mountain, I took the Sakamoto Cable Car. From the window of the carriage, slowly moving along the longest line in Japan, Lake Biwa shone blue, as if I were being drawn into its surface.
Arriving in the town of “Sakamoto,” the third destination, I was greeted by magnificently piled stone walls. Anotsumi—the precise technique of the Anoshu stonemasons. The stone walls, built using natural stones as they were, remain completely stable even after 400 years. I felt as if the sound of the stones being set still echoed in the earth like a distant heartbeat.

The last place I visited was Hiyoshi Taisha Shrine. Beyond the vermilion-lacquered tower gate, a primeval forest spread out. Hiyoshi Taisha Shrine is situated at the foot of Mount Hiei and was founded about 2,100 years ago, serving as the Sohon-gu (head shrine) for over 3,800 branch shrines nationwide. This grove has protected Enryakuji Temple and watched over the town of Sakamoto. Every time the wind rustled the branches and leaves, light poured down, as if the entire mountain were praying.

Walking along the approach, the sweet scent of grilled dango (rice dumplings) wafted. I took one and brought it to my mouth. The savory flavor spreading with the aroma gently signaled the end of the journey.
The wind I had felt at Demachiyanagi in the morning once again brushed my cheek in the twilight of Sakamoto.

That’s when I realized. This trip was not just following a path. The sound of the water in Ohara, the flame on Mount Hiei, the coolness of the stone in Sakamoto—all of it is still alive as the breath of a thousand years of history. Looking back, the lingering feeling of the journey was still pulsing deep within my chest. As if Mount Hiei itself were still gently speaking to me.