There certain places in Japan that one would assume to be known all over the world. Tokyo with its flashing lights and a very lively night life. Kyoto, that's been there for ages now bathing under and covered with the cherry blossoms, is said to be one of the most peaceful places in the world. It is also surrounded by a lot of ancient mysteries and has a long history of sacred court intrigue. And on the other hand, there is Osaka which has always been known for its cheeky humor and wonderful food. Japan is known for those four cities, one would say. But everytime, you happen to come upon a different Japan, one that not even the locals are fully aware of, is there.
The Road Less Traveled
Nomurano isn’t a thing that is advertised in large letters on colorful travel brochures at Narita Airport or a sign that is easily noticeable while on the Tokaido Shinkansen line.
Even for Japanese people, Nomurano is a place, mentioning of which makes them think and rummage through their memory. “Where is that again?” someone might say, half-embarrassed, half-curious.
It is not a village, but it is still a town with no proper boundaries. Some people would refer to it as a hamlet that is covered with wooden houses somewhere in the middle of the northern mountain ranges of Honshu, Japan, with the houses being surrounded by rice paddies and bamboo groves. That is a type of place that sometimes people forget that it really exists, which is somewhere between the map and the myth and hanging onto the edge of memory.
On either side of the narrow, winding road that leads to Nomurano are the forests which seem to be leaning over the road as though they are trying to listen to some secret whispers. There is a small bus that only makes two trips a day. Its driver is an old man who knows every bend in the concrete road and every elderly woman who waves from her garden. If it is your lucky day, he will show you the best view of the valley that is right after the cedar shrine where the turn is and the hydrangeas bloom wild in June are just a little further on.
A Day in Nomurano
I got there on a rainy and damp morning. It was the end of the spring. I had my backpack and a camera which I couldn’t wait to use. The smell of the air was like it had gotten a shower in the night, with traces of moss and burned wood. This place doesn’t have a station but a weathered sign with “ようこそ” (welcome) written on it, leaning against a crooked fence.
This spot is a greeting by itself, no need to say more. The first impact I got was the silence. Not the silence of a ghost town, but a silence in which one could hear the birds, the water of a river and the wind passing through the trees. The inhabitants here have a slow pace of life, as if time was being thicker in the valley.
“Are you not from here, are you?” she asked with a smile when she saw me working on my camera. Her face was like a map of the world, covered with small lines of smiles. We spoke for a while - where I was coming from, where I was going and why someone from the US would choose to visit a place like Nomurano. “Most people want Tokyo,” she laughed. “But Tokyo doesn’t have these mountains.”
She was. These mountains are like old spiritual guardians that have been around forever, still covered with fog and memories, hugging Nomurano. At night, the stars are all over the sky with no lights from the cities blocking their view, it’s like you can reach out and catch them in your hands.
The Taste of Home
If you ever find yourself in Nomurano, don’t miss the chance to eat at the small soba shop next to the old shrine. The blue noren hanging at their door and the sound of clinking utensils and laughing customers will make it easy for you to spot it. Nakamura-san, the owner, prepares everything from scratch—he personally cuts the buckwheat noodles, picks the mountain vegetables for that day’s meal, and the broth is gently and deeply simmered.
There were just five tables. The moment I entered the place, all the heads turned, but not suspiciously, rather with the relaxed curiosity of people who are not used to strangers. Nakamura-san signaled me to come, he rolled tea, and said, “You know how to use chopsticks?” The dish he gave me was basic, modest, and perfect: slippery noodles and cold, a sauce for dipping bitter with wasabi and green onion, wild mushrooms that were as earthy as the forest outside.
We might say we talked, but actually, Nakamura-san told, and I caught the drift of his stories as I was lost in the flow. He recounted the past, when Nomurano was more lively, children running and laughing by the river and fireflies making the night shine. He told of snow that was so deep it covered doors, of festivals with lanterns floating on the river, of times when the whole valley was alive with the sound of drums and bells.
“Now it is a bit quieter,” he said, not in a depressing tone. “But the mountains have their time. So do we.”
Festivals and Spirits
Nomurano, too, has a festival that is not advertised and goes leisurely, takes place every July when the rice fields are getting green and lush. It is not something that is usually visible to outsiders, but sometimes, if you are lucky—or if the elders think that you are the right kind of person»—they will invite you to watch it.
Children in yukata run after the paper lanterns rolling down the slope, laughing as the lights bounce on the river. Old men bring out ancient drums and sing songs that even Google can’t translate. There is a dance, slow and circling, that everyone knows by heart even those who have left and come back only for this night.
No, it is not a spectacle. There are no fireworks, food stalls, no tourists with selfie sticks in their hands. And yet, there are the valley, the river, the people who love this place, and a feeling that something very ancient and very quiet is still there in the dark—or a respect for the land, for the ancestors and for the simple act of gathering.
The Weight of Time
If you are looking for excitement, we don’t quite think Nomurano is the place for you. But if you want to remember what it is to be still, then yes, it is the right place. To see the ancient cedars which are so old that their roots are already as thick as your arm and their trunks are so tall that it is hard to see the top of the trees and they are also wrapped in strips of white paper. To reach the old shrine by walking on the narrow path where offerings in the form of rice and sake can be noticed resting on a stone altar covered with moss. To experience the silence of the wind and know it is older than you; it is older than the town and it is older than any memory you have.
In between my days, I was out all day wandering round. I wonder if it was deep green fields through which I walked down to the knees, streams where water was sparkling and lively with trout that were darting, or dense and silent bamboo forests that apparently swallowed every sound. I became acquainted with the songs of different birds in the woods. I got familiarized with the call of the cuckoo and also recognized the swift shadow of a fox that was sliding between trees.
Sometimes, I would be present at the riverbank where I would gaze at the movement of the water. Rivers have a special kind of brilliance in them which is shown in how they continue their journey, year after year, digging their courses, precisely. I was trying so hard to imagine what Nomurano would look like in a hundred years. Would the houses still be there, the gardens still bloom? Or maybe the valley would take over the whole thing, burying the story once again in earth, root, and stone?
Encounters
One of the most popular reasons for visiting Japan, its travel, is oftentimes praised for being very convenient, and fast, and for its seamless transition from one attraction to the next. Contrarily, everything in Nomurano is slow by nature and quite the opposite of what one would expect. Work on the bus is never on time; the rain that might keep you indoors for hours. There is absolutely nothing you can do but wait, and when you wait, you notice a lot of things such as the angle of sunlight coming through an old roof or staining, the taste of homemade plum wine which is sharp, and the way neighbors who come to drop off veggies at the doorsteps of others without saying a word.
One day, I met a guy named Koji who was taking care of his vegetable patch. He was wearing a worn-out straw hat, had mud on his boots, and with a grin that wrinkled his whole face, he welcomed me. We communicated in broken Japanese and English, the smiles acting as the bridge across the gaps. He gave me a fresh cucumber, cold and crispy directly from the ground. "From Nomurano," he said, as if it was the best explanation for everything.
It surely was.
A Place for the Lost and Found
There's a word in Japanese—furusato, which means "old village," but more than that: the place that your heart goes back to, the home that still influences you, even if it is very far from you. Nomurano is furusato for the people living there. It became my furusato as well for a couple of days, which I didn't expect.
My last morning was covered with a heavy fog. I went to the field's end and saw the valley waking up—birds flying and singing together, the sun turning the clouds golden. I felt something like longing only which I can call. It wasn't hailing from what Nomurano was but rather from the feeling that it brought to me, a feeling of being slow with time, not weighed by the world, and in accord with the earth's rotation.
I bade farewell and made a promise, like all travelers do, that I would come back. Maybe I will and maybe I won't. But I am sure that there is a part of me which will continuously go along those green trails, listening for the sound of the drums that are far away, and breathing in the sharp and sweet mountain air.
Reflections on Leaving
It was more difficult than I thought to leave Nomurano. The world outside seemed too fast, too loud, and too eager to fill every silence with noise. I felt the stories I heard, the meals I shared, and the people I knew were like memories that stayed there with me just like the aftertaste of strong tea.
What is it that places such as Nomurano get so deeply into your heart? It could well be that it is such a very small part of the world that acts as a reminder to the bigger world away from the pace of everyday life, that life does not have to be a race. Beauty is little things: the pattern of raindrops on a pond, the smell of pine needles after a storm, the laughter of strangers who have become friends.
Or might it just be the feeling of continuity, the way that families build their lives on the same piece of the earth, taking care of the same land, patching the same roof tiles, and passing on the same stories to kids who may one day move away but will never quite forget?
Nomurano has taught me to be aware of my surroundings—of the moments, of the people, and the slow passage of days. It has taught me that travel is not always about the movement; sometimes it is about the stillness and letting a place get to your soul.
The Enduring Heart of Japan
There are places in Japan which have been designed to impress, to dazzle, and to cater to every desire of the modern-day traveller. And then there is Nomurano which is a place that asks for nothing from you except your presence. It is not easy to notice, quite easy to forget and pass it over when you are looking at a map that is full of “must-sees” and bucket-list wonders.
But in case you are there—whether by accident or intention—you might be privileged to detect a thing that is uncommon: a society that survives not by the chase of progress but by the honouring of its peaceful self. rhythm. Here, time does not go in a straight line but rather cicles. The year is gauged from the color of the rice fields, the return of swallows, and the sound of frost on old stones.
After all, Nomurano should not be seen as simply a place. It is a way of seeing, of being, and of remembering that every journey, no matter how far, is also one back home.
If you are fed up with the noise of the city and are craving a silence that is gentle but alive, take the little road that goes straight up through the green center of Japan beyond the last bus stop. You will experience what I did, the world becomes bigger in Nomurano, and time drags enough for your spirit to get refreshed.
Disclaimer: Characters and settings shown are a true representation, done with privacy and cultural sensitivity in mind. People who type "Nomurano" will be the first to realize that sometimes the most important places are those that are not on any map but are the ones you remember forever.
Wow, Nomura-san, that's a beautiful description! I've always loved hearing about the different faces of Japan beyond the big cities. I'm particularly drawn to the idea of places where time seems to slow down. Have you been to any specific towns or villages that you'd recommend? I'd love to hear about them!
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