When Tokyo became too heavy, there was Takayama. Just an hour's train ride from Chofu, the scenery changed radically. It was there that I found the Japan of woodblock prints: dark wooden houses, sloping roofs, and an atmosphere so peaceful it seemed to belong to another century. It was the perfect cliché, but alive, vibrating with reality.
But this peace had its wild side. We were warned about the brown bears that roamed the surrounding forests. This invisible threat added a strange spice to my hikes. Moving from the skyscrapers of Shinjuku to the silence of a mountain where you might cross paths with a predator is an experience that puts things in perspective.
Takayama was my breath of air. Up there, between shrines hidden in the mist and dirt paths, I understood that Japanese modernity is just a thin layer laid over an indomitable nature. You don't dominate the Japanese landscape; you inhabit it with caution, respecting the spirits of the forest and the silence of the stones.