The Japanese Garden

   I pass through a gate with a thatched roof and follow the gravel path to the water's edge, the tiny stones crunching beneath my feet as I progress. As I traverse the arched wooden bridge, a small grassy island in the centre of the lake comes into view. Stepping stones lead to another bridge, this one narrow, which zigzags its way to the opposite shore. It's a beautiful setting. Indeed, it could be a garden in Kyoto.

   And yet, it couldn't quite be in Japan. For a start, the man mowing the grass is white. The colourful fish which abound in the ponds of Kyoto are nowhere to be seen. Nor are there any bamboo trees, which are so ubiquitous in gardens in Japan. Also, health and safety signs are dotted around, warning visitors that 'use of the bridges is entirely at your own risk'. This is, in fact, Britain.

 

   Rather embarrassingly, it had taken a trip to London to learn that, a century ago, a Japanese garden was created at Cowden Castle, about 30 miles from my home in Scotland. I had attended an exhibition at the Japanese Embassy the week before my visit here, where I saw a picture of a gate which reminded me of one I had seen long ago in Kyoto, at Tenju-an, and I resolved to make the short journey. 

   The castle is no longer there, alas. Apparently, it was demolished in 1952 because nobody would buy it, even for £1. The garden itself suffered dreadful damage a decade later, when it was targeted by yobs. Thankfully, it is undergoing a renaissance. 

   One area is inaccessible: a dry garden sealed off by a kind of tripwire. It's a very attractive sight, with patterns in the gravel raked to 'reflect the ripples within the moving water', according to the official guide. A spot I particularly liked was the East Burn, where the shallow water trickles gently down from the lake, over a bed of flat stones flanked by moss-covered banks. The sound reminded me of a cat having a drink, and it brought to mind the water channels in Nikko. 

   Just before I left, I finally spotted some furtive orange fish just below the surface in a corner of the lake. There were very few of them, and they were far more diminutive than their well-fed cousins in the ponds of Kyoto. Were they indeed carp, I wondered, a fish which is so revered in Japan that they named a baseball team after it? The answer was yes, although only a handful graced the water at present, owing to the arrival of a heron. Hopefully there will be more of them next time. 

The Craze for Japan

 In a glass cabinet inside a magnificent white room in the centre of London there is a book. It was published over a hundred years ago, to mark the 1910 Japan-British Exhibition in the capital, and it's open at pages 22 and 23. I do not exaggerate when I write that, as I read the text on the left hand page, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

   Perhaps I'm particularly susceptible to the written word. One of my few treasured possessions is a book by Nikos Kazantzakis called Zorba the Greek, whose last chapter I have defaced with highlighter. I think it might be the greatest thing I've ever read, and when I open the pages, yellow with the passage of two decades, I feel the same sense of shivery excitement I experienced in London. 

   What set me off at The Craze for Japan exhibition was nothing more than a passage about the temples of Kyoto. The names were as familiar to me as household words: Ginkakuji, the Silver Temple, which is in fact not silver but boasts a wonderful garden; Nanzenji, with its viaduct and rock garden; Heian Jingu, famous for its massive orange torii gate. My mind swelled with the memory of sweat-drenched walks around these places. 

   Two temples, however, were unknown to me. One of these, 'Kurodanin', is in the north of the city, I learned, and is notable (at least it was, a hundred years ago) for 'two curiously trained pine trees'. One of these was called 'fan-shaped pine', while the other was known as 'yoroikake-no-matsu', so-named 'because warrior Naodane is said to have hung up'... who knows? For here, the page ended. 

   Reading that single page, and seeing black and white images of Kinkakuji, the Golden Temple, blanketed in snow, and the wooden temple Byodo-in, filled me on a sudden with the urge to return to that great city.  I hadn't been since 2016, which now felt like an eternity! I would go to Kurodanin and discover if one of those pine trees does indeed look like a fan, and find out who Naodane was and what on earth he hung up. 

   Inspiration comes at unexpected moments. In my case, it came courtesy of a free and low-key exhibition which I only learned about because I happened to be in London, and because I have fond memories of Green Park. If you like Japan, I recommend you go too. 

   The Craze for Japan in Victorian and Edwardian Britain is open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. from Monday to Friday at the Embassy of Japan on Piccadilly.