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As dusk settles, the distant town of Nagato in Japan’s Yamaguchi Prefecture grows even quieter. On one side, the vast Sea of Japan stretches out, its scale dwarfing everything around it; on the other, green fields roll open with only a handful of scattered wooden houses. A single road cuts through the middle until it blurs into the horizon, empty. At times, the rare hum of a passing car interrupts the quiet. The stillness is profound—a kind of peace I’ve never known before, wrapping around me like a wholesome embrace—while the evening wind, sharp and chilly, carries with it the hush of the sea.
(Photo credit: Tejashee Kashyap)
Japan usually opens itself to outsiders through sake-laden izakayas, Shinjuku’s neon theatrics, and the carefully choreographed beauty of Kyoto’s gardens. But the silence in Yamaguchi was unlike any other I had known—it felt like stepping into a half-forgotten childhood memory, a déjà-vu quietness. Its serene streets, shrine-dotted hillsides and slow-breathing ryokans mirrored an anime I had once clung to as a grieving teenager, after losing my grandfather.
Was I really walking through the very scenes that had once become my strange source of comfort?
Finding Comfort In A Children’s Anime
Now 27, I first encountered Mai Mai Miracle thirteen years ago—back when anime was still far from the global phenomenon it is today in India. Built on the bittersweet impermanence of life, it might be a children’s story, but to me, it felt like an elegy. Set in 1955 rural Yamaguchi, the story explores how children first encounter impermanence: life and death, meeting and parting, the inevitable passing of what we love.
Shinko, the young protagonist, loses her grandfather, and much of the anime unfolds through her imagination in the stories he once told her about the town—what it was like hundreds of years ago.
Standing in Yamaguchi in the present, a sense of déjà vu held me—as though I were reliving the very tales a grandfather passes down to a grandchild. Stories that once seemed distant, sepia-toned, suddenly felt alive among rice paddies and temple bells. I realised memory’s true power lies in resonance: my grandfather’s fields in Assam’s Dibrugarh, Shinko’s visions of Yamaguchi, my own grief—all of the past and the present converged into a single landscape of remembering.
More Than Memory: Yamaguchi’s Living Gifts
(Photo credit: Tejashee Kashyap)
But to reduce Yamaguchi to nostalgia alone would be unfair. The prefecture brims with delights: in Shimonoseki, I tasted fugu, the infamous pufferfish, served as sashimi; in Nagato, the smoky perfection of yakitori earned the place its nickname, Yakitori Town. I marvelled at ocean-carved monoliths on Omijima Island, and soaked in the centuries-old onsen towns of Yumoto and Tawarayama.
If nature in Yamaguchi offers moments of quietude and remembrance, Japan’s traditional inns—the ryokans—offer something equally profound: a cultural immersion that is as restorative as it is a window into stillness.
A Ryokan Stay And A Different Pace Of Life
(Photo credit: Tejashee Kashyap)
From the wide window of my room at Yokikan Ryokan in Nagato, the sprawling Sea of Japan stretched out before me—so still, so quiet. It was my first-ever ryokan stay, and it brought a mindset shift: the opportunity to fully switch to a different, older pace of life, where there’s little to do (quite literally!) but relax and absorb the surroundings.
My room had no television or trappings of the modern age (except a weak Wi-Fi signal). There were only tatami mats, low-slung wooden furniture, a floored futon mattress, sliding shoji doors, and a hushed atmosphere. I slipped into the provided yukata (a lightweight cotton kimono) and airy slippers, and soon found myself moving to the quiet rhythm of the ryokan. With the rustle of fabric and the soft padding of socks on tatami, stress began to feel like something I’d forgotten entirely.
The Rise Of Restorative Travel In Japan
(Photo credit: Tejashee Kashyap)
Travellers in 2025 are seeking more than just a getaway; they are looking for restoration, reconnection, and reflection. In Japan, travellers embrace experiences deeply rooted in the country’s cultural traditions and holistic approaches to living and healing.
Booking.com’s Travel Predictions 2025 survey confirms this shift, noting that 60% of APAC travellers are seeking wellness-focused journeys in Japan—particularly longevity retreats that promise not just rest, but a pathway to healthier, more balanced lifestyles.
And the ryokans are the most distilled expression of this ethos. You truly experience omotenashi—the gold standard of Japanese hospitality—expressed through quiet attentiveness and bows for even the smallest gestures. It leaves you at ease, and so grateful, that you carry this feeling home with you—a gift only Japan seems able to offer.
Finding Meaning In Loss
(Photo credit: Tejashee Kashyap)
Principles like oubaitori, which celebrates finding joy in life’s small moments; wabi-sabi, which honours the beauty of imperfection and impermanence; and ikigai, one’s reason for being—offer quiet lessons in balance and meaning. This country has long understood the art of living well.
And like me, many have found grief and beauty folding into one another in their journey through Japan. On a food walk in Tokyo, I met a Polish couple in their third year of trying to have a child, carrying the weight of miscarriages and infertility. They had come to visit the 1,000 Kosodate Jizō-son, the Garden of Unborn Children, a quiet corner of Zōjō-ji, a Buddhist temple in Tokyo. Here, over 1,000 statues of Jizō—the guardian deity of children—stand together. Families leave tributes—tiny hats, toys, flowers—to honour lost little ones and safeguard their journey into the afterlife.
Letting Go, Gently
In the haze of grief, silence presses in your house more sharply than any sound. We often dismiss travel—or even something as simple as watching anime—as mere escapism. Yet what I found was the opposite. Anime gave me the language to understand memory as a living companion.
Years later, walking through Yamaguchi, I was living inside the comforts of that anime. I thought about Shinko. I thought about my grandfather. And in the evening quiet, I found a space to sit with grief, to remember, and—gently—to begin letting go.
Related: Samurai Roots To Festive Spirit – Explore Sendai, The Heart of Japan’s Cultural Heritage
Note:
The information in this article is accurate as of the date of publication.
Written By
Tejashee Kashyap
AloJapan.com