Borrowed Scenery, Borrowed Time:Eating Shojin Ryori in Arashiyama, Kyoto

I was born in Kyoto and grew up there until I graduated from high school. After that, I lived in London for many years, but since the pandemic I have found myself spending long periods of time back in Kyoto, returning often.

Kyoto is one of Japan’s most famous tourist destinations, filled with historical sites and places that seem endless in number. Yet when I was a child, I often avoided them simply because I was “local.” This time, I decided to visit one of those places I had long passed by without stopping: Tenryu-ji Temple in Arashiyama. The purpose of the visit was Shigetsu, a restaurant within the temple grounds that serves shojin ryori, traditional Buddhist vegetarian cuisine. I went together with a friend visiting from the UK.

Tenryu-ji is located in Arashiyama, an area on the western edge of Kyoto. Arashiyama has been cherished since the Heian period (794–1185) as a place loved by the aristocracy, a land surrounded by nature. Today it is thoroughly developed as a tourist destination, yet it still feels somehow different from the rest of Kyoto.

I once heard that Disneyland in the United States was designed to block out the outside world, using earthworks and carefully planned pathways to remove the surrounding scenery from view and immerse visitors completely in its world.. In Arashiyama, it feels as though the surrounding mountains naturally take that role. Enclosed by hills and limited sights, the area gives the sensation of having traveled somewhere far away, even though you are still in Kyoto.

In an era without electricity or modern entertainment, people here spent their days gazing at nature and composing poetry. The area around the Katsura River, not far from Arashiyama, later became home to the Katsura Imperial Villa in the early Edo period (17th century), and developed a strong cultural association with moon viewing. Imagining that time, it doesn’t seem boring at all—if anything, it may have been a deeply rich and concentrated way of living.

We took the Randen, a small tram line, toward Arashiyama Station. There were once many trams running throughout Kyoto, but today Randen is the city’s only remaining tram line. Often consisting of just a single car, it runs through the streets and reaches Arashiyama in about thirty minutes from central Kyoto. If the Heian aristocrats who came here to admire nature and compose waka poetry knew this, they might be shocked—feeling that it is far too fast to preserve any sense of elegance. Perhaps it was the journey itself—taken slowly in an ox-drawn carriage—that nourished their poetry.

In a mountain village,

winter brings a deeper solitude—

when even human presence fades,

and the grasses wither away.

— Muneyuki Minamoto (d. 939)

This poem came to mind. On the way from Arashiyama Station to the entrance of Tenryu-ji, I noticed many lotus flowers that had withered in the winter cold. Their stems drooped toward the surface of the water, their forms slightly ghostlike, blending with the quiet winter atmosphere of Arashiyama.

Tenryu-ji was founded in 1339 by the eminent Rinzai Zen monk Musō Soseki, under the order of Ashikaga Takauji, the first shogun of the Muromachi shogunate. The temple was established to pray for the repose of Emperor Go-Daigo, who had died earlier that same year after losing power following his conflict with Takauji.

Looking at this period of Japanese history, it becomes clear how closely religion and politics were intertwined. Tenryu-ji was ranked first among Kyoto’s Zen temples, a status that carried strong political meaning. Takauji’s fear of the vengeful spirit of Emperor Go-Daigo, and his desire to appease it through prayer, lay at the heart of this decision. The idea of fearing curses or spiritual retribution feels distinctly Japanese.

Musō Soseki was not only an accomplished Zen monk but also a master garden designer. His Zen philosophy and worldview are deeply embedded in the garden at Tenryu-ji. One example is the use of shakkei, or “borrowed scenery,” in which the surrounding mountains of Arashiyama are incorporated directly into the garden’s composition. This technique blurs the boundary between garden and nature, inside and outside, creating a world that does not end at human design.

At Tenryu-ji, the entrance to the main hall and the entrance to the garden are separate. Since our purpose was the meal, we paid the admission fee at the garden entrance and entered from there. Inside, a beautifully maintained garden appeared before us. My friend immediately said he wanted to see the garden, but as we were already a little late for our reservation, I pulled him along toward the restaurant.

We were shown into a large tatami room where small individual tables were arranged facing each other. Sitting in seiza, the traditional formal kneeling posture, at our own tables, we waited as the food was brought out. We had reserved the “Yuki” course, and the dishes soon arrived.

Because it was winter, the meal included a soy milk hot pot. It was incredibly simple and surprisingly delicious. Each of the small side dishes had been carefully prepared, and every bite left a clear impression. Although it was vegan cuisine, it never felt monotonous.

To be honest, it did seem rather luxurious for a meal that monks would eat daily. But given that this place also serves tourists, that was understandable. The tableware was primarily vermilion, giving the meal an overall sense of brightness and elegance. I remembered seeing similar red dishes at other shojin ryori restaurants before, which made me curious about the connection between shojin cuisine and red lacquerware.

I looked into it. Shojin ryori avoids meat and fish, and the natural colours of its ingredients tend to be subdued. The colour of the vessels helps compensate visually, adding a sense of richness. At the same time, the tableware used for shojin cuisine is almost always lacquerware. In Zen temples, eating itself is considered part of one’s training, guided by the principles known as the Five Reflections.

To reflect on the origins of the food.

To examine one’s own virtue.

To align the mind.

To receive food as medicine.

And to eat for the sake of Zen practice.

Lacquerware is made by coating natural wood with layers of lacquer, a tree’s sap. As it is used, it gradually develops a deeper sheen. In that sense, the idea of “receiving life through life” seems embedded in the vessels themselves. The red lacquer bowls of shojin ryori may not be decorative so much as quietly supportive of this philosophy.

Though it was winter and cold, the sunlight made the day feel pleasant. Stepping outside, we looked at the pond designed by Musō Soseki. Indeed, the borrowed scenery was remarkable—the boundary between the garden and the mountains beyond was almost imperceptible. (Picture Above)

As we walked through the garden, a bamboo forest came into view. My friend’s intuition told him, “I want to go there.” Conveniently, the garden does not exit at the same place it enters; there is another exit at the back, which leads directly to Arashiyama’s famous bamboo forest entrance. Although re-entry is not allowed, we decided to leave the garden and head toward the grove.

In the bamboo forest, thick bamboo stalks swayed whenever the wind blew, producing strangely fascinating creaking sounds that echoed through the air. The grove was shorter than I had expected, but my friend was delighted, saying he had never seen a place like this before. From an overseas perspective, it seems truly unusual.

Passing through the bamboo grove, we arrived at the banks of the Katsura River. Several long boats carried tourists slowly back and forth along the water. With the mountains rising behind them, the scene felt deeply peaceful. Standing there, I felt as though I had become part of the borrowed scenery myself.

We had another appointment, so we hurried onto a bus and left Arashiyama behind. Although the area is crowded with tourists, I am certain that Arashiyama’s unique sense of time is still quietly flowing here.

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Written by Nori (NOTA)