Ikaruga is a historic town near Nara, known for its important role in the early development of Buddhism and Japanese culture. The town is home to Hōryū-ji, one of Japan’s most significant ancient Buddhist temples. Founded in the early seventh century and closely associated with Prince Shōtoku, Hōryū-ji preserves some of the oldest surviving wooden structures in the world. In 1993, the Buddhist Monuments in the Hōryū-ji Area were inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List. The site was recognized for its exceptional wooden architecture, its importance in the history of Buddhism in Japan, and the way its buildings demonstrate the adaptation of Chinese Buddhist architectural traditions to Japanese culture.
I travelled to Ikaruga in the early morning of December 2025, arriving while the town was still wrapped in the quietness of the beginning of the day. Unlike the busy streets of Osaka, Ikaruga felt almost completely removed from the rhythm of a modern tourist city. There were few people on the streets, little traffic, and hardly any of the noise. The town itself was modest and unassuming. Small, individually built houses stood closely along narrow streets, their tiled roofs and weathered walls softened by the pale winter light. Some houses had small gardens enclosed by low walls or wooden fences.
Rather than broad roads leading dramatically towards Hōryū-ji, there were small residential streets and narrow lanes, turning gently between houses and disappearing from view. The December morning air was cool and clean. The trees had largely lost their leaves, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a soft winter sky, while patches of evergreen remained around gardens and temple grounds. The low morning sunlight fell gently across the walls and rooftops. The temple was not immediately revealed in some grand approach. Instead, the route seemed to unfold gradually through the town.
There was something beautiful about approaching Hōryū-ji in this way. At the end of the quiet road, the South Gate of Hōryū-ji suddenly came into view. After walking through the small residential lanes of Ikaruga, the sight of the great wooden gate felt almost like crossing a threshold into another age. It was imposing yet remarkably graceful. Its dark, weathered timber had been softened by centuries of exposure to sun, rain and wind, giving the wood a deep brown color and a texture that seemed to carry the weight of time. The massive wooden pillars rose firmly from the stone pavement, supporting the broad tiled roof whose gently curved eaves extended outward in the characteristic manner of traditional Japanese temple architecture.
Beyond the gate, my first glimpse of Hōryū-ji opened gradually. The Five-Story Pagoda rose prominently in the distance, its dark wooden tiers becoming smaller and smaller as they climbed towards the sky. Its silhouette was remarkably elegant—five carefully balanced roofs stacked one above another, each projecting outward beneath the next. Beside it stood the Main Hall (Kondō), lower and broader, with its own sweeping tiled roof and rows of ancient wooden columns.
What struck me most was the pagoda under the pale winter sky. It was not brightly coloured or freshly polished. Their surfaces had been naturally darkened by age, and the weathered timber seemed almost black from a distance. Yet this subdued appearance made the architecture feel even more ancient. The courtyard was spacious and remarkably quiet that morning. The stone pavement, the aged timber, the tiled roofs and the towering pagoda formed a composition of extraordinary simplicity. I seemed to be the first visitor to arrive at Hōryū-ji that morning. The temple grounds were almost completely empty. A few monks were already at work.They moved quietly across the temple grounds, each holding a simple broom of straw and slowly sweeping the stone paths and courtyard. The gentle, rhythmic sound of the bristles brushing against the ground was almost the only sound in the morning.
For a moment, its history was not only preserved in ancient timber, tiled roofs or priceless Buddhist sculptures. It was also preserved through small actions repeated day after day: opening the gates, sweeping the paths, tending the grounds, and beginning another morning in the same sacred place. Perhaps this was one of the most beautiful things about arriving so early. Before the temple became a destination for visitors, it was simply a temple beginning another day. There were no crowds and no voices around me. Only the soft sound of the brooms moved across the stone accompanied by the faint winter air.
The Daikōdō stands at the northern end of Hōryū-ji’s central courtyard, its broad horizontal form creating a striking contrast with the towering Five-Story Pagoda. With its deep tiled roof, gently curved eaves, and dark, weathered wooden columns, the hall has a dignified yet peaceful appearance. Traditionally associated with Buddhist teaching and study, it was a place where monks gathered to learn and contemplate Buddhist teachings. Inside, the tranquil wooden interior houses Yakushi Nyorai, the Buddha of healing, accompanied by attendant bodhisattvas.
Outside the main temple buildings, Hōryū-ji opened into a much wider and more tranquil landscape outside the courtyard. The atmosphere here was completely different from the enclosed courtyards. Green trees were scattered throughout the grounds, their foliage standing out against the muted colors of the December landscape.
Small ponds appeared among the trees, their still surfaces reflecting fragments of the sky, branches and surrounding greenery. The wide paved paths stretched gently between the trees and temple buildings, leaving plenty of open space. Walking there alone, I felt no need to hurry from one attraction to another. The peaceful surroundings invited me simply to slow down, wander and stay for a while.
On the western side of Hōryū-ji, away from the more famous Five-Story Pagoda and Main Hall, I came to the Saien-dō, a smaller and more secluded temple hall standing quietly among the trees. The approach itself felt different from the grand central precinct. Instead of arriving at another monumental gate or an imposing courtyard, I followed a quieter path that gradually led upward through the greenery. Saien-dō has a much more modest presence than the great buildings of Hōryū-ji. Its circular form and gently curved tiled roof give it an unusual appearance among the predominantly rectangular halls of the temple complex.
Standing before it, I found myself surrounded by the aged wooden surfaces, the ancient roof tiles, the wooden railings and the shadows cast beneath the eaves. The surrounding trees added greatly to its atmosphere. Their branches framed the roof against the winter sky, while fallen leaves lay scattered along the ground. The December landscape had a subdued beauty, with patches of green remaining among the bare branches and the soft light filtering through the trees.
In this temple, I have observed many similar buildings of this style. The Nishimuro is a long, relatively low wooden building, associated with the living quarters and activities of monks. Its architectural speciality is its early Japanese Buddhist timber construction. The building demonstrates the characteristic techniques of the Asuka–Nara architectural tradition which marks the introduction and early development of Buddhism and Buddhist architecture in Japan. It is characterized by timber construction with post-and-lintel structures, large timber columns supported horizontal beams, bracketing systems, large tiled roofs, symmetrical temple layouts. Like other buildings at Hōryū-ji, it is especially significant because the temple preserves some of the oldest surviving wooden architecture in the world.
After wandering through the ancient temple grounds, I came to the Daihōzō-in, the Gallery of Temple Treasures. The collection inside is extraordinary in its variety. There are Buddhist statues, bodhisattvas, guardian figures, paintings, ritual objects, textiles and other works of religious art. Many of them are extraordinarily old, reaching back to the Asuka and Nara periods. Looking at them, I was struck by how different their appearance was from the familiar Buddhist images of later Japanese temples.
One of the most remarkable treasures associated with Hōryū-ji is the Kudara Kannon, a tall wooden image of Kannon traditionally associated with Baekje Korea. Its extraordinarily slender proportions and serene expression give it an almost otherworldly presence. The sculpture does not have the massive physicality of many later Buddhist statues. Instead, it seems to rise lightly and vertically, its elongated body creating an impression of extraordinary elegance.
The complex of Hōryū-ji is very large and needs around 1.5 hours to go through all the areas. It is worthy to visit it because I could experience one of the world’s most important surviving collections of early wooden Buddhist architecture in its original temple setting. It gives me a physical way to understand the transition from the Asuka period (538–710) into the Nara period (710–794) and the growing influence of Buddhism on Japanese culture. Of course, everyone will take a photo with the iconic five-story pagoda which is a classical memory of Japanese travel.
The Eastern Precinct (Tō-in) of Hōryū-ji is especially famous for the Yumedono (Hall of Dreams). Compared with the Western Precinct, which is associated with some of Japan’s oldest surviving Buddhist buildings, the Eastern Precinct has a somewhat different character: it is a memorial complex connected with Prince Shōtoku who was an influential Japanese prince, political leader, and patron of Buddhism during the Asuka period. He served as regent for Empress Suiko and is traditionally credited with helping strengthen the central government through the Seventeen-Article Constitution. According to temple tradition, he established the original temple, known as Wakakusa-garan, in the early 7th century.
The Eastern Precinct was established later, around the 8th century. Its centre is the famous Yumedono. It functions as a place where Prince Shōtoku’s spiritual legacy is commemorated. It stands at the centre of the Eastern Precinct, surrounded by a cloister. The name Yumedono, translated as “Hall of Dreams,” is connected with traditions about Prince Shōtoku receiving a vision or divine revelation at this location. The octagonal form makes the building visually distinctive.
After I left the Hōryū-ji, I passed a traditional Japanese private residence tucked along the quiet road toward Hōrin-ji. Its entrance is set behind a stone-walled courtyard, where green plants grow naturally around the edges, giving the property a secluded and peaceful character. A wooden entrance door forms the focal point, with two stone statues placed in front as quiet guardians. The combination of weathered stone, dark wood, and greenery gives the house a simple beauty typical of the traditional Japanese landscape with a sense of harmony, simplicity, and tranquillity.
Ikaruga was a center of the early Buddhist and political world around Prince Shōtoku. His religious establishments were concentrated in this area. After his death, other members of his family continued establishing temples connected with him and his legacy. That’s why I could find many temples with the similar names. Hōrin-ji is a small and peaceful temple , just north of Hōryū-ji. It has a more rustic atmosphere than the larger Hōryū-ji complex.
Similar to Hōryū-ji, it has a three-story pagoda rising above the surrounding trees, which is one of the distinctive landmarks of Ikaruga. Traditional wooden temple buildings, with dark timber, tiled roofs, and restrained architectural decoration was surrounded by stone features and garden vegetation. Its name means “Temple of the Dharma Wheel.” Tradition says it was founded by Prince Shōtoku’s son, Prince Yamashiro, to pray for his father’s recovery.
Near the temple buildings stands a large stone temizu basin filled with clear water. A small ladle rests beside it, inviting visitors to scoop the water and purify themselves before continuing through the temple grounds. This kind of device can be seen in many temples in Japan. It maybe a symbolic act of purification before approaching sacred spaces.
The walk I took from Hōryū-ji to Hōrin-ji to Hōkki-ji is actually passing through one of Japan’s most concentrated landscapes of 7th-century Buddhist history. The ordinary houses, stone walls, fields, and narrow roads between the temples are part of that historic Ikaruga setting rather than simply being a modern neighborhood around three temples.
The wide fields, distant mountains and an expansive sky, create a peaceful rural horizon. Standing there with the fields stretching out before me, I took a photograph of the landscape: the low mountains forming a gentle backdrop, the broad agricultural land spreading across the foreground, and the enormous winter sky above. Many Japanese towns are framed by mountains, particularly toward the north, because much of Japan’s interior is mountainous. Even places densely populated often have mountains quietly appearing beyond the buildings. In Ikaruga, however, there were few structures to interrupt the view, so the town, the fields and the surrounding mountains was especially clear.
At a quiet corner of the country road, I unexpectedly encountered my last destination, Hōki-ji. It was almost hidden from view, tucked away in a small patch of woodland at the edge of the fields. Through the trees I caught my first glimpse of the three-story pagoda, rising quietly above the surrounding greenery. This temple is also deeply connected with the early history of Japanese Buddhism. Tradition associates it with Prince Yamashiro no Ōe, the son of Prince Shōtoku.
The main hall, although much less imposing than the great halls of Hōryū-ji was modest with traditional tiled roofs, and the surrounding grounds were simple and uncluttered. The three-Story Pagoda was built in the seventh century; one of the oldest surviving three-story pagodas in Japan and the oldest surviving pagoda in the country. Its dark wooden structure stood beautifully against the open sky, each successive roof becoming smaller as the tower rose upward.
By the time I reached Hōki-ji, I had spent the day walking through the small lanes of Ikaruga, visiting ancient temples and gradually moving farther into the countryside. The temple felt like a fitting conclusion to the journey. What moved me most was that history here did not feel like something preserved only for tourists; it remained quietly rooted in everyday life and in the corner of country landscape. That was the most moving part of the journey. After so many centuries, history in Ikaruga does not seem to shout for attention. It was simply waiting for those who are willing to slow down and notice it.
