More than a thousand years have passed since Nara stood at the heart of Japan as the imperial capital of Heijō-kyō. In the Man’yōshū, the poet praised the ancient city: “Beautiful Nara, the ancient capital, flourishes now like flowers in full bloom.” Those words conjure Nara in the height of its splendor, when its palaces, temples, and streets were filled with the life and ambition of a flourishing new capital. Today, much of that city has disappeared, leaving only fragments scattered across the landscape. Yet walking through Nara, the passage of time does not feel distant. It lingers in the weathered stones, the ancient wooden halls, the quiet forests, and the deer wandering beneath the trees. The capital that once flourished like flowers has faded, but something of its spirit remains.
I continued my journey from Osaka to Nara on December 21st 2025 and stayed near the Sarusawa Pond, a peaceful and scenic spot in the heart of the city. The pond is famous for its beautiful views of Kōfuku-ji’s five-story pagoda, which rises above the surrounding trees and traditional streets. Walking around the pond, I could enjoy the calm water, historic atmosphere, and glimpse of Nara’s famous deer nearby. It felt like a perfect place to experience the quiet, traditional side of Nara while still being close to the city’s many historic attractions which are parts of the UNESCO World Heritage Site ‘Historic Monuments of Ancient Nara.’
My first point of attraction in Nara was Kōfuku-ji, one of the city’s most famous and historic Buddhist temples. As I walked through the temple grounds, I was surrounded by beautiful traditional architecture and a peaceful atmosphere. Kōfuku-ji’s long history and impressive buildings gave me my first glimpse into Nara’s rich cultural and religious heritage. Kōfuku-ji has a long and fascinating history dating back to 669 AD. It was originally founded in Kyoto by Kagami no Ōkimi to pray for the recovery of her husband, Fujiwara no Kamatari, the founder of the powerful Fujiwara clan. In 710, when the capital was moved to Nara, the temple was relocated to the city and became one of the most important Buddhist temples in Japan.
The Central Golden Hall (Chū-Kondō) stood at the heart of Kōfuku-ji, its vermilion columns and broad tiled roof giving the temple precinct a dignified and symmetrical appearance. Although the present hall is a modern reconstruction, its design follows the traditional character of the ancient temple, allowing the historic layout of Kōfuku-ji to emerge once again. Kōfuku-ji has endured repeated fires and destruction throughout its long history, and many of its buildings have been rebuilt over the centuries.
Nanen-dō is a small but historically significant Buddhist hall within Kōfuku-ji. It is especially famous for being the 9th temple on the Saigoku Kannon Pilgrimage, a pilgrimage route connecting 33 temples dedicated to Kannon, the Buddhist bodhisattva of compassion. Built in 813 by Fujiwara no Fuyutsugu, Nanen-dō was originally established as a place of prayer for the Fujiwara family. The present building dates from 1789, after the earlier structure was destroyed by fire. Its simple, octagonal design contrasts with the larger and more elaborate buildings elsewhere at Kōfuku-ji.
Tōkondō is called Eastern Golden Hall because it belongs to the group of Kon-dō (Golden Halls) that once formed the heart of the temple complex. Its elegant traditional architecture, with its dark wooden structure, copper bells and distinctive tiled roof, gives it a dignified and timeless appearance. It was originally built in 726 by Emperor Shōmu to pray for the recovery of his father, Emperor Genmei. The present building dates from 1415.
Inside, Tōkondō is particularly important for its collection of Buddhist statues and religious treasures. Among them is a revered statue of Yakushi Nyorai, accompanied by other Buddhist figures. The hall provides a peaceful space to appreciate the artistic and spiritual traditions of medieval Japanese Buddhism. At the entrance, I noticed the hanging curtain with a particularly beautiful detail. The curtain features a traditional pattern of two deer under a tree, reflecting the strong connection between Nara and its sacred deer. Deer have long been regarded as sacred messengers of the gods, particularly because of their association with Kasuga Taisha. Seeing the deer motif on the curtain connects the Buddhist temple with the wider spiritual traditions of Nara.
Kōfuku-ji National Treasure Museum is one of the highlights of a visit to Kōfuku-ji, especially for anyone interested in Japanese Buddhist art and history. The museum houses an impressive collection of Buddhist statues, paintings, and other cultural treasures that were preserved by the temple over many centuries. The artworks made the history of the temple feel more personal and tangible.
The Kongō Rikishi are among the temple’s remarkable Buddhist guardian sculptures and are designated National Treasures of Japan. They represent powerful protective deities who guard Buddhist teachings and sacred spaces from evil and harm.The two guardians are traditionally depicted as muscular, dynamic figures with fierce expressions. Their dramatic poses, bulging muscles, flowing robes, and intense facial expressions create a striking contrast with the calm and compassionate appearance of Buddha and bodhisattva statues. What makes the Kongō Rikishi especially impressive is the exceptional craftsmanship of their wooden sculpture. The sculptors captured movement and emotion with remarkable detail, from the tension in the bodies to the expressive faces and flowing garments.
Nara left a deep impression on me, not only because of its rich history and beautiful temples, but also because of its peaceful natural environment and abundance of deer. As I walked through the city, especially around Nara Park, the presence of deer made the experience feel unique and almost magical. They wandered freely among the trees, pathways, and historic temples, creating a beautiful connection between nature, wildlife, and culture. Here, the deer seemed to be part of everyday life. They would cross the roads freely, and cars would patiently stop to let them pass. I was amazed by how comfortable they were around people. Some of the deer came close enough for me to touch their soft fur, and they showed little fear of human beings.
The calm surroundings, fresh greenery, and gentle presence of the deer offered a refreshing contrast to the busy atmosphere of Osaka. I was particularly fascinated by how closely the deer coexist with people and how deeply they are connected to Nara’s cultural and spiritual identity. The experience made my visit feel more than just a sightseeing trip. It was a chance to experience the harmony between nature and history that makes Nara so special.
Nara has so many deer because they have been protected there for more than 1,300 years, and they are deeply connected to the city’s religious history. The story goes back to Kasuga Taisha, where deer were traditionally regarded as sacred messengers of the gods. According to legend, the deity Takemikazuchi-no-Mikoto arrived at Mount Mikasa on a white deer. Because of this, deer in the Nara area came to be treated as sacred animals and were protected rather than hunted. Over the centuries, this tradition continued. The deer gradually became an important part of Nara’s cultural identity. Today, the deer roaming freely around Nara Park, Kasuga Taisha, and the surrounding temple grounds. They have become accustomed to human presence, although they remain wild animals, rather than domesticated pets.
The Ukimido Pavilion is one of the most tranquil and picturesque places in the south of Nara Park.The present pavilion was constructed in 1916 and has a distinctive hexagonal shape with a traditional cypress-bark roof.The surroundings are just as beautiful as the pavilion itself. The pavilion seemed to float on the Sagiike Pond which is enclosed by trees and greenery. The area around the pond forms part of Asajigahara, a quiet, gently hilly section of Nara Park near Kasuga Taisha. I enjoyed the amazing landscapes of Nara Park, where nature and wildlife seemed to exist in perfect harmony. The vast green forests were filled with deer wandering freely among the trees and along the quiet pathways. In the distance, Mount Kasuga provided a beautiful natural backdrop.
After walking along a stone-paved path lined with rows of perpetual stone lanterns(Eitai Jōyatō), I arrived at the famous Kasuga Taisha in the south of Nara. The path itself was an unforgettable part of the journey. Hundreds of stone lanterns stood quietly among the trees, creating a mysterious and sacred atmosphere as they guided me deeper into the forest. These stone lanterns, known as tōrō, were donated by worshippers over the centuries as offerings to the shrine. Many are covered with green moss, weathered by time, and blend beautifully into the surrounding forest. Seeing so many lanterns standing along both sides of the path made me feel as though I were travelling through a passage connecting the present with Nara’s ancient past.
The red main gate of Kasuga Taisha was one of the most striking sights along my journey. Rising about 12 metres high, it is the largest gate of the shrine and serves as the impressive entrance to the inner shrine precinct. As I approached the red gate, the weathered stone lanterns seemed to form a natural procession leading me toward the sacred grounds. The contrast between the bright vermillion gate, grey stone lanterns, and lush green trees created an unforgettable scene.
Kasuga Taisha is one of the most famous and beautiful Shinto shrines in Nara. It was officially established in 768, when the Fujiwara family established the shrine to enshrine their ancestral and tutelary deities and to protect the ancient capital.The Main Sanctuary is the most sacred and architecturally distinctive part of the shrine. Its architecture style ‘the Kasuga-zukuri ‘ is a distinctive form of Japanese Shinto architecture. Each small shrine has a steeply curved gabled roof covered with layers of Japanese cypress bark, with the entrance positioned beneath the gable. A small projecting roof shelters the entrance and staircase. Surrounding the sanctuary is the Oro which is an open veranda whose shape resembles a bird spreading its wings. The surrounding corridors are decorated with numerous hanging bronze lanterns.
Along the corridor of Kasuga Taisha, there are roughly 1,000 bronze hanging lanterns, called tsuri-dōrō. They were donated by worshippers as offerings to the Shinto deities, representing their prayers, gratitude, and wishes. They were like a physical expression of a person’s devotion. The grey or greenish-black color comes largely from the natural patina that develops on bronze over time. For me, walking beneath the long rows of bronze lanterns was almost like passing through a corridor of prayers.
The main sanctuary is famous for its vivid vermilion columns in the long corridor. As the corridor receded into the distance, the repeating columns and lanterns created a graceful rhythm, drawing my eyes deeper into the far end. The brilliant red of the wood, the muted bronze of the lanterns, and the shadowy forest seemed to bring me back to the passing centuries.
At the side door of the sanctuary, I unexpectedly came upon two deer standing quietly together. They turned their heads toward me, watching with gentle curiosity, as though wondering what had brought this stranger into their ancient forest. For a moment, we simply stood there looking at one another. Their quiet presence made the shrine feel as if the sacred and the natural seemed to exist side by side.
Before I left, a gentle rain fell over Kasuga Taisha, veiling the ancient forest in a soft mist and lending the shrine an almost otherworldly stillness. The vivid vermilion columns glistened with rain, their colors deepening against the moss-covered trees. Founded more than twelve centuries ago to protect the ancient capital of Heijō-kyō, the shrine seemed to carry the weight of that distant age within its sacred grounds. Then, beneath a simple umbrella, a shrine maiden appeared in her traditional white and vermilion robes, walking quietly through the rain. For a fleeting moment, the scene felt suspended between past and present. The ancient forest, the sacred shrine, the falling rain, and the solitary figure moving through the vermilion corridor seem to allow a fragment of old Nara to quietly reappear before my eyes.
Nara is a place where the passage of time can still be felt, not only in its ancient temples and shrines, but also in the quiet streets that lie beyond the well-trodden paths. In the northern part of the city, narrow stone-paved lanes wind between old houses, many of them sheltered beneath deep, gracefully curved eaves reminiscent of the architectural traditions brought from Tang Dynasty China more than a thousand years ago. Along the walls painted in muted yellow and white, small streams flow quietly beside the streets, their clear water slipping past moss-covered stones as it has done for generations.
The weathered walls, wooden facades, tiled roofs, and the soft sound of running water … Yet perhaps this is where the age of Nara can be felt most intimately. Walking through these unassuming lanes, it is easy to imagine that the centuries have not entirely passed, but have simply settled gently into the landscape, leaving behind a quiet world where the present continues to live alongside the memory of the ancient capital.
I walked slowly uphill along the Urasando beneath a gentle rain, with no other visitors in sight. The path was quiet and almost entirely my own, winding through the greenery in a peaceful solitude that felt far removed from the crowded streets and well-known sights of Nara. The rain softened the sounds of the surrounding forest, leaving only the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional trickle of water along the path. I loved this quieter side of Nara, where nature seemed to take precedence over tourism and every corner invited a slower pace.
With no crowds to hurry me along, I could pause whenever I wished, observe the details of the landscape, and simply wander without a destination, allowing the ancient atmosphere of Nara to reveal itself gradually. The Nigatsu-do is a small temple on my way. The weathered wooden structure, stone lanterns, ancient trees, and quiet hillside create an atmosphere quite different from the grandeur of Tōdai-ji below.
The old wooden hall, raised high on sturdy pillars, seemed to emerge from the forest, its weathered timbers darkened by the rain. Stone lanterns stood silently along the steps, softened by moss and years of weather, while the broad veranda opened toward the distant roofs and streets of Nara. On the rainy day, the wood darkened with moisture and the surrounding forest becomes veiled in mist, making the place feel even more secluded.
After some time, the Nandaimon Gate of Tōdai-ji rose before me like a monumental gateway. Its enormous wooden pillars, darkened and weathered by centuries of rain and sunlight, seemed to possess a strength that belonged to another age. Beneath the great tiled roof stood the two fierce Niō guardians, their powerful bodies frozen in dramatic motion, as though they had been watching over the temple for centuries. Walking beneath the immense gate, I felt small beside the towering timbers and massive statues. More than simply an entrance to Tōdai-ji, it felt like a threshold between the present and the ancient world of Nara.
I continued walking through the temple grounds and soon arrived at Kagami-ike Pond, the quiet body of water lying before the entrance to the famous Tōdai-ji. Its still surface reflected the surrounding trees, temple roofs, and muted sky, creating a peaceful scene that seemed to slow the passage of time. The gentle rain added another layer of tranquility, softening the outlines of the ancient buildings and turning the pond into a mirror of the misty landscape.
Beyond Kagami-ike Pond, I continued toward the Chūmon, the Central Gate of Tōdai-ji. Its graceful vermilion-and-white structure stood quietly beneath the broad tiled roof, framed by the surrounding trees and the vast temple grounds. After the monumental Nandaimon, the Chūmon felt more restrained and serene, it carried a sense of ceremony. Through the gate, the enormous Great Buddha Hall could be glimpsed beyond, its immense wooden form rising at the heart of the temple precinct.
From the entrance, the Great Buddha Hall rose before me with an overwhelming sense of height and scale. Its immense tiled roof seemed to stretch across the sky, while the vast wooden structure beneath it appeared almost impossibly tall and monumental. Standing at the entrance, I could only look upward, gradually taking in the enormous proportions of the building.
Tōdai-ji is perhaps the most representative monument of Nara, embodying the city’s identity as Japan’s ancient capital. Built in the eighth century, when Nara was known as Heijō-kyō, the temple reflected the enormous political and spiritual ambitions of its age. Standing there, I felt that Tōdai-ji was really a surviving expression of Nara’s golden age, where architecture, faith, and history had remained intertwined for more than a thousand years. A bronze octagonal lantern rose quietly in the open space before it. Known as the Kondō Hakkaku Tōrō, the lantern which is one of the relatively few surviving objects from the original Nara-period is a national treasure. In Buddhist tradition, the light of a lantern represents the wisdom of the Buddha, dispelling the darkness of ignorance.
Tōdai-ji’s architecture was strongly influenced by Tang-dynasty China. During the Nara period, Japan actively adopted Chinese institutions, Buddhism, urban planning, and artistic styles. Nara itself was modeled partly on the Tang capital Chang’an. The broad tiled roof, monumental timber framework, bracket systems, and proportions all belong to an architectural tradition that Japan inherited and adapted from China. Standing beneath the vast roof of the Great Buddha Hall, I could almost sense the ancient cultural exchange that had once connected Nara with the distant Tang China.
Inside the Great Buddha Hall, I encountered Komokuten, the Heavenly Guardian of the West, standing watch beside the Great Buddha. His body seemed poised for movement, as though he had been caught in the instant before taking another step, while one hand held his traditional weapon and the other rested firmly at his side. The central figure in the hall is the Great Buddha (Daibutsu), a colossal bronze statue of Vairocana Buddha. It represents Vairocana, the Cosmic Buddha whose wisdom and light are understood to permeate the entire universe. Buddhism arrived in Japan from the Korean Peninsula in the sixth century. By the Nara period, it had become closely connected with the imperial court and the state, and Emperor Shōmu envisioned Buddhism as a force that could protect and unite the country.
Behind Tōdai-ji, the monumental temple gradually gave way to a broad expanse of green, scattered with mature trees and quiet paths. There were very few tourists here, and the atmosphere was completely different from the busy areas around the Great Buddha Hall. The trees stood peacefully across the open grass, their branches moving gently in the breeze, while the sounds of the temple grounds faded into the distance. Walking through this tranquil landscape, I felt as though I had stepped away from the present-day city and into a quieter Nara, where nature and history had been allowed to coexist for centuries.
Among these queit buildings, I came upon the Shōsō-in Repository, an ancient wooden storehouse that has preserved treasures from the world of eighth-century Nara. Unlike the monumental Great Buddha Hall, which expresses the grandeur of imperial Buddhism, Shōsō-in seemed almost modest, its walls built from rows of natural timber logs in the distinctive azekura style. Yet within this unassuming structure lay an extraordinary record of the ancient world—Buddhist objects, musical instruments, textiles, manuscripts, and precious belongings associated with Emperor Shōmu and the people of his age.
After wandering through Nara’s main sights, I finally brought my first day in the ancient capital to an end. As evening settled over the city, I stopped at a small local restaurant and ordered a simple bowl of ramen. After a long day of walking, the steaming broth and warm noodles were more than enough to satisfy me. Travelling in Japan had also taught me that a memorable meal does not have to come from an expensive or fashionable restaurant. Sometimes, the simplest places like a small shop with a few seats, a steaming bowl of ramen could offer exactly what I need at the end of a long day.
My second day in Nara took me to Nishinokyō, meaning the “Western Capital,” an area west of the ancient Heijō-kyō. Away from the center of modern Nara, this quieter district preserves some of the most important remnants of the city’s eighth-century Buddhist heritage. Two remarkable temples awaited me there: Yakushi-ji and Tōshōdai-ji, both deeply connected with the history of Nara’s ancient capital. Reaching them was remarkably easy. Japan’s railway system is exceptionally convenient, with trains and local lines connecting cities, neighborhoods, and even places far from the main tourist routes.
Following the directions, I made my way to my first destination, Yakushi-ji. Even before entering, I was intrigued by its long and fascinating history. It carries a history almost as old as Nara itself. The temple was first founded in 680 by Emperor Tenmu, who prayed for the recovery of his ailing wife and dedicated the temple to Yakushi Nyorai, the Buddha of healing. Originally built at Fujiwara-kyō, it was moved to Heijō-kyō when the capital was transferred to Nara in the early eighth century, becoming one of the great Buddhist temples of the new imperial city.
The whole temple was an immense and symmetrical complex, reflecting the sophisticated temple architecture and continental influences of the Nara period. Yet the temple’s long history was marked by repeated fires, wars, and destruction. Much of its ancient architecture disappeared, leaving the East Pagoda as its most remarkable survivor, still standing in its original form from 730.
Under the brilliant blue sky, the East Pagoda of Yakushi-ji rose gracefully above the temple grounds, its dark wooden tiers standing in striking contrast to the clear expanse of sky behind it. Built in 730 during the Nara period, it is the only surviving original structure of Yakushi-ji from that age. Although only three stories in structure, the smaller roofs between the main levels give the pagoda the appearance of six stories, creating a distinctive rhythm as the eaves rise one above another. Sunlight traced the edges of its sweeping roofs and delicate wooden details, while the deep tones of the aged timber revealed the passing of more than twelve centuries.
The temple complex of Yakushi-ji unfolded before me in a graceful and carefully ordered arrangement. The buildings including the Golden Hall and the Grand Lecture Hall stood along a central axis. Vermilion pillars and white walls stood vividly against the blue sky, while the dark tiled roofs and wooden details gave the complex a more solemn character.
At the heart of Yakushi-ji stood the magnificent Golden Hall. In front of it stood a solitary stone lantern (tōrō), which is modest in size. In Japanese Buddhism, the light of a lantern symbolizes the wisdom of the Buddha, illuminating the darkness of ignorance and guiding those who seek enlightenment. I could always see such a decoration in the Japanese temple. A lantern placed before the main hall helps create a sacred approach, marking the space between the ordinary world and the Buddha’s realm.
Outside Yakushi-ji, Kannon-ike Pond offered a peaceful scene far removed from the grandeur of the temple buildings. The quiet water reflected the surrounding trees and the changing sky, while along its edge stood traditional Japanese wooden houses. Their restrained appearance seemed to belong naturally to the old landscape, as though they had been standing beside the pond for generations. The scene felt like a small corner of old Nara that had escaped the rush of modern life.
From Yakushi-ji, I continued toward Tōshōdai-ji, another important temple of Nara’s ancient Nishinokyō district. Both temples form part of UNESCO’s World Heritage property, the “Historic Monuments of Ancient Nara,” inscribed in 1998. The temple was nearby, but even its name immediately transported me to a much more distant world. Written as 唐招提寺, the first character, 唐, refers to the Tang dynasty, while 招提 is an ancient Buddhist term connected with a monastic community, giving the name the sense of a temple associated with monks invited from Tang China. For a Chinese speaker, the characters were immediately familiar, creating a curious feeling of recognition across more than a thousand years of history.
The Nandaimon of Tōshōdai-ji stood quietly at the entrance to the temple grounds, welcoming visitors into one of Nara’s most important Buddhist sites. Compared with the enormous Nandaimon of Tōdai-ji, this gate was more restrained and elegant, with a simple wooden structure, dark tiled roof, and graceful proportions. Its understated appearance seemed perfectly suited to the peaceful character of Tōshōdai-ji. Passing through the gate, I felt a subtle transition from the ordinary streets outside into a quieter world of ancient trees, weathered wooden buildings, and Buddhist history. The simplicity of the gate made it feel more like a quiet threshold into the past.
At the heart of Tōshōdai-ji stood the magnificent Golden Hall, the hall completed in Nara period has survived for more than twelve centuries and remains one of the finest expressions of ancient Japanese Buddhist architecture. There was little unnecessary decoration, allowing the elegant proportions, dark timber, and sweeping roofline to speak for themselves. Standing before it, I could see the influence of the Tang Dynasty that had shaped so much of Nara’s early architecture: the ordered symmetry, monumental wooden construction, deep eaves, and sophisticated roof structure. Over centuries, these imported ideas had been absorbed into the Japanese landscape and transformed into something uniquely Japanese.
Walking deeper into Tōshōdai-ji, I came upon the Kōdō, or Lecture Hall. Built in the late eighth century, the hall originally belonged to the imperial palace of Heijō-kyō before being moved here and transformed into a Buddhist lecture hall. The timber had witnessed more than twelve centuries of changing seasons, while the hall had passed from the world of the emperor into the world of Buddhist learning. It seemed to embody the continuity of Nara’s history, where buildings themselves could carry their stories from one age into another.
The atmosphere of Tōshōdai-ji was very quiet. Narrow paths wound gently through the temple grounds, shaded by tall trees whose branches formed a cool green canopy overhead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in scattered patches, falling softly across the old stone paths and moss-covered ground. The deep shade, the rustling of leaves, and the absence of crowds created a remarkable sense of stillness.
Tōshōdai-ji was founded by the Chinese monk Jianzhen, who travelled to Japan in the eighth century, bringing with him Buddhist teachings, religious practices, and knowledge from the Tang Dynasty. He had attempted to travel from Tang China to Japan five times, enduring storms, shipwrecks, illness, and eventually losing his eyesight. Even after all these hardships, he continued his journey and finally reached Japan in 754. His story represents the two-way cultural exchange between two countries.The Ganjin Wajō Gobyō is the mausoleum of Jianzhen. It lies at the end of a quiet, wooded path within the temple grounds. As I stood in front of it, I felt that I was not simply moving from one Nara temple to another, but following an ancient cultural bridge that once connected Nara Japan with Changan China.
Afterwards, I took the train to the Heijō Palace Site Historical Park, the final major attraction of my Nara journey. After spending the day among ancient temples, I was curious to see the place where the political heart of eighth-century Nara had once stood. I entered the vast site from the northern side, beginning at the First Daigokuden, the reconstructed Great Audience Hall. The enormous open landscape was strikingly different from the shaded temple grounds of Yakushi-ji and Tōshōdai-ji.
Here, there were broad expanses of grass and sky, with the remains and reconstructions of the ancient palace scattered across the former capital. There were few tourists here. As I walked through the grounds, it was easy to imagine the imperial city that once stood here—the ceremonies, officials, and daily activities of a capital that flourished more than twelve centuries ago. Yet much of the original city has disappeared, leaving only traces beneath the open landscape. Perhaps this absence made the passage of time feel even more tangible.
Standing before the magnificent Suzakumon Gate, I was reminded that Nara was once much more than an isolated Japanese capital. The gate was the southern main entrance to the Heijō Palace, opening onto Suzaku Avenue, the great north-south axis of Heijō-kyō. The avenue was once an enormous ceremonial road, about seventy metres wide, running straight through the ancient capital. The name itself carried a connection to China: 朱雀, “Vermilion Bird,” was the sacred creature associated with the south in the traditional East Asian cosmological system. More strikingly, the same name appeared in the great Tang capital of Chang’an, where Zhuque Avenue formed the city’s central north-south axis.
This is the map of Heijō-kyō which had been planned with Chang’an as one of its important models, adopting the continental idea of an orderly city arranged around a powerful central axis. From the map, I could see names of many famous attraction sites like Tōdai-ji, Toshodai-ji and Yakushi-ji. Standing before Suzakumon, I could therefore imagine the ancient avenue stretching straight ahead, with the palace behind the gate and the city unfolding symmetrically to either side. The connection becomes even more fascinating because Zhuque Avenue has not completely disappeared in China. In present-day Xi’an, the modern city still has a major thoroughfare called Zhuque Street, preserving the name and much of the historical north-south axis of Tang Chang’an.
This was one of the most fascinating moments of my journey: history was no longer something I had only read about in books. I felt as though two ancient capitals, separated by the sea, were briefly connected through a single name. More than twelve centuries ago, ideas of urban planning, architecture, government, and culture travelled from the Tang world to Japan. Today, the reconstructed gate in Nara and the surviving name of Zhuque Street in Xi’an offer two distant echoes of that extraordinary period of cultural exchange. This is what makes travelling to historical places so rewarding for me: a name, a building, or a street can suddenly bring something I once encountered in a history book to life. For a moment, the past no longer felt distant, and it was standing directly in front of me.
After completing a full day of exploring Nara, I still had some time before sunset, so instead of returning directly to my hotel, I wandered freely along the small lanes around the city. There was no particular destination and no need to follow a schedule. The narrow paths were lined with forests, with fallen red leaves scattered across the green grass and occasional patches of sunlight filtering through the trees. The late afternoon light softened the landscape, and the quietness of the lanes made the city feel wonderfully distant from the busy tourist areas.
As the afternoon slowly gave way to sunset, many deer lay lazily on the grass, completely undisturbed by the people passing nearby. The soft evening light gradually illuminated the Noborioji park, casting a warm glow over the green landscape. In the distance, Mount Wakakusayama appeared faintly beyond the open fields, its gentle slopes partially hidden by clouds and the fading light of the sunset. I lingered there for a longer time. The deer resting on the grass, the open green space, the distant mountain disappearing into the clouds, and the quiet atmosphere created one of the most treasured moments of my journey through Japan. It was a rare feeling of being completely free and undisturbed, able to admire nature and let time pass without hurry.
Looking back on my journey, this quiet evening in the Noborioji Park left one of the deepest impressions on me. Nara had given me magnificent temples, ancient architecture, deer park, and a remarkable sense of history, but it was perhaps this simple landscape at sunset that stayed with me most strongly. Among all the places I visited in Japan, Nara became my favorite. It is a place where history, natural environment, and everyday life seemed to exist together in perfect harmony.
Gone like the wind 