on February 08, 2026
Between Shadows, Shrines, and Still Water
Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden
Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden
We woke a little later than planned, the result of a long and enjoyable session in a small local bar the night before. It had been warm, welcoming, and unexpectedly insightful. A conversation with the barman drifted from travel to everyday life, and he spoke candidly about the cost of keeping his customers comfortable through winter. Several jerry cans of diesel every 24 hours fed his heaters — a staggering amount. Even by Japanese standards it was expensive, and watching him refill the heaters in front of us felt oddly surreal. It was the kind of practical, no-nonsense solution that simply wouldn’t happen in the UK, strangled long before by red tape.
Craig decided to skip breakfast and go for a walk to clear his head. Not far from our hotel in Shinjuku, we found a park offering day access for 500 yen. The moment we passed through the gate, the city noisevanished. It was as if Tokyo had been switched off. The park was easing its way through winter — a huge greenhouse, long tree-lined avenues, and pale-barked trees standing bare and skeletal, lending the place an eerie, almost otherworldly calm.
We followed the paths toward the ponds. There were four in total. The first revealed no fish, and the second was much the same, though by then I’d become aware of the number of crows gathering nearby. It wasn’t until the third lake that things changed. A bridge crossed halfway down its length, and a leafless tree stretched out over the water. Then, once my eye adjusted, I saw them — the shadows of Magoi gliding beneath the surface. Once you spot one, more reveal themselves, until the water seems quietly alive. Craig reckoned they must have weighed around twelve pounds apiece.
We split our route, crossing the bridge, looping around the bottom of the lake, and rejoining it in a figure of eight before exiting on the far side. It turned out to be an inspired decision. As we reached the far end of the lake, I suggested we sit for five minutes. Almost immediately, Craig spotted a kingfisher diving on the opposite bank. We stayed still, watching, and after a few passers-by moved on, the bird flew and settled on a branch in the tree beside us. I had only ever seen a kingfisher once before. Now, in the middle of Tokyo, we had seen one twice.
In many cultures, the kingfisher symbolises calm, patience, clarity, and good fortune — a reminder to slow down and trust the moment you’re in. Its appearance felt quietly meaningful, especially on a journey that keeps rewarding stillness and attention. The crows added another layer. In Japan, they are not symbols of misfortune but of intelligence, guidance, and protection — creatures that move easily between the natural and the urban, the visible and the unseen. Watching them bathe together on a small island in the lake, entirely unbothered by their surroundings, felt like a lesson in balance and adaptability.
The KingFisher caused a stir on TikTok
Koi Crazy Chris
Taken together, the kingfisher and the crows seemed like complementary symbols — stillness and movement, solitude and community. It was hard not to see the moment as a form of synchronicity, a quiet acknowledgement from the journey itself.
Eventually we crossed back over the bridge and made for the exit, leaving the park behind with a sense of calm that stayed with us.
Next on the list was Meiji Jingu. We have visited before, but each time it feels new. It is a profoundly spiritual place, and the souls of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shōken are enshrined here. Emperor Meiji oversaw Japan’s transformation into a modern nation, opening it to the world while preserving its cultural identity. Empress Shōken, remembered for her compassion and support of education and social welfare, embodied quiet strength and dignity. Walking through the forest that surrounds the shrine — a man-made woodland grown from trees donated from across Japan — it’s easy to sense their enduring presence.
On entering, we turned to see the building that echoes the Empire State Building rising behind the great torii gate, glowing against a flawless blue sky. Old and new co-existing in perfect harmony — something that feels uniquely Japanese, rooted in deeply held values.
We took a new trail and were surprised to find street food vendors at the end. We tried an omelette filled with noodles and drenched in a rich sauce, along with freshly cooked strips of beef. As always, we followed the unwritten rules, eating only in the designated area nearby. There was not a scrap of litter anywhere. I did get a few curious looks when I noticed some cladding in the spotless restroom facilities and took a photo — perhaps a future reclassification idea for my pond back home.
Omusoba & Beef Skewer
Continuing on, we discovered another path we hadn’t taken last year, leading to a garden and a teahouse once used by the Emperor, rebuilt after damage during the Second World War. The lake beside it had been drained for maintenance and restoration of the lily terrace walls. We both agreed there were far worse jobs than working there, even if the labour looked heavy. Nearby was the sacred well, temporarily diverted for the work but never capped — its sanctity preserved.
We then joined hundreds of others walking toward the main shrine. A couple were being married, dressed in traditional clothing, posing for photographs. They looked genuinely happy, and it was hard to imagine a more fitting place for such a moment. We passed the tree covered in wishes and messages, thousands of them tied and waiting, with a steady queue of people eager to add their own.
As the day drew on, we walked past a dojo and crossed a bridge we hadn’t noticed the previous year. Through the windows we glimpsed young martial artists sparring with long staffs, a living reminder of the Bushidō spirit — something not confined to museums, but quietly alive.
We made our way back to the hotel, skirting Shinjuku Station rather than entering it. After getting lost the day before among its countless underground exits, we decided not to tempt fate. With more than fifty exits below ground, discretion felt wise.
It had been a day rich in symbolism and meaning, and the fresh air had done its job — the hangover well and truly walked off. Leaving Meiji Jingu once again, I realised it now feels like the true centre of my Tokyo. A place I will always return to.
Tomorrow, we leave the urban sprawl behind and head into the mountains of Niigata, in search of koi, old friends, and new ones yet to be met.
