Lighting the kamadoin a house in the sky

I stayed in an old farmhouse with a fine view, deep in the mountains of Shizuoka. A bench sat by the entrance under a noren curtain, and terraced fields and houses climbed the slope behind.

On the veranda were worn wooden boxes and farm tools; by the latticed window stood a treadle sewing machine, and on a shelf, a black rotary telephone. Here the kamado and the hearth are still in daily use, and you can try living the old-fashioned way.

First, I would cook rice over the kamado. I poured rice into the pot, added water and washed it, draining the cloudy water and repeating a few times. I hoped it would turn out well.

I set the wooden lid on the cast-iron pot and placed it on the tiled stove. Thin sticks of firewood went into the firebox, and I struck a match. I like how soft the flame of a match is. The fire caught, and soon flames filled the firebox. White smoke drifted from the chimney into the sky above the village. Ignition successful.

You control the heat by the amount of firewood. Steam burst from under the lid and clouded the air around the pot. Doing by hand what machines usually do for me was quietly moving. While the rice cooked, I stepped out into the narrow lane in front of the house.

My Neighbor Totoro, I was told, is set around 1953, in the days before television. I decided to make a lunch from that era: the one Satsuki gets up early to pack for her father and her little sister Mei.

I grilled two small fish. Sprinkling beet powder over white flakes and tossing them in a pan turned them into pink denbu. Beyond the shoji screens, the mountains caught the afternoon light.

I fluffed the freshly cooked rice and packed it into a red lacquered lunch box: pink denbu, green peas, a pickled plum. The plum turned out to be huge. Then the grilled fish went on top. You're pretty big too.

Before heading out, I took a turn around the house. Autumn sun slanted across the tatami by the veranda. In the hearth room, a pot hook hung from the ceiling, and the mountains showed through the open window.

The house has other residents, too: a Shiba dog in a red collar, and goats peering over the fence. Right, then. Time to go out with the lunch box.

Wishing Bell in the Sky, 300 m. A wooden sign beside the house pointed up the hill. Tin-roofed houses stacked up the slope, and beyond them the mountains went on in fold after fold. This is Osawa, 736 meters up, known as the village in the sky.

With stone walls built into the steep slope and small fields and houses clinging to them, the village is also called the Machu Picchu of Enshu. I climbed the stone-walled path and sat down on a bench with a view, ginkgo leaves scattered at my feet.

I opened the lunch box on my lap. Rice cooked over a kamado is fluffy and delicious. Lunch, looking down over the village roofs and the mountains across the valley.

Let's go higher still. Treading on yellow ginkgo leaves, I followed the path through a grove of cedars. A stone torii stood among the trees, with a small shrine hall beyond. This is the village's only shrine, Shohachiman Shrine.

I made an offering and received a slip of paper to write a wish on. Along the railing in front of the hall hung rows of white papers, each tied with a wish. Tie your paper on, and ring the bell.

Beside a cedar trunk hung the bell, with a sign reading Wishing Bell in the Sky. Dong. The clear note carried out over the valley. Below, the mountains went on and on.

Back at the house, I had a snack at the table by the window: Shizuoka green tea and the house's special dried persimmon. On a small plate beside the teacup sat a single persimmon the color of amber. Such a beautiful color.

Split with the fingers, the inside was soft and syrupy. A moist texture, a rich flavor, a gentle sweetness. Drying makes it keep longer, and makes it this much more delicious. Somewhere between fruit and confection; the prototype of sweets, perhaps.

Beyond the shoji, the afternoon mountains. I sat at the window and looked out for a while. Outside, the Shiba dog sat in the middle of the lane, watching me.

At dusk, into the open-air bath with its spectacular view. I set a can of beer on the rim of the tub as the ridgeline across the valley began to glow red in the setting sun.

The owner built this bath himself, from things he was given and salvaged timber, and he is proud of it. Beyond the beams, rose-colored clouds drifted past. Following the owner's advice, a beer in the bath. Best bath ever.

After sunset, the lamp in its woven bamboo shade came on. Outside the window it was already pitch dark.

Dinner would be cooked over the hearth. I lit charcoal in a clay brazier and carried it, brazier and all, into the hearth room. The coals glowed red on the ash, and the iron trivet warmed up. In the old days, people kept the house fire going and treated it with care.

Obvious as it is, life is hard without fire. Sitting before the hearth, I felt that again. I ran a bamboo skewer through each yamame from the mouth, salted them, and stood the skewers in the ash. This is the thing I had always wanted to try.

An iron pot hung from the pot hook: wild boar hot pot, with thin slices of boar, onion, enoki mushrooms and shirataki noodles. It bubbled away, and the boar hot pot was ready. I poured a beer into a glass mug, and dinner by the hearth began.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who longs for fish on a skewer. The radiant heat of the charcoal crisps the skin and leaves the flesh fluffy and delicious. Picking at the pot, I watched the fire. I love the hearth.

At night I stepped outside; only the light at the entrance was on. It's a new moon tonight, so the stars must be amazing.