On a long weekend in late autumn, Kamakura shows two contrasting faces — crowds of visitors filling the streets, and quiet moments that remind me why living here feels special. Yesterday offered a glimpse of both.
Yesterday my wife was on duty at a local bazaar, so I stayed home with Ann.
I drove a neighbor — a member of the same volunteer group as my wife — to the venue and returned home.
While hanging the laundry and tending to a nearly dying poinsettia, I realized the bazaar was about to begin.
I walked to the venue with Ann, combining it with her morning stroll.
The bazaar was packed — far too crowded to bring a dog inside.
The road that cuts through the center of Kamakura was filled with people, as it was the middle day of a long weekend.
It was just as crowded today as well.
Those black vans that used to be everywhere have clearly decreased in number.
If anything feels “typical Kamakura,” it is surely this constant flow of visitors.
Kamakura’s charm also lies in the greenery of the surrounding hills and the nearby autumn colors.
Of course, such scenery can be found elsewhere, but there are moments that make me think, “This is something you can feel only when you actually live in Kamakura.”
One such moment happened yesterday while I was tending to the poinsettia.
A group of monks from KenchÅ-ji came by on their alms rounds, chanting as they walked.
Ann was startled and began barking, so I quieted her and stepped outside.
As I do every year, I went to the entrance to offer a small donation.
The monks chanted a sutra, and I put my hands together in gratitude.
This, too, is something that feels deeply, unmistakably like Kamakura.
