The crowds of Kyoto keep precise hours. Avoiding them needs no hidden valley, only a step off the peak — here are the five hours we have tried over many years.
First, Kiyomizu-zaka at six in the morning. The shops are all shut, the flagstones freshly watered, and there are only the sweeping monks and the early-rising cats. The same road, three hours later, will become a river of people.
Second, the northern hills at ten. As the great army bears down on Arashiyama, ride half an hour the other way: along the paddy banks of Ōhara there are only scarecrows and two or three old people sketching. The moss garden of Sanzen-in is quiet enough to hear the dew.
Third, rain at one in the afternoon. Kyoto’s rain is a bell that clears the house. Carry an umbrella, and the moment it falls step into a garden — the dry landscape deepens a shade once wet, and the only audience left is you and a cat dozing under the eaves.
Fourth, the Kamo River at half past five in the dusk. The tour groups begin their dinners; the locals begin to leave work. Sit on a stone bench by the river and watch the egrets fishing, the couples spaced along the bank at the fabled equal distances, the twilight turning the Eastern Hills to ink-wash.
Fifth, Gion at nine at night. By day Hanamikoji belongs to the cameras; only at night does the street belong to itself. The lanterns are lit, the sound of a shamisen leaks through a wooden door, and now and then a geiko passes at a quick step, the clack of her geta coming from far to near, then from near to far.
The same city, shifted three hours, is another city. Half of designing travel is, in truth, the design of time.