Five centuries ago, Japan was divided and at war. Hundreds of domains, many more warlords, and constant battle destabilised the country for decades. Soon, the ruling military class started clearing the centres of their town, ordering the peasantry to dig moats, construct steep stone foundations and top them with elegant but impregnable castles. Mountaintops were similarly flattened and topped with castles of their own. At the height of this internal strife, Japan boasted about five thousand castles.

But as this period of extreme competition brought a winner to the top, and the Tokugawa dynasty took control over all the country, a new policy was implemented. There would only be a single castle for every province, giving local rulers less potential to disobey or rebel, and reducing their number to around 170. For over two centuries, a form of stability characterised Japan.

But after the unexpected arrival of Western powers, Japan decided it had to modernise if it was to survive and catch up. It decided castles were of a bygone age, and they had to make place for the future. In a handful of years, about two thirds of the remaining castles were torn down. Calamities like earthquakes and fires further whittled down that number, until, by the end of the Second World War, only twelve out of the original five thousand castles remained.

Today, these rare relics are treasured and cherished throughout Japan. Seeking one out, I had the privilege of visiting one such castle the other week. A small and empty train brought me to Takahashi, a sleepy town in the mountains of the Chugoku Region. Unfortunately there is no public transport worthy of the name beyond this train, so I had to reach the castle on my own. Takahashi’s castle is the last mountain castle in Japan, and because of that, I have to climb almost five hundred metres in the sweltering heat. 

After an exhausting hour, I arrive atop Gagyu Mountain dripping with sweat but feeling quite accomplished. The stone bulwarks of the castle, covered with ivy and resting in the shade of massive pines, make me feel like an explorer of lost civilisations. My arrival is perhaps not unlike the hike up to Machu Picchu, although I cannot verify that myself quite yet. Nonetheless, I enjoy visiting the main keep, black and white, looking out over the green mountains. 

But I must admit the absolute highlight of my visit was discovering that the castle actually still has a feudal lord, the only one in Japan, where for one hundred and fifty years there hasn’t been much mention of feudal lords residing in castles. His name is Sanjuro, and he has occupied the place since 2018, when he was found under one of the rafters after a torrential downpouring. Ever since, Sanjuro has resided in the castle like a true mediaeval lord, spoilt for affection by all the visitors he attracts. Mostly he likes to sleep on the castle grounds when it is sunny, or inside the main keep, if it rains. He has grown famous, his face being visible everywhere in Takahashi, sold on badges, tote bags, magnets, or as pastry, a real diva, in other words. Oh, it’s probably important to mention, Sanjuro is a cat. And as a cat he is officially the sole feudal lord in all of Japan. Not bad for a cat.