It promised to rain South of Tokyo, for days on end; no break in the clouds, grey, cold, and miserable. The crowded capital itself too, already hectic with blue skies, would soon turn into a new kind of chaotic. Not wishing to spend my last three days of summer break stuck under an umbrella, or worse, inside, I frantically searched for a solution. But as I have been most of everywhere close to the capital, I had to find something new. Or something that doesn’t exist. Not anymore.
A couple days after Dad flew back to Europe, he called to reminisce about the wonderful technology presented by the shinkansen. And I have to agree. In an hour it brought me to the faceless, featureless city of Koriyama, in the centre of Fukushima Prefecture. From there, a local train, rather confusingly, took even longer to cover the final, much shorter stretch.
As stated, the province of Aizu does not exist, not on any modern maps, it does not have a governor, and was not part of my curriculum, so stepping out of the train in its capital of Wakamatsu was quite confusing. The buildings, people, and glorious sunshine all felt quite real to me, almost disconcertingly so. The castle, focal point of a famous rebellion when Japan started modernising, felt quite physical to me. It was sadly destroyed after its noble garrison, conscious of the futility of their actions, but nonetheless loyal to the end, faced defeat at the hands of the Japanese state army, provided with British cannon. But the current reconstruction need not be ashamed.
It gracefully hosted the Wakamatsu Festival during my stay, quite impressive for a province that hasn’t existed for over a century. People from all over the countryside descended to its walled gardens to sell pickled vegetables, handwoven souvenirs, or sweets loaded with sugar. Emptying my pockets of coins and stuffing myself with said snacks, I do have to admit that I understood little of the local parlance. But what can be expected of a place as imaginary as Aizu.
As any fairy tale requires, Aizu also sports one of the loveliest little mountain villages I have ever seen. Once a post station on the road between Wakamatsu and Edo (now Tokyo), Ouchi-juku today mainly hosts day trippers, replacing the horses and their letters. But the thatched roofs still withstand over a metre of snow every winter, a substantial feat, which I wasn’t able to verify, thanks to the charming late summer sun.
You don’t have to dream to visit unreal places.
