Temples, meditation and contemplation: staying with monks on Japan's holy Koyasan

In the still, milky morning, hush blankets Daienin lodge. I pad silently down the serene corridors of the temple, towards a room where a low, dull sound is reverberating. Sliding open the door, I arrive to a rapt audience. Candles flicker against gilded treasures. Incense wafts from burners. Guttural, rhythmic chants rupture the air. Two monks, in robes of purple and gold, are performing their daily sutras (religious scripture) and, along with a few other guests at my shukubo (temple lodging), I’m bearing witness. I sit on the tatami floor and watch as the 6am ritual plays out — just as it has for the past 1,200 years.

Even if you’re not a practising Buddhist, coming to Koyasan is a pilgrimage. The traditional arrival at this UNESCO-listed temple complex, squirrelled up on a high plateau encircled by eight mountain peaks, requires commitment. First, there’s the Nankai Koya line train, departing from Osaka, gliding from grey, urban jumble into emerald countryside, traversing rivers and climbing through dense brush to tiny hillside stations. At Gokurakubashi, where the train ends, a cable-car provides a further steep ascent to the 800-metre summit. From there, a bus snakes along switchbacks in deer-roamed forest to the sprawling, ancient temple complex. It takes me 90 minutes to get to Koyasan from Osaka, but in that time it’s like I’ve traversed centuries.

Founded in 816 CE by an influential monk known as Kobo Daishi, Koyasan — also sometimes known as Mount Koya in English — is among Japan’s most important religious centres. The birthplace of esoteric Shingon Buddhism, it was home to thousands of forest-clad temples at its peak from the 17th to 19th centuries. Today, 117 remain, strewn around a few photogenic streets, and their wood-carved and gold-lined interiors put them among Japan’s loveliest. In the past, these temples operated under strict religious mandates — women were banned entirely from Koyasan until 1872 — but they now actively encourage visitors by hosting overnight stays. These trips are not only for religious pilgrims, but also serenity-seeking tourists like me.

Shukubo are like traditional ryokan inns, dialled up a meditative level. Their tatami-mat-lined rooms and futon beds provide extra space for reflection and solitude. You live among the monks, observing early-morning sutra readings, nightly curfews and usually taking communal baths. There are English translations of Buddhist teachings in rooms, and the time and space to rearrange life priorities. A night here provides far more depth than a brief visit to Tokyo’s skyscraper-wrapped Sensoji temple or Kyoto’s oversubscribed Kiyomizudera ever could.

A stay also, I discover, offers great food. After an hour of sutras, I’m ushered by a monk to my 7.15am breakfast in a private tatami room overlooking a maple-dotted garden. Half-a-dozen different colourful dishes await, each one crafted to the principles of Japanese temple cuisine, called shojin ryori. The main point is that they’re all vegan — Buddhism eschews the killing of animals. I settle onto my cushion and tuck into the delicately plated array, nibbling sweet red adzuki beans and seaweed salad as I marvel at the gilded paintings on the walls. This is pure analogue entertainment; I feel more tranquil already.

I’m not the only one enjoying a great meal. A few hours later at the grand temple of Okunoin, my guide, Kaori Kodama, leads me along a path lined by weathered stone sculptures and towering, ancient cedar trees to a procession of gold-robed monks carrying a large chest. “They’re taking lunch to Kobo Daishi,” she explains, noting that the elaborate meal inside is presented twice daily, with the menu rarely repeating. The monk may have entered his ‘eternal meditation’ in 835 CE, but more than a millennium later he’s still remarkably well fed — and his mausoleum attended to with a host of other daily rituals.

“We come to Okunoin to pray for the dead,” Kodama says as we pass floral displays flanking Kobo Daishi’s resting place. She points out the strings of lanterns, tributes to lost loved ones purchased by families. There are also pilgrims here dressed head to toe in white, the Buddhist colour of death. “People travel from across Japan to pay homage,” she says, ushering me over to the vast sea of stone markers that act as memorials. 

Okunoin is both beautiful and sorrowful, but Koyasan has many other layers to unpeel. After we’ve slurped udon in the town centre — lined with shops selling religious trinkets, incense, pendants and traditional sweets ­— we visit Koyasan’s head temple, Kongobuji, a vast hall built by high-ranking samurai. A pristine rock garden in an inner courtyard evokes a pair of slithering dragons, and walls shimmer with gold leaf — fitting given the Japanese royal family have stayed here in their own exclusive version of a shukubo. 

We later explore the nearby Danjo Garan complex, the historic heart of Kobo Daishi’s settlement, where a 160ft-high red stupa towers and a knobbly pine tree casts shadow. Among the many intricate structures, Kodama points out the most precious of all, the Miedo: small, low-rise and unassuming. Housing a priceless portrait of Kobo Daishi, it’s the only building with a protective sprinkler system in case of fire and is almost entirely closed to the public.

Koyasan understandably attracts visitors, but, compared to the crush at many temples in Kyoto and Nara, it feels sleepy. And I see no other tourists at all when I go on an hour-long hike through the hills later that evening, after my early 5.30pm temple dinner. 

I follow a short ancient route squiggling into the hills, part of a long circuit once used by female pilgrims who wanted to pray near holy Koyasan — but, of course, weren’t actually permitted entry. Scaling the slope from the roadside, I scramble over tree trunks all the way up to a tiny hilltop temple. I catch views down to tiled rooftops submerged in green, and as the light wanes, I descend, emerging back in town by the giant red gate of Daimon. An electric sunset dances across the distant Seto Inland Sea on the horizon.

The streets are deserted and I’m tempted to hurry back to Daienin, before the monks lock the shukubo gates for the night. But Kodama has told me it’s after dark that Koyasan is most magical. So I postpone the return to my cosy, tatami-lined bedroom — and to the warm kettle full of green tea I know the monks have left for me — and instead walk back to Okunoin.

Kobo Daishi’s resting place has transformed under a cloak of darkness. The memorials and tree trunks have eerily faded into black. A string of stone lanterns lights my way for the long, ghostly walk up to the temple. There’s nothing but the sound of my footsteps on the path and the occasional screech of a flying squirrel; I spook several times and almost turn back. Just when I’m about to lose my resolve again, I see a group of visitors up ahead, led by a robed monk.

I trail behind them up to Kobo Daishi’s mausoleum, where the monk pauses and begins to chant with a low and guttural hum that breaks through the night. As the rhythm builds, I toss some coins into the offering box and light a strain of incense, watching it plume into the cool air. Then, as a crescent moon slips out from the inky clouds above, I dip my head towards Kobo Daishi, joining the congregation in a reflective moment under the silver glow.