Haikyo

Abandoned buildings in Japan come in all shapes and sizes, with each one boasting its own, unique atmosphere. And particularly in regards the latter, the rotting, filthy clinic below, is a world away from the wonderfully welcoming and serene house I’d visited only hours earlier — photos of which can be seen here.

But that’s not to say the clinic doesn’t have character, because it does. Lots of it too. Something its wooden structure really adds to.

But condition-wise it leaves a lot to be desired, with remnants of the building’s former calling scattered everywhere.

Instruments.

Potions.

Archaic-looking glass containers.

And syringes.

Pretty much everything really. Even jars containing things that the imagination can probably make too much of.

Yet quite why it has been abandoned like this is hard to say. Obviously the elements have taken their toll, but as the owner’s house is on the same plot of land — a factor that makes exploration a little tricky — it seems odd to leave the clinic in such a sorry state.

But whatever the reasons, time has certainly stood still since the last patients left in 1970.

Meaning no more calls.

And no conversations with the receptionist.

Which, considering the truly horrific nature of the operating room, is perhaps as well.

Certain types of haikyo/abandoned buildings are relatively common in Japan. Schools for example, and especially hotels — the latter in particular sullying the landscape in countless recession hit resorts.

Huge houses that once belonged to wealthy politicians and social activists, however, are quite the opposite. Unheard of really. But tucked away behind a large wall, surrounded by grounds the size very rarely seen, is such a place. And what a place it is.

Built out of concrete way back in 1928, the house would have almost certainly been something special even if just a modest home, but, due to its sprawling nature and almost overt opulence, it must have been more akin to a modern marvel. Elements that even now, almost a century later and with the building in semi-ruins, are still very striking.

The owner of this incredible home was a certain Mr H. Born in 1861 into a wealthy family, he had a varied education and career. In his youth he studied Chinese literature and foreign languages, before being tutored by Nakae Chomin, a political theorist and early promoter of liberalism in Japan. These latter studies in particular had a huge influence on Mr H’s burgeoning writing career, which saw him published in numerous newspapers; the political nature of these articles securing him a position within the influential Freedom and People’s Rights Movement — a prominent group of the period that is credited with the eventual establishment of Japan’s first constitution in 1889.

This focus and belief then took a further turn in 1894 when Mr H entered national politics; his successful role in the then recently created Diet continuing until 1915. A job and stature that no doubt saw the house he had built entertain a large and influential number of guests, both in the very impressive living room.

And in the ballroom-like grandeur of the second floor.

Needless to say, a building on this scale is a rarity of sorts anywhere in the world, but to find one in Japan really is something special — even more so for it to be long abandoned and left to the elements. Yet unlike many crumbling structures, it’s an absolute joy to walk around. Plus despite the decay, there’s none of the bleakness that often pervades such exploration.

Instead, there’s a strangely welcoming, relaxed vibe about the place.

Light, airy rooms offering glimpses of other parts of the house.

Along with a staircase that wouldn’t look out of place in an English stately home.

Plus while relatively empty, there are still a few personal items left behind. A good selection of sake cups.

Some rather ornate paperwork.

And somewhat startlingly, a pair of false teeth.

Left behind technology also gives us an indication as to when the house was in use.

Along with when it was possibly vacated.

Yet like most haikyo there’s an element of mystery, as despite owning the house, Mr H may never have actually lived there — or at least not for any extended period of time. This is because records show he moved to Kamakura (a considerable distance away) in 1906; living out his days there until he died in 1930, just two years after the house was built.

In many ways this leaves the purpose of the building unclear. Was it a gift of sorts to his former constituency, an area in whose development he played a major role? A base for political events or meetings perhaps? Or simply a grand second home that would double as a legacy for his family?

These are questions we may never find the answers to, but in regards to the current, increasingly dilapidated nature of the house, there are a few hints about its untimely demise. Repairs done here and there with nothing more than bits of tape mean that towards the end the money might well have started to dry up. Plus this huge cooker (in what was clearly once the staff area), had been downsized considerably — in both usage and cost. Suggestions that all might not have been well financially in the house of H.

That, however, is mere speculation, and the house may well have been in a fairly impressive state when it was eventually shuttered up, with the considerable power of time and nature the main cause of its currently forlorn state. We simply don’t know.

But what is for certain is that as far as abandoned buildings go, it is very special indeed. So special in fact that it was almost sad to leave.

Unlike long vacant homes and schools, abandoned hotels tend to contain very few reminders of the people who worked or stayed in them. And the Tower Hotel, which can be seen here, was no different, with room after room of faded hope and lost guests.

Except one that is, as tucked away in a dark corner of the building was a space once occupied by Kanbe Tadashi.

Whether he was actually living there it’s hard to say, but judging by all the stubbed out cigarettes, it’s a room where he certainly spent a good deal of time. However, with the hotel closing, finding a new job at the very least would have been a necessity. An undoubtedly stressful time that quite likely saw him spend a lot of time sat here. Smoking heavily. And silently staring out of the window. All the while wondering where he would end up next.

Perhaps sometimes looking at his reflection in the mirror too. Each and every time dealing with the horrible realisation that he wasn’t getting any younger, and work would be increasingly difficult to come by.

But, with interviews hopefully beckoning, and future work of some description in the service industry ahead, leaving several of his suits behind doesn’t seem to have made any sense. Clothes that appear to hint at an ending of sorts, but an end to what it’s impossible to say.

When it comes to the likes of abandoned recording studios, homes and even completely untouched schools, there’s invariably not only a sense of sadness, but also the mystery as to why things ended the way they did. With a large number of Japan’s long-closed hotels, however, the real sadness is invariably in the depressing predictability of their demise.

Built in briefly booming resort areas, they generally boasted pleasant rooms, lavish function halls and state of the art entertainment.

Places where guests could be expected to happily kick back and enjoy a relaxing break from the stresses of city life.

Huge expenditure based on the overly optimistic idea that the good times would never end. But they did. Often quite quickly. And the Tower Hotel is another casualty on a long and lamentable list.

To be fair though, some visitors did enjoy enjoy it.

Or they at least tried to.

But, as the tourist boom faded, so did the once lavish accommodation that catered for them. The rooms never getting updated to match the times.

With mod cons such as fridges not especially tempting to potential guests — particularly so in the year 2000 when the Tower finally closed its doors.

The vicious circle of tired old rooms not bringing the money in; money desperately needed to refurbish said rooms in order to be competitive again. Although that said, it’s hard to imagine any amount of expenditure making some of them even remotely appealing, as gazing out at a corrugated wall is generally not what people want on a weekend away.

There again, neither is playing woefully outdated video games.

Plus even drinking away the disappointment wasn’t really an option. The bar.

Twin Peaks-esque decor.

And far from exotic exotic window stickers.

All provided a backdrop that even copious amounts of alcohol would have been hard pushed to obliterate. Perhaps the only blessing being that reserving a table wouldn’t have been a worry.

But, on the way back to their rooms, they’d at least have had the chance to pause on this lovingly recreated bridge and ponder an era other than the one that permeated the rest of the hotel.

The very noticeable silence is a key ingredient of the whole haikyo/urban exploration experience — even more so when it’s a building more usually associated with music and laughter. A factor that makes noiseless and perfectly preserved schools especially atmospheric, and the same goes for bars with their unfinished drinks and hazy memories.

Tucked away in the corner of a long-closed and sprawling spa (photos of which I’ll post in the future), this tiny bar had more than enough silence to make up for its meagre size. And remnants of possibly the last drink to be poured there almost 22 years ago to the day, hint at what the atmosphere may have been like.

Then there are the empty request forms for karaoke, the bar’s bread and butter.

This enka track by Kanmuri Jiro being one of the choices.

A cover version of which can be heard here, which gives a fair idea of the sounds the place once reverberated to, as well as the kind of customers that used to congregate there.

listen to ‘都忘れの花のように’ on Audioboo

In fact the names of a few them are still knowable due to the system of ‘bottle keep‘. The varying degree of alcohol left in each bottle perhaps suggesting how regular a visitor they once were.

Although it’s clear that some had more taste, or at least money, than others.

But that was many moons ago, and where they all sat and sang is silent. Ironically now a perfect compliment to enka, with its themes of love, loss and loneliness.

For the staff, however, it wasn’t just friendships to say goodbye to, but also a job, and this notebook behind the bar with its doodled おわり (the end) seems especially poignant.

Even though it’s only one building, Midori no Sono nursery school felt like two very separate haikyo: the possession filled rooms of the sadly deceased owner that were featured last time (photographs of which can be found here), and then the actual school itself.

Just like other abandoned schools, and in particular this incredibly preserved one up in the mountains, it’s the complete silence that was once again the most notable feature.

Clearly music practice was a regular occurrence, but it’s not anymore. And hasn’t been for many years.

So instruments that were once functional, as well as part of the furniture,

now look rather forlorn.

As do the chairs once used for that regular feature of school life, student photographs.

Although it’s probably fair to say that the students looked more uncomfortable then, than the seats do now.

Elsewhere, it was more of the same: Everyday items.

Traditional ornaments.

Memories.

And toys. All of them left behind.

Along with rooms that while full, seemed incredibly empty.

The only sign of (relatively?) recent life being these tracks in the kitchen; a flood having covered part of the ground floor with a now dry and cracked layer of mud.

But other than the unidentified beast, the place was pretty much completely untouched — presumably just as it was when the last of the teachers left.

A little over 20 years ago.