Haikyo

Some haikyo/abandoned buildings are so well documented they are practically tourist spots, resulting in a steady stream of urban explorers like myself eagerly photographing them and foraging around for details. In many ways this is arguably a good thing, as without such exposure these places would remain hidden. Yet the downside is that every photo seems to take away a little more of a haikyo’s soul — or at the very least any surprises. So finding a barely visited, little known treasure trove is a real treat; especially so when it’s one as full of memories as Midori no Sono nursery school.

The school itself has a rather convoluted history. It existed way back in 1948, but only as an unofficial place where youngsters used to congregate under semi-supervision. This resulted in it becoming a locally recognised school 7 years later, and then in ’62 it was given full state approval and extra funding — a move that eventually helped finance the building that stands there today. One constant, however, was the kimono-clad woman in the photo below: Niikura Midori. A person it can only be assumed owned — or at the very least ran — the school, as she was there from the very beginning, and the closing of the nursery seems to have coincided with her death.

That was in 1992, and since then, the building and everything inside it have remained remarkably intact. Pretty much untouched it would seem. And nowhere is this more evident than in Niikura-sensei’s living quarters; a good-sized area on the school’s top floor that also doubled up as a meeting room for the small group of teachers who worked there.

Staff members who might also have used the adjoining kitchen and bathroom.

Maybe even the odd child did too.

But the rest of it is very much an old lady’s home.

The large number of ornaments and other items saying a lot about the woman as well as her age — without a doubt the most touching being this music box. The sound of which, in a possession-filled, utterly silent room, was incredibly moving.

listen to ‘Midori no Sono Music Box’ on Audioboo

Elsewhere, it was reminders of a long life, and the possessions one acquires over time.

Many functional.

Others reflecting taste and interests.

But all of them, presumably, left as they were on the day the doors closed, resulting in an experience that was incredibly interesting, but really quite sad.

In part 2, the school itself is the the main focus, and it can be seen here. A section of the building that was nowhere near as personal as this set of photos, but at the same time, it still contained a lot of memories.

After visiting the abandoned but perfectly preserved mountain school last year, it seemed inconceivable that there was a similar haikyo out there that could match it. And in many ways, the incredibly decayed Shimo Ashigawa Primary in Yamanashi Prefecture, doesn’t. There are no desks neatly arranged. The sense that students may return at any minute simply isn’t there. Plus personal effects-wise, there’s very little left.

Yet despite lacking all of the above, it has an atmosphere and serenity that arguably makes it just as compelling.

Situated near a river and behind a little enclave of houses a few hours from Tokyo, the structure in many ways mirrors the decline of the location itself. While clearly never a bustling metropolis, it was still a community that warranted a school, and along with farming, was one of the region’s many silk producers. In 2006, however, due to a steady decline in its population, the village was merged into the nearby city of Fuefuki, resulting in it and the surrounding district being dissolved.

The school, on the other hand, disappeared long before that, although its history goes back much further. Founded in 1876, as well as existing in its current form since 1954, it must have been second home to countless children — not to mention a key feature of the small community. Yet the last time students walked along this corridor was 38 years ago.

Since then, Mother Nature has slowly but surely began to claim the building back. Typhoons and winter weather, plus the school’s rather exposed location, have left the windows in a dreadful state — meaning the structure is now completely open to the elements.

And it’s this aspect, especially on a bright, sunny day, that arguably makes the school so appealing.

Yes, there are only a few mementoes of its previous life and inhabitants.

Elements that for me personally usually make such places so interesting.

Most notable was some craftwork that one or two students probably poured their hearts and souls into.

Along with this key that someone would have been in charge of.

And an old can it may have been stored in.

Plus there was this rather forlorn looking woman. A portrait that presumably meant something. To someone. At some time.

But regardless (or possibly even because of) these memories, it was just a wonderfully peaceful place to be. A feeling that even the building’s dubious status as a double haikyo couldn’t break.

Details are scarce, but after the school closed in 1974 — although when exactly and for how long isn’t clear — it was used in connection with the area’s aforementioned sericulture trade. The odd leftover cocoon, hooks hanging from the ceiling and silk production-related machines where desks once stood, giving the place a slightly surreal vibe.

One that, considering its dilapidated state, may sadly not last too much longer.

But while it does, it will remain very special indeed.

Most abandoned buildings/haikyo offer something of interest, but the ones that I’m invariably drawn to contain hints of the past; poignant reminders of the lives of those who once lived or worked there. An element that the old enka singer’s house offered with suitably melancholy mystery.

Yet arguably better still are those rarities like the long since closed mountain school — a building so utterly untouched that despite decades of disuse, it still felt occupied.

Neither of those places, however, contained that other mainstay of haikyo: the taking back of the building by mother nature. A feature that, despite offering little else, the SPG House hotel in Yamanashi Prefecture had in abundance.

Possibly because of its location beside one of Mount Fuji’s famous lakes, the dampness throughout the structure — particularly on the ground floor — was staggering.

A problem that has gone way beyond rising, and is now simply all-encompassing. Even its iconic neighbour, bravely clinging to the wall, is now barely recognisable.

Fortunately, despite the decay, there were still a few of those previously mentioned reminders of the past, with the office revealing some of the activity that once went on there.

But all that came to a very abrupt end in 1996, when the business went bankrupt. The last people to check-in and enjoy what by then could have been the SPG’s quite dreary delights, being Shusaku Miyadera and four family members or friends.

Elsewhere, it was simply more signs of the hotel’s fight with the forces of nature.

An unfair contest that has even turned everyday objects into fascinating, initially unrecognisable, forms.

And in the guest rooms, moss in particular has begun to make a move.

Some of it so wonderfully resplendent that it easily manages to outdo many moss gardens.

It has been suggested that love hotels are one of Japan’s more resilient businesses, but even they sometimes succumb to hard times. And in many of the areas liberally dotted with them, the competition must be intense; each one attempting to outdo the other with novel interiors or technology. A fate it would seem that befell the now abandoned Hotel New Royal, as there’s a fairly new and far fancier place positioned right across from it.

The office part of the building certainly suggests that money had been a little thin on the ground during the latter years, as despite closing its doors for the last time in 2006, the equipment it is kitted out with feels like it’s from a very different age indeed.

A time when figures were generally inputted with one, very deliberately pressed, finger.

And tried and trusted metal switches were very much the order of the day.

Equipment that the presumably far from young Narushima-san — who it would appear ran the hotel — perhaps felt just about comfortable with.

Accounting and clerical tasks that needed to be fitted in between the considerably more pressing work of such establishments — cleaning.

Yet despite the rather archaic nature of the office, the rooms themselves really weren’t that bad. Something that’s still true even now, another five years down the line. Yes, there’s no denying they are dated, but not diabolically so.

Plus they were fitted with a few nice little extras. There was the offer of sustenance for those who may have over exerted themselves.

Phones and fancy panels to marvel at and play with.

Along with games machines for those whose heart perhaps wasn’t in it when it came to the main purpose of being there. Although with buttons labelled double up, big and small, there was no getting away from the job at hand.

And for those who were up for it, there was no shortage of matches for more than a few post-coital Marlboros.

In regards any kind of theme, mirrors were clearly a key feature.

But for the more adventurous, this room had a moving bed.

With simple buttons to get things rolling.

And while there is obviously no power in the building anymore, the rooms are still in surprisingly good condition, with very little damage apart from the removal of all the air-conditioning units. A scenario that presumably prompted at least one person to stay. The colour of the sheets and the amount of tissues they went through suggesting it was for quite some time too.

Yet why they chose the rather mundane room they did is hard to fathom, especially with a chariot sat idly by next door.

Or even more so the marvel that was just across the corridor. For starters its lamps are quite ornate.

But even they are nothing compared to the bed itself. A truly preposterous affair that is quite literally the Rolls Royce of beds.

When heading to a haikyo, there are never any guarantees: It’s often hard to get a true location. The building might not be there anymore. And the interior may have been smashed up beyond all recognition even if it is. Factors that when added together make genuinely incredible places all the more rewarding — like the recently visited and spectacularly preserved, abandoned school.

In fact, it was in such good condition that expectations for the Sun Park Hotel had to be suppressed still further. Along with the usual uncertainties, there was a sense that anything even approaching the completeness of the school would be asking too much. And needless to say it was, but thankfully only slightly, as the hotel was still in surprisingly good condition — plus it had a sombre, and yet really quite serene ambience of all of its own.

Situated in Kiyosato, Yamanashi Prefecture, the hotel suffered a fate similar to the countless other closed businesses that line the main streets of the once popular holiday resort: it went bankrupt.

Only a few hours or so from Tokyo, and once labelled a ‘mini Harajuku’, the area was apparently the place to visit in the 80s, but, like everything else that has a boom, there sadly had to be a bust, and Kiyosato’s came at the end of that decade. The visitors disappeared, and so did many of the places they once visited — like the Sun Park Hotel.

The building now sits semi-hidden by trees, but inside, it’s almost welcoming. The bar and eating area by the entrance is even now still set out to accommodate those looking for a bite to eat or a few beers.

Although the last people to do such a thing were presumably the last of the staff, having one last drink.

It may even have been Yamamoto-san, but that’s something only he or she can answer.

Unlike the telephone.

Elsewhere, the sense of waiting persists, although as calendars suggest the hotel closed in either 1989 or 90, it’s a long while indeed since this chair seated a young diner.

And it was very similar upstairs, even if the paintwork and elaborate lighting has seen better days.

Despite damage in the corridors due to scavengers ripping out metal wiring in the ceilings, the rooms themselves are still remarkably well preserved.

Televisions remain untouched.

And one can almost imagine still using the laughably ostentatious telephone to call down for a quick clean up.

Plus some fresh bedding.

But just like the slippers, you’d have to wait patiently. Possibly forever.

Because just like the plight of Kiyosato itself, no one will come.