The first time I wandered into Arashiyama’s bamboo forest, it felt like stumbling into a dream. Not a fantasy painted in bold colors or loud sounds, but a soft one, quiet and breathing. It was just after sunrise when I stepped onto the gravel path, and suddenly, everything shifted. The air changed. The world didn’t go silent exactly—it just… listened.

There’s a kind of hush in that forest that doesn’t exist anywhere else. It’s not like the stiff silence of a museum or a library. It’s alive. The tall stalks of bamboo, impossibly slender yet towering like green skyscrapers, whispered to each other in the wind. They creaked, swayed, and groaned gently, and I swear, it sounded like a lullaby written by nature herself.

I remember my shoes crunching softly on the gravel. Even that sound felt out of place, like I was intruding. All around me, tourists were already snapping photos, phones held high, trying to capture a moment that refused to be caged in pixels. I slipped my own phone into my pocket. Some places, I’ve learned, aren’t meant to be documented. They’re meant to be felt.

Dawn in Arashiyama

I had arrived early, intentionally. Arashiyama, just west of Kyoto, has become a magnet for visitors, especially in the fall when the leaves set the hills ablaze with color. But at dawn, it’s nearly deserted. Just me, the forest, and a few early risers: a jogger, a monk in sandals, and a cyclist who sped past with a basket overflowing with daikon radishes, likely on his way to a morning market. The scent in the air was unmistakably fresh—earthy, a mix of crushed leaves and dew still clinging to the undergrowth.

I walked slowly, dragging my fingertips along the bamboo trunks. They were cool to the touch, polished by centuries of wind and wonder. No surprise the samurai once believed these groves were sacred. Standing there, dwarfed by green and filtered sunlight, I could almost feel the reverence they must have felt.

Breakfast, Kyoto-Style

By 8 AM, my stomach started to rumble. I followed the faint scent of something warm and sweet until I found a tiny food stall tucked between two narrow streets. The woman behind the counter was already busy grilling skewers of mitarashi dango—glutinous rice balls lacquered in a shiny glaze of soy sauce and sugar.

I ordered one skewer, and it was love at first bite. The outside was slightly crisp from the grill, the inside chewy and warm, and the glaze—sticky, smoky-sweet—was something else entirely. I closed my eyes, just chewing, letting it linger. The vendor must have noticed because she laughed softly and asked, “Oishii?”—Delicious?

I nodded with a full mouth, and she smiled before handing me a cup of warm barley tea. “Here,” she said, pressing it into my hands. When I reached for my wallet, she waved me off. “You look happy,” she said in Japanese. I was.

Getting Lost on Purpose

Later, with nowhere to be, I wandered toward the Hozu River. It snakes lazily through the region, sometimes hidden behind hills and bamboo, sometimes opening up to stunning vistas. Wooden boats bobbed gently in the water, their boatmen steering with long poles and singing old songs to entertain their passengers. It felt like time travel.

I decided to explore on two wheels and rented a bicycle from a small stand. It wasn’t in great shape—wobbly handlebars, a bit of rust—but it had charm. I pedaled slowly, letting the wind push through my jacket as I passed stone lanterns and moss-covered shrines tucked beneath pine trees. There’s a calm that sinks into your bones in Kyoto. It doesn’t try to impress you. It just is.

Somewhere along the road, I smelled sweet potatoes roasting—smoky and caramel-rich. I followed the scent to a cart operated by an elderly man who looked like he’d been feeding people for decades. He cracked one open with thick fingers, and steam spilled out like incense. “Autumn’s flavor,” he said proudly as he handed it to me wrapped in paper.

I sat on a bench nearby, the potato warming my hands, watching as fiery red maple leaves drifted from the trees and settled on the water. It was one of those moments where nothing spectacular happens, but it feels spectacular anyway.

Kyoto Doesn’t Hurry

There’s something to be said about a place that refuses to rush you. Kyoto isn’t a city that demands you see it all or tick off landmarks. It invites you to slow down, to be. By the time the sun began its descent and painted everything in a golden hue, I’d already walked miles, filled my stomach with street snacks, and barely checked the time.

I wandered through gardens where koi fish swam silently beneath wooden bridges. I passed schoolchildren laughing in uniform, their backpacks bouncing. I paused in front of a tiny shrine hidden behind a curtain of ivy, and though I didn’t know the deity it honored, I bowed my head anyway. Respect, after all, doesn’t require fluency.

When I finally checked my phone, my camera roll was overflowing with pictures I wasn’t even sure I’d look at again. Photos of trees, boats, and shadows on water. But the best moments—the dango, the old man and his sweet potato, the rustle of bamboo—I didn’t capture at all. They’re just in me now.

Borrowed Belonging

By the end of the day, my feet ached in the best way. My heart felt full, not loud, celebratory full, but quiet full. Like something had been returned to me, I didn’t know I was missing.

Kyoto, especially in places like Arashiyama, doesn’t just offer sights. It offers presence. And for that one perfect day, I felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s world, someone else’s home—and somehow, they let me in. I left nothing behind but footprints, but somehow, it felt like I gave a piece of myself to that forest, and it gave something back in return.

If you ever go, go early.
Go with your phone in your pocket and your senses wide open. Let Kyoto unfold around you, slowly and softly. Because some places aren’t meant to be seen.
They’re meant to be felt.

📍 Location

Anaya Deshmukh

Anaya Deshmukh, a travel blogger, explores cultures and stories with a writer’s passionate spirit.

Born: March 15, 1993
Gender: Female
Country: India