Hamarikyu Gardens

Pass through the gate, and the noise of the city begins to fade. A few more steps and it is gone. Ahead lies open lawn, the dark shapes of pine trees, and water that smells faintly of the sea. Behind you, glass towers climb into the sky. Here, at their feet, is a garden three hundred years old.

This is Hamarikyu. The name points to a detached palace on the shore, and that is close to what it was. In the time of the shoguns, this ground belonged to the Tokugawa family, the warrior rulers of Japan. They came here to relax, to hold banquets, and to hunt ducks and falcons along the water's edge. Falconry was a sport of rulers, and this was their private ground for it.

The garden sits where the Sumida River meets the waters of Tokyo Bay. That meeting of river and sea shaped everything here. Walk toward the large pond at the center and look at its edge. This is a tidal pond. Its water flows in from the bay, and as the tide rises and falls out in the harbor, the level of the pond rises and falls with it. No fresh stream feeds this water; the sea does.

Watch the surface for a while. The fish change with the water, as saltwater fish drift in on the high tide. Long ago, wooden sluice gates were used to control the flow. Few gardens anywhere still work this way. Most ponds are still and fixed. This one breathes with the ocean. On a calm day you can watch the water turning slowly at the gates.

Out on the pond there is a small island, and on the island a teahouse. A wooden bridge reaches across the water to meet it. The teahouse is called Nakajima, which means the house on the island. You can walk out to it, sit on the tatami mats, and be served a bowl of matcha, the bright green whisked tea, with a small sweet beside it.

Sit there a moment if you can. The water surrounds you on every side. The towers of the Shiodome district rise beyond the trees. Old and new sit in the same view, and neither seems to mind the other. It is a strange and pleasing balance.

As you walk the paths, look for a very large, low pine near the main entrance. Its branches spread wide and close to the ground, held up by wooden supports. This is the Three Hundred Year Pine. By tradition it was planted around 1709, by a shogun who wanted to mark the garden's renewal. Its trunk is thick, its limbs heavy, and it has watched the city change around it for three centuries. Wooden props cradle its longest branches like outstretched arms.

The garden was not always open to ordinary people. For most of its life it was private, first the shoguns', and then, after their rule ended, a property of the imperial family, who used it to receive guests from abroad. Foreign leaders were entertained here among the ponds and the pines.

Then came war. The buildings of the garden were badly damaged in the bombing of Tokyo. In 1946, the grounds were given to the city and opened to the public. What had belonged to rulers and emperors became a place where anyone could walk.

Take one of the quieter paths now. There are fields where flowers bloom by season: cosmos in the autumn, rape blossoms in early spring, a haze of color against the dark pines. Bees move among the blossoms, and the air turns sweet. There are smaller ponds, stone lanterns, and views that open suddenly onto the water.

Make your way toward the bay side of the garden. From here you can see boats on the water. In fact, you can arrive or leave by boat, for a water bus runs along the Sumida River, carrying passengers between the garden and the older districts upstream. The boat slips past warehouses and bridges along the way. Coming in from the river is one of the oldest ways to reach this place.

Before you go, stand once more where you can see both the ancient pine and the glass towers behind it. Three hundred years held in a single glance. The garden was made for rulers who wanted to step away from the world for a while. It still does the same thing for anyone who walks through the gate. Take that calm with you back into the city.