Until I visited, all my images of New Jersey came from song lyrics - Paul Simon's traffic-clogged turnpike and Bruce Springsteen's urban working class childhood.
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There was something special about Takayama. I could feel it in the air as soon as I stepped off the train – crisp, fresh mountain air, so refreshing after the heat of Kyoto.
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The road twisted and turned up the mountain, winding through what seemed to be quite ancient woodland, and emerged on to the grasslands above. The crumbling hulk of the monument loomed above us, the last wisps of cloud just drifting away.
