It is unmistakably plum rain season¹ in Tokyo. My flight touched down at 6:45 AM to drizzle, grey skies, and the early stirrings of humidity. These are not ideal walking conditions, and the light does little to flatter the city in photographs. Still, I appreciate this time of year—when the air hangs heavy with transition, and spring gives way to summer’s approach.

From a practical standpoint, this is also low season for flights, accommodation, and tourist footfall. With many deterred from visiting Japan at this time of year, immigration at Haneda is relatively calm.

From the airport, I travel to the walk’s starting point, Takao Station, the last stop westward on the JR Chūō Rapid Line. It lies close to, but should not be mistaken for, Takaosan-Guchi Station on the Keio Line, which serves as the gateway to Mount Takao.

Takao Station, on the other hand, leads to the town of Takaomachi. Few visitors alight here—it teeters on the edge of being a rural town, a sense tempered only by the looming presence of the Keio and Chūō Lines overhead and the civic hand of the Keio Corporation.

Leaving Takao, I pass through a shopping centre with a distinctly bygone feel. It is an early cue to the town’s prevailing mood. There’s something reassuring about these self-contained commercial pockets, more often seen in regional Japan. Time ticks by steadily, here much like it must have in the 1970s. Beneath the surface, there’s a faint trace of melancholy, though—a sense of decline that is hard to brush off.

The road out of town is called Manyō Keyaki-dōri, and true to its name, it’s lined with Keyaki trees, Zelkovas, my favourite among Japan’s urban flora. At this time of year, their canopy is full offering a lush green rhythm to the roadside.

This stretch is lined by two-storey prefabricated homes, neatly set in rows of three. Overhead, the Keio Takao Line runs close, so close it almost forms a roof above the houses. When the train rushes past it rumbles, even at street level. Trackside living is common across the globe, but to live directly beneath the tracks is rarer. I find myself wondering what it's like to inhabit that space, with the Keio Line always passing just overhead.

I follow a route that veers slightly away from the train lines as I continue toward Hachiōji. While the premise is to walk the line, staying glued to the tracks risks missing the connective tissue between towns—the neighbourhoods and their idiosyncrasies.

In Takao’s case, it reveals a mixed landscape: electrical manufacturers, a residential block given over to snack bars, and façades still stamped with Shōwa-era design. One, in particular, stands out—a rare karaoke kissaten with a bold yellow exterior that makes the most of its surface area.

By the time I reach Hachiōji, passing through Nishi-Hachiōji along the way, it’s lunchtime. On arrival in Japan, I often gravitate toward the familiar: a bowl of ramen, or perhaps conveyor belt sushi. But since leaving London, I’ve had something more specific in mind—a toasted kissaten sandwich. I find it via a discreet staircase, hidden behind the PIA Tower, a multistorey, zakkyo-style gaming complex run by PIA Pachinko. It marks the threshold of Hachiōji’s entertainment district—and feels worlds apart from Takao.

The kissaten is called 茶房田園—Sabō Den’en. Sabō means teahouse or coffee house; Den’en evokes the countryside. Though set at the heart of a densely urban district, the name suggests the atmosphere the owner seeks to cultivate.

Behind the counter, he prepares a blend coffee and a yaki sando—ham, mayonnaise, and salad—without delay. As I eat, I spot him wander over to the window now and then, peering down at the street below. The café feels like an outpost of his own making—rustic in style, a recess where time slows. From here, he has a vantage point to observe the pace of the city.

Leaving Hachiōji, the route follows a narrow canal that eventually meets the Asakawa, a shallow river threading through Hachiōji and Hino before merging with the Tama. It carries me past scenes of urban encroachment, where the canal just escapes the fate of becoming an ankyō². In time, it opens out into a wide residential district.

Here, the landscape shifts to rows of single-family homes. There are no shops, and apartment blocks are rare. For the first time, I stop taking photos and simply walk. Since landing, this is the first moment my steps sync to my breath and I let go of the impulse to frame everything. I relax into the act of moving through it.

Up to now, I’ve felt slightly out of step: jetlagged, weighed down by my backpack, and hampered by the rain. I’m still tuning back into Japan, easing through a process that feels like getting my ‘eye in’—the moment when observation becomes instinctive, and I stop reaching for meaning. It computes that I’d start to find rhythm here in the neighbourhoods, a space that always feels meditative to me.

One thing that does bring me to a full stop in this neighbourhood is the sight of a genuine Kakugata No. 1 postbox³. You don’t often see these out in the wild, and my excitement at its sharp metal edges and embossed lettering cannot be contained.

I power through the next two towns, Toyoda and Hino. Each one is anchored by its train station, and their identity as commuter towns is clear. By the time I arrive in Hino, dusk has set in, and a steady stream of office workers flows from the station. Both districts offer a quiet, affordable place to live—close enough to enjoy the benefits of West Tokyo, without the cost of the special wards.

I’d like to ruminate on the finer details of these towns and the spaces between them—their gentle rises and dips of the terrain, where Western Tokyo quietly resists being levelled out. But I don’t sleep well on flights, and after the 13-hour journey followed by this 30,000-step warm-up walk, exhaustion has me in its grip. It’s a pleasant kind of delirium, but still, sleep is overtaking me. We have just enough time to recount the final stretch from Hino to Tachikawa, my first checkpoint.

As I slip away from Hino town and back into the neighbourhoods, the sky settles into a blue hour. Not the crisp brilliance of a clear evening, but something more brooding—subdued in the way only an overcast sky can be. In that moment, I pass a local 7-Eleven, perfectly composed in its suburban frame. A good konbini is always worth a shot.

As twilight deepens into night, I cross the Tama River via Tama Monorail-dōri. The road takes its name from the double-tracked Tama Toshi Monorail Line above, which carries passengers between the suburban cities of Higashiyamato and Tama, passing through Tachikawa, Hino, and Hachiōji. The line runs for 16 kilometres—more or less the same ground I’ve covered today on foot. Its carriages glide overhead, lending a touch of urban magic to this layered scene of footpath, roadway, and elevated rail. Beneath the rhythm of streetlights, I realise I’ve finally got my eye in.

Until we meet in Chiba,

AJ

Links

¹ Tokyo Under the Rain
² Ankyo Redemption
³ Post Modern