The cicadas’ song, produced by the flexing of their tymbals, echoes through Tokyo’s parks, along its tree-lined avenues, and within the natural enclaves on the urban fringe. Watermelon season is at its peak, and children cool themselves with kakigōri (かき氷), a sweet, crushed-ice treat enjoyed at festivals and firework displays.
As evening descends on suburban streets, the soothing sound of crickets rubbing their leathery front wings together drifts into homes through open windows, covered by amido (網戸)—sliding screens made of fine mesh that allow air to flow through while keeping insects out. Meanwhile, the scent of burning katori-senkō (蚊取り線香), a natural insecticide derived from chrysanthemum flowers, wafts through the neighbourhood.
Summertime in Japan leaves a nostalgic imprint that lingers long after the physical discomfort of the intense heat has subsided. This year, meandering westerly winds and elevated sea surface temperatures have driven Japan’s high temperatures. These winds slow and circulate clockwise, creating a high-pressure system over the country intensifying the summer heat. This phenomenon, caused by a decreasing temperature difference between the Arctic and the equator due to Arctic ice melt, allows the heat to settle in. At the same time, sea surface temperatures around the archipelago have risen to record levels, sometimes six degrees above average, with warm sea breezes that only deepen the oppressive heat.
I’m standing under the relentless midafternoon sun, shielding myself with a sunbrella in front of a local estate agency. The office’s stout, three-story building, with its geometrically pleasing tiled facade and continuous balconies, initially caught my eye, but now I am curious about the business within.
Whenever I visit a new place, I browse the window displays of estate agents—the listings often reveal clues about the local community’s lifestyle, economic vitality, architectural trends, and the kind of people who live there.
At that moment, a man in a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, strolls breezily across the road and stops beside me. We both face the window as he opens a watermelon-flavoured ice lolly shaped and coloured like a triangular slice of the summer fruit. “Are you looking for a house?” he asks.
This is Mr. Hotta from Ōtama Kaihatsu, the estate agency whose listings I was just about to browse. I’m indeed interested in purchasing property in Japan one day; ideally, I would like a modest apartment in a well-constructed building within a centrally located Tokyo ward—a pied-à-terre—and a larger, older property, designed and built to traditional standards, in a peaceful location with a slower pace of life.
Mr. Hotta elaborates on the distinctive qualities of this locale. It is here that Tokyo’s urban landscape gradually fades, giving way to more serene, mountainous regions filled with forested hills and valleys. The area is well connected by train, with sufficient local amenities and public services, yet it maintains the feeling of a rural retreat. It wasn’t just sales talk—his description aligns with everything I’ve observed today.
Ōtama Kaihatsu’s office is situated near the intersection of the Akigawa Kaidō and Itsukaichi Kaidō thoroughfares, just 200 metres from Musashi-Itsukaichi Station. This station is a remote yet pivotal terminus in the western reaches of Akiruno, a city located in the Tama region, the extensive western part of Tokyo Metropolis.
The eastern part of the metropolis comprises the densely populated 23 special wards, which many visitors might assume to be all of the capital. However, the Tama region forms a significant portion of the metropolitan area and consists of 30 municipalities, including cities, towns, and a single village. It was once part of Kanagawa Prefecture to the south but became part of Tokyo in 1893. Today, it offers a picturesque blend of urban and rural characteristics.
Musashi-Itsukaichi is positioned at the tripoint of the neighbourhoods of Itsukaichi, Tateya, and Irino, with the Akigawa River flowing to the south. Initially serving as a hub for limestone transport—a duty it no longer fulfils—the station’s location continues to affirm its significance as a key transit point within Akiruno. It offers a gateway to the rural fringes of Tokyo Metropolis, a place still within its boundaries yet far enough removed to feel like a world apart from the city.
Departing from Shinjuku, Tokyo’s iridescent neon core, you have two distinct routes to reach Musashi-Itsukaichi. The first option is to take the Chūō Line, travelling westward to Tachikawa. Transferring at Tachikawa, you continue on the Ōme Line, eventually merging onto the Itsukaichi Line at Haijima. As you travel, the urban sprawl of Tokyo gradually gives way to its calmer western landscapes.
The Itsukaichi Line, which you join at Haijima, originally opened as the Itsukaichi Railway in 1930. It was designed to link the more populated urban centres of Tachikawa and Haijima with rural Itsukaichi. In 1940, the line was absorbed into the Nambu Railway, which parallels the Tama River, the natural border between Tokyo and Kanagawa. The Nambu Railway operated the route until its nationalisation in 1944, when it became part of Japanese Government Railways (JGR), the predecessor of today’s Japan Rail (JR). The track was then renamed the Itsukaichi Line.
Alternatively, the Seibu Shinjuku Line offers a direct connection to Haijima, tracing a path through the city’s northerly suburbs before you transfer to the Itsukaichi Line. Both routes follow the historical connections linking Tachikawa and Haijima with Musashi-Itsukaichi.
As you travel through the Tama region, you might notice that several neighbourhoods, cities, and stations carry the name Musashi (武蔵). This name dates back to the Asuka Period (538–710) when Musashi Province encompassed Tokyo Metropolis, most of Saitama Prefecture to the north, and part of Kanagawa. The province’s ancient capital was in present-day Fuchū, in the eastern part of Tama, while the provincial temple stood in Kokubunji, slightly further west.
Though Musashi Province was dissolved during the Meiji Era (1868–1912), its legacy endures in the names of places throughout Western Tokyo, including Musashi-Itsukaichi. The Itsukaichi (五日市) portion of the name translates to ‘fifth-day market,’ reflecting the historical tradition of holding local markets on the fifth day of each month.
The station has undergone several changes over the years, including elevating the tracks and modernising its interiors. The raised design was intended to transform the station from a terminal into an intermediary stop, hinting at possible future expansion toward Hinohara, the region’s sole village, located further west. However, such plans have not come to fruition. Indeed, my friends, this is where the line ends. From here, our journey continues on foot.
I’m a fan of Japanese cinema that contends with the intricacies of daily life. In these films, narratives unfold through subtle interactions and ordinary moments—a “slice of life.” Nothing overly dramatic happens. Yet, small, seemingly insignificant events, presented with a minimalist sensibility, accumulate to create an emotional resonance that stays with you well after the credits roll. The storytelling is delicate, often embodying poetic realism, inviting the audience to discover depth in simplicity.
Musashi-Itsukaichi is one of many local stations in Tokyo’s hinterland. At first glance, nothing overly dramatic happens beyond this secluded railway terminus. Yet, like a slow-burning drama, it is precisely the type of destination I would choose for a long walk on a free weekend during the midsummer months. My aim in writing about the area is not to promote it as an off-the-beaten-path travel destination. Instead, it is an ideal setting to learn the city gradually. Every detail in its surrounding townscapes and landscapes has something to teach us about Japanese design, culture, history, and daily life—if we take the time to move slowly and observe closely.
Mr. Hotta asked why I’d chosen to come here of all places, and I provided a brief version of the above explanation. He paused momentarily, then smiled and said, “Oh, this is a quiet place, alright.”
You've just finished reading the prelude to Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring, the inaugural Tokyothèque book, now available via Gumroad.
Regular newsletter readers will know that I’ve been immersed in the creation of this work. As recent newsletters have reflected, the journey of completing a creative endeavour is rarely smooth. I am therefore exhausted but deeply satisfied to finally share this with you.
You can read about the book’s themes and content in more detail on the Gumroad page, but a final word: if you enjoy the newsletter—whether it inspires your travels in Japan, deepens your understanding of Tokyo, or offers you a measure of solace each week—I believe you will truly enjoy this book.
Until we meet on the exurban fringe,
AJ