Welcome back to The Case for the Kominka. In this part, we’ll be going further into the many distinguishing features of old-fashioned Japanese houses, starting with some of their unique rooms.
Last time, we stopped our tour of Itoigawa at the coast, with fireworks, islands, piles of seafood, and the biggest mochi mortar in the country (probably because the rest of the country quite sensibly decided not to compete, but you never know).
The Japanese countryside is full of hidden gems, something that’s frustrated me since I was roughly twelve years old (I was a very strange child).
In the last few parts, I talked about the Japanese countryside. Now, we’re going to start on the Kominka itself; something I’m just using for brevity, since the word more or less means a minka (a standalone house for ordinary people rather than a manor or some sort of communal mass-housing) that is old.
In the last part of this series, I introduced the Japanese countryside (in brief, or I would talk about it all day), and some of the arguments for living here. Hopefully, it got your attention.
It’s no secret (since I use it as an excuse every other article) that I’m not from the same environment as many of the people either reading or writing this. Japan’s population trends very heavily urban, and its foreign population especially so.