At Godaisan Observatory Terrace I want to keep watching the city across the river until more lights come on

In early June, at the end of a day driving around Kochi City, I headed up to Godaisan. I wasn't ready to head back into town yet; I wanted to see the Kochi I'd spent the day exploring from above. I parked in the car park, straightened the cuff of my white shirt, and followed the path through the park to the observatory terrace. At the wooden railing, the city opened up across the river. It made me happy to think that just a little while ago, I'd been right there among those lights.

The sky still held a little blue, and the last of the evening light showed between the low clouds. Below, so many city lights were already on. The bridge stood out more clearly as the sky around it darkened. I started out looking at the sky in the distance, but somehow my eyes kept wandering back to the bridge. It felt as if I'd gotten to enjoy both sides of Kochi in one trip: the city I'd driven around by day and the one I was looking at by night.

While the sky was still bright, I walked about 30 m east from the terrace to see the statue of Hamaguchi Yūkō, too. I straightened up in front of it and tried looking in the same direction for a moment. Seeing a statue standing up here on the mountain, looking out over the city, made me feel how long this place had been cherished. By the time I got back to the terrace, there were even more lights in town.

As I rested a hand lightly on the top of the wooden railing, I felt my shoulders relax. I turned toward the city, feeling the breeze brush my sleeve. I'd thought about taking photos, but first I wanted to stay right there and take it all in. I was glad to find such a peaceful place to look out over the city, high on a mountain I could drive up to.

The lights reflected in the river stretched and shimmered in long vertical streaks, unlike the lights in town. They changed shape with every little ripple, so I never got tired of watching the same stretch. My gaze moved from near the bridge along the riverbank, following the shifting reflections. When I look at a night view, my eyes usually go straight to the buildings, but tonight I kept noticing the river too. I'm glad I left time to watch the water as well.

Beyond the city, mountain ridges overlapped one another. As more windows lit up, the dark outlines of the mountains became clearer too. I read that this observatory terrace was built in 2022. The previous observation facility closed in April 2022 and was apparently demolished in February 2023. Standing at the wooden railing with the city, river, and mountains all in view made me want to know more about the places I'd driven through today. Before I knew it, I was already wondering where I'd go on my next drive tomorrow.

I'd read that Urado Bay and Kochi Port lay in the direction of the sea I could see before it got dark. The dark stretch beyond the city lights was the sea. From up here, I could see how the roads I'd driven that day connected the river, the port, and the city. It felt like I was redrawing a map of the day in my head.

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to look for bōshi-pan. It's said to have originated around 1955, when someone forgot to add the melon-bread topping. When it was sold as “Castella Bread,” it had a castella-batter coating; customers began calling it “bōshi-pan” because it looked like a hat. I plan to look for some at shops around town, like Nagano Kyokudō Rinbell. There's something heartening about a bread born from a mistake becoming a local specialty.

Before leaving the terrace, I looked back toward the river one last time. The city I'd been watching since the sky was still blue had fully taken on its nighttime face. As I drove down the mountain with my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, I felt oddly happy to be heading back into the lights I'd just watched from above.