Iya Kazurabashi Vine Bridge Dekomawashi in hand, admiring the autumn bridge

The moment I spotted the Iya Kazurabashi Vine Bridge in autumn, I stopped in my tracks. The bundles of vines stretched between the trees were woven together far more intricately than I'd expected from the photos. I'd only meant to take in its shape from a distance, but I found my eyes tracing all the way down to the bridge's walkway.

I had a skewer of dekomawashi in my hand. Miso-grilled potato, tofu, and konnyaku were lined up on it, and I was looking forward to my first bite. But the moment the bridge came into view, I forgot all about eating. And there I was, holding something delicious without taking a bite.

I adjusted the backpack strap with my other hand and looked up at the bridge. My gaze moved from the braided vines along its side to the wooden walkway, then to the river flowing underneath. As the bridge stretched away between the leaves, it felt like more than a way to cross the river; it was part of the valley itself.

At last, I took my first bite. When the miso hit my tongue, I realized I'd been distracted by the view ever since I spotted the bridge. I tried to focus on the food, but before my next bite, my eyes had wandered back to the bridge again.

I wondered if the people who once crossed a bridge like this as part of their daily lives had looked at these same trees. Remembering how the bridge is rebuilt and passed down, I could almost picture people coming and going across it, beyond the bundles of vines. My little detour suddenly felt connected to a much longer stretch of time.

Even after finishing my dekomawashi, I couldn't leave straight away. “Just one more look,” I told myself, and gazed at the bridge before I finally set off. Whenever I think of autumn in Iya, I'm sure I'll remember this bridge and the skewer I kept forgetting to eat.