Nishiarai · Adachi · northern Tokyo
It survived the firebombing. Then it burned down on an ordinary Wednesday in 1966.
Nishiarai Daishi is one of the busiest temples in northern Tokyo, and English-language guides all say the same things about it: peonies, wisteria, the salt-covered Jizō, the food stalls. None of them mention that the big hall in the middle — the one every visitor photographs — is reinforced concrete finished in 1971, and that the oldest structure on the grounds is a small tower in the corner that you are not allowed to enter.
The temple's own account puts its founding at 826, by Kūkai. Whatever you make of that, the place has been a working pilgrimage site for a very long time, and its main hall was built in the middle of the Edo period — a serious piece of eighteenth-century carpentry, still standing when Tokyo burned in 1945.
It did not burn in 1945. It burned on 25 May 1966, and was completely destroyed. The main image was carried out. The hall you see now was rebuilt in 1971, in reinforced concrete, paid for by donations from the temple's parishioners.
That order of events is the whole reason to come here with your eyes open. In Tokyo you get used to a single explanation for why old things are missing: the war. It becomes a reflex. But the war is not the only thing that has been removing this city's buildings, and it was not even the most recent one to take this hall.
Off to one side, small enough that most visitors walk straight past it, is a three-storey wooden tower. Its name, sansōdō, means roughly "the hall you go around three times" — you climb by spiralling, three circuits to reach three floors. The popular name for this building type is sazae-dō, "turban-shell hall", after the spiral of the shell.
Almost none of these were ever built, and almost none survived. This is the only sazae-dō left in Tokyo. The temple's account dates it to 1834, with a refit in 1884. It is about 3.7 metres square inside and roughly 10 metres tall, and it has been a registered cultural property of Adachi ward since December 1982.
Which is, in a strange way, the point. A building whose entire purpose is a route you walk — spiral up, spiral down — has had that purpose suspended, and it is still standing there being a shape. Meanwhile the hall that is in use, that people queue at and throw coins into, is the newest major structure on the site.
The layout is worth having in your head before you arrive, because the two oldest structures are the two you are least likely to walk towards.
The gate, with its pair of guardian figures, is Edo-period work and came through both the fire and the war. The salt-covered Jizō is the one thing here the English guides do mention: a stone figure buried under handfuls of coarse salt, where people with warts and skin complaints take a pinch away with them and bring back double when it works. Watch how people do it before you touch anything.
And then there is the crowd. This is one of the "three great warding temples" of the Kantō region, and it behaves like one — on a New Year or a festival day the approach is solid with people and stalls. That is not a bug. A temple that is this busy is a temple with a living parish, which is exactly why it could rebuild a burned hall by subscription in five years.
Tokyo teaches visitors a single story about loss: it all burned in the war. It is true and it is not sufficient. Buildings here have also gone in earthquakes, in wartime metal drives, in road widenings, in developers' hands, and — as here — in an ordinary electrical fire on an ordinary spring day in the middle of the post-war boom.
So when you stand in front of something in this city and it looks old, the useful question is not "did it survive the war?" It is "what did it survive, and what did it not?" At Nishiarai Daishi the answer is written across the grounds: the big thing lost, the small thing kept.
The tower is small, closed, and easy to miss even when you are looking for it. You will spend more time finding it than looking at it. There is no explanation of any of this in English anywhere on the site.
The main hall being from 1971 does not make it worthless — it is a well-used, well-loved building and the parishioners paid for it themselves — but if you came for eighteenth-century carpentry, it is not there any more. Adjust before you arrive rather than after.
The exact cause of the 1966 fire is not something I have been able to confirm, and I am not going to guess at it. If the temple office tells you, you will know more than this article does.
Adachi ward carries on north from here. Takenotsuka is a few stops away, and there is a shrine there with a pine tree in the walls — that story is here.