Deer Roam the Streets of This Japanese Island That’s Considered Sacred for Its Natural Beauty

Who could argue with a millennium of kudos? Throughout the ages, poets and travelers have praised the tiny jade green island of Miyajima, claiming it as one of the most beautiful places in all of Japan.

To make it official a thousand years ago, the Japanese pinpointed the three most scenic spots in their country and christened them san kei , meaning “three views.” Though most foreigners have never heard of them, they are legendary destinations to the Japanese.

To visit Miyajima Island or the two other spots--Matsushima, an island-studded bay north of Tokyo, or Amanohashidate, near Kyoto, with its famous gnarled pine trees that are said to resemble the path to heaven--is more a pilgrimage than a vacation.

Japanese tourists eagerly collect the souvenirs of each of the san kei , and for many Japanese, it is a lifelong dream to journey to all three sites.

One fall we did the trio. We sailed lovely Matsushima Bay in a dragon boat blaring Japanese folk music. We stood on the viewpoint above Amanohashidate--though we had to squint a bit to visualize the route to heaven. And we discovered Miyajima, the most exquisite of the san kei and a mere speck among hundreds of islands in the Inland Sea.

Miyajima could have been lifted from a dreamy, classic Japanese watercolor. Each spring the enchanting isle explodes with cherry blossoms. In the fall, “viewing autumnal tints,” as the brochure puts it, brings hikers to walking trails leading into a deep forest that is home to weathered temples, pagodas poking their tiled roofs through morning mist and teahouses resting peacefully beside waterfalls.

After a 12 1/2-mile train trip from Hiroshima, it is only a 10-minute ferry ride to Miyajima.

The steep green slopes of the island plunge to the sea, where, wading in a shallow bay, sits the tall orange torii (gate) made famous in travel posters. Tucked behind it is spectacular Itsukushima Shrine: a Shinto complex of pillared orange buildings that appear to float on the water.

We checked into one of the small Japanese inns in the peaceful town, slipped on our wooden geta (clogs) and headed for an early hot bath.

Miyajima’s peacefulness is partly due to a lack of cars. Apart from a few delivery vans, vehicles are not allowed. One of the pleasures of Miyajima is watching the town unwind in the evening following the departure of the last ferry filled with tourists.

Men congregate in the street to smoke. Kimono-clad women draw their black shawls close and gossip in the twilight. Except for the colorful glow from electric lanterns strung zigzag across the main street, evening on Miyajima hints at the pace of Japan centuries ago.

The island dinner specialty is oysters plucked fresh and plump from beds we’d seen on our ferry trip across from the mainland. They are delicious served with scrambled eggs and scallions over a bowl of rice. For dessert, we purchased warm Momiji Manju: tiny maple leaf-shaped cookies filled with sweet bean jam, for which Miyajima is famous.

Rising the next morning, we were startled by half a dozen noses poking through the doorway curtain. Even knowing in advance about the tame deer that roam Miyajima, it was a shock to find droves of them on the main street, panhandling and taking advantage of their status as one of the island’s sacred animals.

Later, a deft pickpocket tugging from behind pulled a shopping bag from my shoulder, scattering the contents across the pavement. The thief looked at us with innocent brown eyes, sniffed disdainfully at our spilled post cards and strolled off to nibble on a cardboard cutout of a bikini-clad Japanese girl in a shop front ad.

Always restrained, Japanese tourists stifled laughter behind hands held politely in front of their mouths, unaware that rice biscuits were being pilfered out of one of their gaping handbags.

For centuries, the island deer have been considered sacred, like those at Nara, but this hasn’t necessarily made them more tolerant of people. Though generally docile, they will, if pestered, drop their heads and charge. But there is nothing to fear: their horns have been trimmed to deny them revenge.

While the deer are amusing, guaranteed to impress even the most jaded temple-goer is the island’s famous shrine--painted the bright orange of the Heian Period (794 to 1192).

With its gabled roofs, the shrine stands above high tide on seven-foot stilts. Reflections shimmer on the water and, in a masterful illusion, the pavilions and long, open galleries appear to float on the incoming sea.

Monks dressed in white and turquoise gowns tend the immaculate grounds. A musty perfume from burning joss sticks fills the air, and paper fortunes bought from the monks are tied to lanterns, door handles and tree branches for good luck.

All of Miyajima Island is considered sacred, since the ancient Shinto philosophy worships nature. To keep the island pure, strict religious codes prohibit the cutting of trees or tilling of soil. And until the Meiji Restoration of 1868, when Japan’s feudal system was abolished, even births and deaths were not allowed on the island. The island still has no graveyard, and expectant mothers and the dying are taken to the mainland.

Salt air and fire have ruined some of the 8th-Century Itsukushima Shrine architectural treasures. Yet skilled Japanese craftsmen have made excellent reconstructions, such as of the classic half-moon Soribashi Bridge.

The red camphor-wood torii, erected in 1875, is 52 feet high--the tallest in Japan.

Contrasting with the bright shrine is the austere weathered wooden Noh Theater, alongside. There, once a year, classic Noh theater is performed by elaborately costumed actors. Although the original theater dated to 1568, the present building was reconstructed during the 1800s. Yet it still is the oldest of its kind in Japan.

Several festivals take place at Miyajima throughout the year, but the most elaborate is the Longevity Festival on July 17. Hundreds of men and boys dive into the sea after a sacred wooden ball released by a priest. Whoever retrieves the ball gets to keep it and other prizes. But of most importance: He has won lifelong happiness.

Early morning is delightful on the island as we set out through the mist into the autumn-tinted countryside.

At last we reach the solitude of Senjokaku--the Hall of a Thousand Tatami, a majestic structure with a great, sweeping roof supported on massive wooden pillars. (Room size in Japan is traditionally measured by the number of tatami mats it takes to cover a floor. A thousand mats is an exaggeration, it turns out, since the hall is but 450 mats large.)

The entire building is said to have been made of a single camphor tree, the venture supervised by the renowned warrior Hideyoshi in the late 1500s while he was planning the invasion of Korea.

Behind the town, easy walking trails climb to small inns and teahouses hidden among the maple trees. Serious hikers can climb to the summit of Mt. Misen. Others can take the easier route via the aerial tramway and explore summit trails.

The sound of clattering dishes from a tearoom off the trail hushes the chatter of birds. A young woman in a kimono steps from a doorway to tend a smoldering pile of raked leaves. With a bow, she wipes her hands on her starched white apron. We dive into guide-book Japanese. She defrosts her high school English. And we end up laughing at our attempts over a cup of hot green tea and biscuits.

“We are very honored to have a group of schoolchildren visit from Hiroshima today,” she says while pointing toward tables set under the trees.

“Japanese love to spoil their children,” she says, picking up one of the figurine gifts decorating each place setting. When it’s time to leave, our hostess staunchly refuses payment. “It is my pleasure,” she says, bowing. “Sometimes we like to spoil visitors, too.”

The hum of a generator announces that we are approaching the aerial tramway. The 15-minute ascent offers spectacular views across the water to Hiroshima. Also visible are the surrounding mountains and the Inland Sea, where boats tend hundreds of long wooden rafts used for cultivating oysters and seaweed.

At the summit, we are anxiously met by a playful contingent of Miyajima’s other protected creature.

Japanese monkeys sit on the station rooftop until the tram docks. Then, with a surprising boldness, one of them drops to the ground, screeches and nabs a young boy’s tin of potato chips. After scurrying to the edge of a cliff, he lowers himself out of reach and gleefully stuffs handfuls of chips into his mouth.

With a firm grasp on our camera bag, we make our way through the forest on the first leg of a four-mile hiking trail that winds first to the peak of Mt. Misen, then via a tortuous route back down to the township.

We’re the only hikers on the trail as it steadily climbs to the summit. There, overlooking the sea, a 9th-Century monk with an eye for outstanding real estate constructed a series of small temples that blend into the rocky mountainside.

A monk in white appears and steps onto a podium adjacent to an enormous cast-bronze bell. Slowly he draws back the wooden battering ram and then releases it to strike the heavy bell. A single resonant note rolls through the forest. As the sound lingers, other monks in dark robes silently make their way toward the main temple. A rhythmic chanting starts. We are left completely alone.

On our way down the mountain, we hear another bell in the distance. All around us deer stir and head in the direction of the sound. It’s afternoon feeding time at Itsukushima Shrine.

By late afternoon, we are back in town amid a rush of schoolchildren being shepherded toward the ferryboat.

A thousand years may have elapsed since Miyajima was declared a san kei, but from what we saw, it’s a title still deserved.