Japanese gardens: lovely, formulaic, and in three cases exceptional

"Japanese" is, quite possibly, the world's most familiar garden style. Legions of people who couldn't tell
the difference between a English perennial border and a French parterre can tell you exactly what to expect from a Japanese garden.

There will be water with some fat, colourful koi and a picturesque bridge or stepping stones. Some pine trees with exaggerated shapes, some big rocks, maybe some raked gravel. Cherry trees that bloom in the spring are a sure thing. Maybe some stone lanterns and, if the owner has plenty of cash, a tea house. It's a remarkably consistent style that spread around the West like wildfire in the late 19th century, and has been a part of the international garden design repertoire ever since.

You'd think, therefore, that Japan would be a dream destination for a keen gardener. In my experience, I have to say: not so much. I saw some beautiful gardens. I picked up some inspiration. Most importantly, they provided moments of quiet contemplation and patches of green in a country covered by far too much cement. But the very reason they're so recognisable is the reason they may not stir the gardener's soul: they're incredibly formulaic.

They're also fairly sparse on plant variety and, as dictated by the style, on flowers. As a gardener who's mildly obsessed with hostas (aka the plantain lilly) I was tremendously excited to be heading to the land of their origin. I thought I might see unfamiliar varieties, or at least enjoy them in mass plantings. No. While they turned up in most gardens, it would be a handful of plants and often the most basic varieties.  Whether it was an ancient garden revered and preserved since the 13th century or something designed a few decades ago, there doesn't seem to be much interest in the plants themselves, or they way they're put together. The exception is likely to be a pine tree, where you'll see extraordinary efforts taken to hold up exaggerated, twisting spreads of growth that defy the physics of branch strength.  Overall, this is just not a place like England's Hidcote or Sissinghurst where you see avid gardeners wandering around with notebooks, sketching ideas for planting at home or jotting the names of varieties they must find.

My guess is that this is because gardens seem to have a very different role in Japan than they do in England. They seem to be more of an intellectual exercise, often coupled with temples, designed to very specific rules to reference ancient myths or philosophical concepts. The groups of rocks in the pond at Kyoto's Nijo Castle, for example, create a picturesque interplay of water and stone. But they're there because they were intended to remind the Shogun of specific islands of eternal happiness from Japanese mythology, and the way he needed to live to get there. In short: to really appreciate many of these gardens, you need to be immensely educated about Japanese myth and Buddhist philosophy.

They also seem to be an exercise in extreme control. The biggest difference between real Japanese gardens and the Western versions of them is discipline. There may not be many plants, but they're groomed, pruned and plucked to a precise standard. Full grown trees resemble bonsai; not only is every dead bit plucked away, but leaves and branches are stripped back so that the tree becomes the perfect incarnation of itself. Sinuous pines, trained to look wind-whipped and clipped to achieve balance between greenery and artistic emptiness, look more like the paintings of trees in the Shogun's palace than real ones. Moss is brushed with straw brooms to get all its flower heads going in one direction and sweep away any fallen leaves. Silent, uniformed gardeners squat on the ground or climb into trees, but

always seem to be focused on something a few inches from their eyes. This is an obsession with detail that most Western gardens would consider ridiculous, even if they could afford the gardeners to carry it out.

All of which helped me to understand why those zen landscapes of raked gravel qualify as a garden. Here, gardening is an act of discipline and precision that gives you something to meditate upon.

Thus you might go to Japan for a garden-specific tour, but I'd only advise it with a very qualified guide who could explain all the nuances. Without that, I probably wouldn't put horticulture at the centre of my trip. We did, however, see gardens that were both unique and spectacular enough to deserve any gardener's attention. I'd adjust my itinerary to travel to these three, all in the Kansai region.

KOKEDERA
Moss plays a picturesque supporting role in the shady spots of many Japanese gardens, carpeting areas under trees or blanketing ancient stone lanterns. At Kokedera, it's the star, and its dominance creates a mystical setting unlike anything I've seen in the real world. It's closer to visions in imagination; the kind of forest glade Tolkein's elves might gather within or in which Arthur discovered the sword in the stone. Yes, it's that otherworldly.

This is a temple garden, with roots dating back to the 8th century and garden design from the 14th. (The temple is formally known as Saiho-Ji.) The moss, however, is positively modern. In the late 19th century the temple was strapped for cash and couldn't afford the maintenance required to keep up the garden design of islands in a sea of white sand. Moss crept in. At some point, people decided they liked it better than the original. Now there are more than 120 varieties of this innocuous little plant, making Kokedera a study in variations of green.

The moss and the mystery starts on your approach. Kokedera is tucked into a deep valley at the foot of the mountains that rise above Kyoto. Old wooden houses line the shady lane from the bus stop, including one that's built around the twisting branches of an ancient tree, as if the building itself grew out of the ground.

As you enter the temple you'll find long, mossy avenues between walls leading up to beautiful gates. That kind of formality falls away when you enter the main garden, which is built around a many-fingered lake ... supposedly built in the shape of the kanji character for "heart" ... that glows deep emerald in bright sunshine. There are three small islands in the lake, with moss-encrusted bridges crossing to some and a boat tied up implying transport to another. Tourists aren't allowed to stray off the circular path, however.

The trees here are plentiful but mostly of narrow-trunked varieties, joined by groves of giant bamboo, so you get a canopy of dappled shade without feeling that you're in a deep forest. In some places the moss forms scores of tiny hills, like a landscape in miniature. In others it stretches like a lawn, or provides a counterpoint to ancient stones. Tea houses and stone monuments are dotted around the place to add further charm. There's an upper garden, as well, accessed through a dramatic gate that leads onto a switchback trail of roughly-hewn stone. At the top is a shrine occupied by statues of some figures important to the temple's history, at the bottom of a "waterfall" imagined in enormous boulders interspersed with cascading moss.

Kokedera's uniqueness in the gardening world has made it extremely famous, meaning you have to apply for access between two months and one week in advance. Places usually sell out, so it's best to make the request early. Find instructions here. You'll also need to participate in a Buddhist prayer ceremony before seeing the garden, which turned out to be one of my favourite activities of the whole holiday.

The temple is about an hour from central Kyoto on bus No. 73, which takes a meandering route that at one point seems to be turning away from the temple area. Stick with it, the bus will double back and end its route there. I panicked and jumped off, walking the last mile. The advantage of this mistake was getting to explore a particularly picturesque, and I suspect very affluent, suburb of Kyoto. You can do it without the early bus departure. From the bus terminus at Kokedera you'll see a steep flight of steps leading up. Follow them and you'll come to another temple called Jizo-in. It's known as the bamboo temple and sits in groves of the stuff; another place to get those atmospheric bamboo shots without having to brave the crazy crowds at the Arashiyama Grove. Beyond this there's a lovely, quiet neighbourhood of pretty modern houses interspersed with some ancient ones, including an old samurai residence. There are also tiny roadside shrines and occasional glimpses down into the valley where Kyoto sprawls. It's an excellent place for an aimless meander if you have time.

ISUI-EN
If Kokedera is completely unique, Isui-en is completely typical. But if you want to see the quintessential Japanese garden taken to its exquisite extreme, this is the most beautiful one I encountered. It's in Nara, in the shadows of the most famous temple there. Todai-Ji's enormous Nandaimon Gate looms over, and gives a focus to, the main part of the garden in a particularly successful bit of landscape borrowing. Despite the fact that Todai-Ji is one of the most visited places in the country, you'll probably find Isui-en almost empty because it's down a few side lanes and most tourists take the direct road to and from the temple.

The garden is a merger of two, once belonging to neighbouring wealthy homes, so there's quite a bit of variety. The part at the front, without the borrowed view of Isui-en, has a more enclosed, "secret garden" feel with shady moss and stone paths, lots of gurgling little brooks and a variety of small tea-houses you can peer into. An English speaking guide (the only one I encountered in any garden) was on hand to explain the tea houses and their role. They are essentially the viewing points from which to contemplate the constructed scene; a Japanese version of the British garden folly or covered bench. But, in typical Japanese style, they have evolved into a highly codified art form,  including how they should be arranged, what and how should be displayed within them and what should take place inside. One typical feature is a difficult entry point, causing the visitor to reflect on the effort required to attain good things. The guide showed me one that was no bigger than a large dog flap. I was glad tourist access wasn't allowed; I doubt I would have fit. It's great fun, however, to peak into all these ceremonial spaces.

Deeper in, the landscape opens up to a large pond with an island at its centre and hills rearing up behind it, with the striking temple gate at the heart of the landscape. Here's another kanji-character shaped pond, this one saying "mizu", or water. A bit obvious, you'd think, but it's a pleasing form. A path meanders around the lake, plunging into a shady grove at its furthest point. If you can't get to Kokedera, there's a beautiful smaller moss garden here. Ultimately, that's the glory of Isui-en: it seems to have a bit of everything, done exceptionally well. It also seems to have denser and more various planting than at other gardens. It's the only one I visited where I found myself paying attention to specific plants and how they were put together.

Keen gardeners should also note that there's a garden next door called Yoshiki-en that's free to foreign visitors if you present your passport. It's not as impressive as Isui-en, but it's worth a wander. Isui-en also holds a small museum of Japanese ceramics that's included in the price of your ticket, but wasn't open when we visited. If you're planning a visit to Nara, keen gardeners would want to set aside at least 90 minutes to wander around both gardens.

KOKO-EN
I've already mentioned this garden in my article on Himeji Castle, but it's worth repeating here as it was solidly in my Top 3. While I wouldn't travel to Himeji just to see the garden, if you're in town for the castle, and a gardener, don't leave without spending at least an hour here. (Kokedera and Isui-en, conversely, would both deserve travel on their own merits.)

Koko-en is a modern garden, designed in 1992. You'd never know it, however. It's both the glory and the constraint of Japanese gardens that they don't seem to have evolved much in a thousand years. The difference here is the garden's walled format, dividing the eight-acre site into nine distinct gardens, each entirely enclosed by a high white walls topped with decorative tiles. Five of the nine, unsurprisingly, have major water features.

The first and biggest garden, the "garden of the Lord's residence", is the showiest. There's a waterfall, a large pond with enormous koi, a stone bridge, covered wooden walkways and a large tatami-matted guest house/pavilion, all overlooked by the towers of Himeji Castle. The "garden of the seedlings" was perhaps the most interesting, as it was the only place I visited that the working heart of a garden was on show, with plants being raised and care taken to label varieties. The "garden of flowers" was a disappointment, with only a handful of sickly Japanese anemone and a few early autumn bulbs in bloom, but the "flatly landscaped garden" impressed with a stream designed to look like a broad, meandering river in miniature. Small design details impress throughout: rushes bundled to form columns of a dividing screen, mossy stones laid into gravel, the contrasting colours of walls, the lines of chain used at building corners to disperse cascading rain.

While Himeji castle was heaving with tourists, Koko-en was almost empty. And ... unusually ... there are a lot of places throughout to sit and contemplate, from covered pavilions to conveniently-placed rocks. This, perhaps, is the sign of modern design. If you've spent the morning scrambling up and down the castle mound, it will be a welcomed respite.