My god. It’s been over three years since I last wrote a haikyo post. Three years… What on earth happened? Perhaps I’ve been trying far too hard to improve on each entry? Did perfectionism finally suck the writing marrow right out of my soul? It’s certainly not through lack of exploration. No way. If anything these last few years have been some of my best adventures to date!

I’ve amassed some 30,000+ photos stacked up on my hard drive, waiting patiently for the day they are catalogued and brought to life. The stories overflow from my skull; the narratives like sticky threads dripping from my grey matter, slowly stretching further and further towards the ground. I desperately try to cling to them by occasionally going over the core elements in my mind, fearful the lines will break and precious details will fall to the floor, lost forever. There’s a very real possibility I’m forgetting some of the best fireside tales of my life…

So why update now? you may wonder. A recent interview with the Radio Life magazine (out today) focusing on my love of exploration and ruins! In the article (in Japanese only, I’m afraid), I’ve released some never before seen photos, including one tantalising shot of a very special clinic, and I foolishly promised the editors that I’d update my site with the full story.

This clinic represents a culmination of sorts. After nearly ten years of urban exploration, it’s a true original find, and for me feels like a bit of a rite of passage. Too long I’ve relied on help from others, tip-offs and trading with fellow ruins aficionados. I discovered this place as a result of hours of work perusing Google Maps, a stab in the dark, and rather ironically a repeat visit to a location once seen!

And what a place it was! I don’t think I could have asked for a better first original location. Old Japanese wooden clinic. Check. Not yet seen online. Check. Shelves full of unbroken, unstolen glass medicine bottles. Check. Rows of vintage medical books. Check. Creepy anatomical drawings and medical books. Check. Black and white family photos. Check. The list goes on! And we’re five paragraphs in without even starting the story. Let’s get to it…

On Yonder Hill

It’s Autumn 2017. A couple of budding haikyo enthusiasts are visiting my neck of the woods, and I enthusiastically agree to show them a few of the places marked on my map. We plan a provisional route and set off for the trip. The day was to be made up of repeat visits for me, something largely unavoidable when playing tour guide for friends, but these guys have shown me such a number of gems in the past that I’m all too happy to oblige.

On our second stop, we exit the car and start towards the known location.

“You guys go ahead. I saw something as we were driving past that I want to check out. It feels promising!”

Feeling my haikyo radar tingling, I decide to take the backdoor route to avoid drawing attention. I’m balancing myself carefully as I walk along the narrow grass banks between rice fields, edging closer to the structures looming in the distance. The prominent entranceway would have been far too obvious, and I’m sure I saw laundry hanging outside anyway.

I hop over a small fence and hurry up a tiny little path carved out against a row of trees, emerging in front of a large wooden building. It’s not in great shape, and as I make my way around the back, I discover the damage is worse that I initially thought.

Damn… This looks like yet another abandoned house on the verge of collapse.

Still, no harm poking my head inside! Even old houses bereft of interesting items can produce some of the most beautiful scenes. Very often it can simply be the dance of shadows and light, their majesty often enhanced by the scattered holes in the structure.

The floors are in terrible condition. I have to pull myself up into a living room from the overgrown garden. Peering inside, I see a Japanese alcove and in the distance I can make out an entranceway with some interesting vintage posters. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but in retrospect having posters in the entrance should have a been a telltale sign that this wasn’t an ordinary house! I make to advance, but the old tatami sags wearily under my weight and I hear a nasty snapping of wood.

Not good, not good. I back off and decide to find a different route to the entranceway.

Around the back of the building, I find a corridor connecting to another room on the opposite side of the house. The beams of wood at the open end of the walkway are broken and spew out into the open grass. Once more, I haul myself up from the ground and into the building – an entrance the architect never planned for or probably ever dreamed would happen.

The building really didn’t want me here. The walls shook, dust fell and the floorboards seemed to grit their metaphoric teeth as they bore a weight not felt in years. I ignore the worrying sounds of crunchy cracking wood and quickly move forward down the corridor onto more ground. To my right is a door, almost like the entrance to a saloon, but wedged shut from the building’s warped, malignant shape. To my left, a beam of light passing through the slit in another, much sturdier-looking doorway. I push open the door and gasp in amazement.

Holy shit!!

“It’s a fucking clinic!!” I exclaim to myself. Poking my head in and around the corner I positively tremble with excitement.

My god!! Look at all those bottles!! Unbroken medicine bottles by the dozen!!

“Oh, Hell Yes!!”

I whip out my phone and text my friend, not even bothering to write in Japanese. It’s a clinic!! Bring your tripod!!

On my way! the reply comes.

As I wait, I decide to log the location on my haikyo map. To my surprise however, I find myself standing under a red exclamation mark on the map. I’m a little dumbfounded. I’d placed this pin years before…

No way..! I had this place marked on my map..? And so close to a ruin I’ve already visited? Why on earth am I just finding this now??

A little while later, my friend arrives and I help them into the corridor. “You’re not going to believe this!” I grin cheekily at them from ear to ear. “Close your eyes…”

I cover their eyes with my hands and guide them into the room I’d just discovered. Nothing like a bit of suspense to really add dramatic effect! When I finally take my hands away, my friend shouts out in delight.

“Wow!! This is great!” Spinning back around towards me, we double-high five and linger in the moment for a bit.

“I can finally say I’ve made an original discovery now. And a clinic at that!!” I venture. “Ahh, finally..!”

“It looks like it’s in great condition too. Let’s have a look around!” they reply.

And so we begin to dig in. What discoveries await?

Curiouser and Curiouser!

Rummaging is part of the fun of haikyo explorations, at least in my book. Most everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, and in clinics probably things much nastier that don’t bear thinking about. But if you’re not willing to get your hands dirty, you won’t find the gold. I’ve proven this time and time again and unearthed some really amazing objects missed by earlier explorers.

So you can imagine the impish little boy inside me skip-hopping and clicking his heals in delight as I swing around into the back room and let my eyes settle on the desk…

Rows and rows of neatly stacked books, sleeping under years of silt. The floor is covered in a mixture of documents and medical instruments such that it’s hard to even see the floorboards. To my right, a glass storage case often found in these old community clinics. I squint into the darkness and try to make out some of the contents. A file of large A3 papers, yellowed and bent, various rusted surgical pokers and a haphazard collection of bottles and bric-a-brac.

A wallet with some business cards in gives the name of the man who once practiced here, and a neat pair of glasses with matching physician’s head mirror complete the picture-perfect mental painting.

I reach for the yellowing documents and pull them out as my friend enters the tiny office. Half expecting a collection of dense notes in handwritten Japanese, I’m pleasantly surprised to see pictures. And not just any pictures. Hand-drawn anatomical drawings in vivid colour!

The file is full of amazingly detailed and graphic pictures of all sorts of bodily parts. I’d been in many clinics, but this was the first time I’d stumbled upon vintage anatomical drawings! Quite excited by our discovery, we proceed to go through the stack one-by-one and document the lot for posterity. Maybe I’ll publish a collection in a separate post.

The office is packed so tightly that it’s difficult to move around much, but after a while my eyes settle on the beige operating table crammed into the corner of the room. Upon closer inspection, I notice a hole in the top with adjustable legs.

“Look at the table. I suppose it was used for women in labour?” I point out. “You can see the funnel there underneath to…collect fluid I guess…”

I attempt to photograph it, but it improves impossible with the limited space. The desk behind me soon proves to be too much to ignore, and I place my camera and rucksack down to take a better look. Sure enough, it’s hiding some beautiful vintage tomes. A brilliant vermillion leather-bound book with snake and dagger catches my eye, and then another sky-blue medical text complete with golf-leaf etching. I begin to flick through the ancient library, scanning pages of Japanese, German and English text, trying to grab anything that stands out.

One particular book does, probably in no small part due to the glinting golden words on the spine.

The Student’s Handbook of Forensic Medicine – Husband

I shudder in excitement and peel back the cover. Fortunately the pages are still dry and quite readable. I’m captivated.

By H. Aubrey Husband, M.B. Second Edition. Printed for the University of Edinburgh, United Kingdom. 1877.

The book is immediately fascinating. Scanning the opening chapter headings, I read. Examination of Persons Found Dead. Signs of Death. Cadaveric Rigidity. Putrefaction…

I find my mind slipping. I’m standing in a small room on the second floor of a building in a much larger, sprawling haikyo complex, seeing something I can never un-see. I try not to focus on the memory too much. Maybe I’ll tell that story another day.

I turn the page and continue to read, snap-snapping pictures of the text as I go.

[To Be Continued… Check Back Later]