The Japanese, it is often said, are connoisseurs of pristine emptiness and extreme clutter. What they are not so good at is anything in between – what the Japanologist Alex Kerr calls ‘organised space’. The new Aman Kyoto may be the exception that proves the rule. It is organised space in excelsis.
The hotel is situated on 80 acres of hilly woodland thick with maples in the north of Kyoto, walking distance from the Golden Pavilion, the prettiest of temples in a city with no desperate shortage of pretty temples. In the mid-20th century, the site – once an imperial hunting ground – was acquired by the Asano family, noted textile producers whose intention it was to build a museum to display their collection of kimono sashes. Although the museum was never built, the Asanos made some intriguing additions to the landscape, most conspicuous of which is a network of footpaths made of huge, almost sculptural slabs of stone.
There is at Aman Kyoto no single take-my-breath-away highlight as there is at Aman Tokyo, with its soaring, luminous atrium and its staggering views across the great metropolis. You could probably stack all six of the pavilions in Kyoto one on top of the other inside the atrium in Tokyo and still have space left around the edges. But the comparison is unfair. Aman Kyoto casts an equally powerful spell by more discreet means. The simplicity of contrasting blacks, greys and yellows; the impression of being enfolded in foliage; the thoughtfully managed textures of timber and tatami, paper and ceramic – the sum of these subtle pleasures is tremendous. The hotel scene in Kyoto is changing quickly, a process that began in earnest with the opening of the brilliantly conceived Four Seasons in 2016. Apparently the city holds an Ace up its billowing sleeve too, due to open this year. But there is simply nowhere else in town quite like the Aman.
I thought a lot about the oversized paving stones left behind by the Asano family. They are not very easy to walk on. Their irregular shapes oblige you almost to hopscotch your way around, as if you are jumping over puddles. This slows you down, of course, but it also causes you to pay attention to your surroundings in a way that you might not do otherwise. By day, you notice that you are among the trees, beneath the sky, and that you share both trees and sky with hundreds of birds. By night, you admire the soft glow of the lanterns that light your way and, though you can no longer make it out clearly, you are aware of the gentle living murmur of the forest around you.
I was there in October, on the cusp of autumn. The maples were still dressed in their bright summer greens. Autumn comes to Kyoto from north to south in a descending scarlet blush. I left the hotel slowly, reluctantly, with the sense that the change was tantalisingly close. I have been longing to return ever since, wondering, through the winter months, whether the stream is frozen and the bare boughs of the forest are weighted with snow and all is crisp and still and silent; then imagining the coming of spring, when the direction of Kyoto’s autumn blush is reversed, and the cherry blossoms rise from south to north. Perhaps that is Aman Kyoto’s most delightful quality – the way it lives on in your consciousness, lingers in your mind like the memory of a vanished happy season.