Kyoto: ten thousand torii and a city that kept its wood

Kyoto was Japan's capital for over a thousand years and it never quite stopped behaving like one. The city keeps 1,600 temples inside a grid laid out on a Chinese model, and the two things you remember are the extremes: Fushimi Inari, where thousands of vermilion torii climb the whole of Mount Inari and thin out into an almost empty forest above the tourist stretch, and Kinkaku-ji, a gold pavilion doubled in its own pond.

Days here divide neatly by district. In Arashiyama the bamboo grove creaks in the wind before nine in the morning, and the Hozu river runs past Tenryu-ji's borrowed-landscape garden toward Iwatayama's macaques. Eastern Kyoto is a walk rather than a list: the stone steps of Sannenzaka, the wooden veranda of Kiyomizu-dera hanging over the maples, then the Philosopher's Path north along a canal that turns into a tunnel of cherry blossom in early April. After dark the lanterns come on in Gion and the machiya of Pontocho open onto the Kamo river, where wooden terraces are built out over the water every summer.

Eating is part of the sightseeing. Kaiseki here is a seasonal argument served in ten courses; yudofu — simply simmered tofu — is a temple dish that Nanzen-ji's neighbourhood turned into a speciality; and Nishiki Market, five blocks of covered stalls, sells pickles, tamagoyaki and skewered baby octopus stuffed with quail egg. Autumn is the other great season, when Tofuku-ji's valley of maples turns and the whole city books out. Start early, walk more than you planned, and leave one afternoon completely empty.