Ise-jingu and the Imperial Palace are the other two locations of godly heirlooms: a mirror at Ise-jingu, and jewels in the Imperial Palace. After visiting Atsuta-jingu in Nagoya, I next want to visit Ise-jingu, the shrine of Ise.

I’m told that one cannot make a day trip to Ise from where I am staying in Seto, but I am willing to give it a try.

I plan out my route: a bus, two subway trains to get across Nagoya itself, then two more trains, and another bus. I make an early start and all goes to plan. As I move further away from the city of Nagoya I notice manners changing. People become noisier, more carefree. I wonder if this is the Osaka boisterousness I have heard about. I am not really travelling into Osaka, but this area may come under its influence.

In A wild sheep chase Murakami Haruki described how trips on suburban trains in Japan are often punctuated by invasions of schoolchildren, who suddenly fill the carriages with incomprehensible noise, frantic movement, and body odours, only to vanish as one at the next station. It seems things never change on the trains of Japan, because I go through the same experience several times as the train passes the local schools on the way to Ise.

It is hard to convey the effect of Ise-jingu. Under a brilliant clear sky, the nearby Isuzu River reflects blinding light through soaring cedars or cypress trees. The gravel crunches loudly underfoot, and the cold gnaws at my cheeks. I stand in front of a building both pristine and primordial. At first sight, the inner shrine replaces Meiji-jingu as my favourite building. For all the reasons I loved Meiji-jingu, I love Ise-jingu more. It is simple; it has an architectural purity, a deep unquestionable self-assurance. Beams extend well beyond the body of the building, recalling logs laid one on top of another. Some are well turned. The ends of some are coated white. Others are cased in gold, yet adornment is minimised almost to the point of invisibility, and the craftsmanship is sublime.

Ise-jingu also has an appealing abstract dimension. To reach the shrine, I had to make a pilgrimage of sorts, on trains and buses, which culminated in a long slow walk through the surrounding woods. I passed though torii, and over a long arched bridge. It is not a hard trip to make, but not an easy trip either. I had travelled for many hours and then, turning the final corner and walking up the steps to the shrine, I find that only a tiny part of it is actually visible to visitors. We are not allowed to enter, and must be content with looking in through a gate, which itself is out of reach. Finding myself here at the holiest place in Japan, a place to which all Japanese people supposedly make a pilgrimage at some stage in their lives, I experience the déjà vu of finding that central void once again. One is supposed to come here, but when one does, one finds one cannot take the final step of the journey.

The shrine is sealed off from our touch. Much of what is within easy reach is permanently covered in sheets of antiseptic white plastic. I never expected to see the fabled mirror, but to see so little of what conceals it is a true disappointment – one that makes me thoughtful. I feel I have made an investment that has not returned my principal. I have to examine what I really came here for, and realise it was more than just to see a building. Perhaps it was a need to be mystified, confronted, or given something new to think about. I can’t really say what it was, but then somehow I feel satisfied, and the disappointment wanes.

My reflections continue almost of their own volition. The shrine provides a direct connection to the animist primitive I like to think lurks beneath the surface in all of us. In the presence of the shrine things seem simple and natural.

The entire shrine is built anew every twenty years or so. The rebuilding process is incremental and ritualised, taking up to eight years. Permission to proceed is sought from the kami spirits at several stages in the construction. The materials are taken from the surrounding forest and assembled using ancient techniques. Though ancient in design, the buildings before me certainly look new. The wood has not aged or stained, and the deep susuki thatch is still solid and crisply outlined. This process of cyclic renewal is significant, for only through constant replacement can we experience the shrine as it was when originally built, maybe 1,500 years ago. Had it been preserved it would now look extremely old, fragile and therefore quite unlike its original self. So which is the truer, more ‘real’, more immortal shrine? One that has been left to weather and age, or one that is forever new? Like Uchiide Beach in As I crossed a bridge of dreams by Lady Sarashina, Ise-jingu only achieves timelessness through constant renewal.

Given the many hours it took me to get this far, it is probably rash to try to get around the Shima peninsula in time to watch the sun setting across Ago-wan, a bay of many small islands, but this is what I now set out to do. Though the train’s progress around the coast is slow, it is made interesting by many tiny hamlets and miniature ports that don’t appear on my maps. As the train leisurely trundles along its bumpy track, the sun sinks steadily towards the hills, but I am confident I will arrive just in time to see it dip into the sea.

The train moves towards the descending sun, and in the opposite direction the moon rises out of the water, full, sepia-brown, and enlarged by its proximity to the horizon. Schoolboys who have been shouting and squabbling in my carriage pause to admire it. We rattle along through small tunnels and tight bends and arrive at Kashikojima at dusk. The disc of the sun is hidden in low clouds to the west, but the sky is still pink and red, and in the gloom I look across the calm leaden sea, peppered with tiny white islands of rock, each wearing a wig of dense greenery. The sky darkens further and the islands become harder to see. By twisting on my heels and looking east, I see that the moon, now a little higher, has made a dappled white road across the water. On one side a dying sun, and on the other a rising moon. When it is truly night-time I stroll back to the station, wondering if I should simply check into one of the luxurious hotels sitting on nearby hilltops, rather than slog all the way back to Seto tonight. But when I learn that it is possible to catch an express direct to Nagoya, and that it leaves in only ninety seconds, my mind is made up and I jump aboard.