Takyo Abeke: A Way of Living in Omori
Hidden behind a rustic bamboo fence and an easily overlooked gate threaded with climbing roses, Takyo Abeke reveals itself slowly. A deep courtyard garden separates the house from the narrow mountain road, creating an immediate sense of retreat. A path winds through it, at once untamed and carefully tended, with small objects, metal figures, broken roof tiles, placed to catch the eye as you pass. Near the entrance, a rough stone basin filled with water sits beneath a bamboo ladle, offering a moment to pause and refresh before stepping inside. The transition recalls the preparation before entering a tea room; each time, I feel as though I’ve come home.
Stepping inside Takyo Abeke in winter, shishi-yuzu rest beside an old trunk, beneath an indigo-dyed curtain marked with a pine motif. It is a threshold between seasons and spaces.
Built in 1789, the house once belonged to the Abe family, administrative officials of the Iwami Ginzan silver mine deep in the surrounding mountains. Takyo means “one’s own home,” and over time, it has come to feel exactly that. I first visited ten years ago and have returned many times since, at first to step away from city life and use it as a base to explore the region, then to experience it in each season, often bringing friends to share in it, and now simply to remain, to spend time in the house and the garden beyond, and with the staff who have, over the years, become friends.
Located in the village of Omori, essentially a single long road following a rocky stream through mountains in central Shimane Prefecture, Takyo Abeke is a fully realized expression of Tomi and Daikichi Matsuba’s philosophy of everyday living. It is aesthetically refined, deeply comforting, and sustaining in ways that reveal themselves over time.
Omori’s single main street follows a rocky mountain stream through the valley, where restored Edo-period homes frame a renewed rural life.
The Matsubas moved to Omori, Daikichi’s hometown, in 1980, seeking an alternative to the pressures of urban life. What they found was a village nearly deserted. In the 17th and 18th centuries, Iwami Ginzan was one of the largest silver mines in the world, its wealth fueling not only the prosperity of Omori but also Japan’s economic growth and the flowering of an aesthetic sensibility often described as shibusa, an appreciation of simplicity, restraint, and the understated.
When the mine closed in 1923, Omori slowly emptied out. Today, however, it is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful and livable villages in Japan, where historic homes have been carefully restored and temples, shrines, cafes, and workshops line the road, woven seamlessly into the landscape. Cars are restricted through much of the valley, and red-tiled roofs and courtyard gardens are maintained with a sense of continuity rather than display by the village’s roughly 400 residents.
Much of this revival can be traced to Tomi and Daikichi. Inspired by the rhythms of the village and the practical need to support a growing family, they founded the Iwami Ginzan Lifestyle and Culture Laboratory. Known by its brand name, Gungendo, the company produces clothing, household goods, and food rooted in traditional techniques and natural materials, yet designed for contemporary life. They also acquired the former Abe residence, restored it, and opened it to guests.
What they have created here is not a revival of shibusa as an aesthetic ideal, but as a way of living. Where it once flourished among urban elites, giving rise to forms such as ikebana, the tea ceremony, and kaiseki cuisine, here it is grounded in daily practice and enriched by rural values: omotenashi (selfless hospitality), shimatsu (respectful use of resources), and a deep sense of community. Practicality and beauty are inseparable, and the poetry of the ordinary emerges through use.
The house is a series of private and shared spaces, rooms to retreat into and rooms to gather in, linked by corridors, courtyards, and a cluster of historic structures. I move through it freely, always with a sense of discovery, noticing the markers of the season: scrolls and screens subtly changed, baskets of vegetables set outside the kitchen in summer, fruit hung to dry beneath the eaves in winter. Shifting textures, light, shadow, and small, intriguing everyday objects slow the pace and heighten awareness. Throughout, there are touches of aizome, indigo-dyed textiles whose deep, enduring blue is shaped by use, valued for its strength, its resistance, and the way it softens over time, becoming part of daily life.
A corridor lined with small woodblock prints, where movement through the house becomes an act of being present.
It is a small inn, just two suites, each with its own layout and mood. I initially favored the omoya at the front of the house, whose rooms take advantage of the high ceilings and generous proportions characteristic of samurai residences, along with a small private courtyard garden. Now I prefer the suite at the back, set within a renovated kura storehouse, not for the Western beds, but for its proximity to the kitchen and the garden beyond, where the land opens to forested hills. Here, I spend my afternoons reading, writing, or simply taking in the view.
The kitchen, the daidokoro, literally “the big place,” is the heart of Takyo Abeke. It serves as both hearth and gathering space, anchored by a traditional clay, wood-fired kamado stove. Each afternoon, chef Takuro Onodera and his team begin cooking, filling the house with gentle sounds and inviting aromas. I often pass through, even when there are other ways around, drawn by the activity. If Takuro has a moment, we exchange thoughts on ingredients, techniques, and recipes, such as the inn’s traditional preparation of yubeishi, the preserved yuzu served each evening as a welcome.
The daidokoro, or “big place,” is both kitchen and gathering space, where the rhythms of the house come together.
Dinner brings everything together: communal, generous, and deeply rooted in place. Guests gather at the table each evening, joined by Tomi. The cuisine showcases the best of Shimane: seasonal vegetables from nearby gardens; seafood from the Sea of Japan, including nodoguro, black throat sea perch, and Iwagaki oysters, delicacies of the region; local meats; and even sea salt harvested on a nearby island.
The meal proceeds course by course, guided as much by appetite and conversation as by any fixed structure. It ends hours later with onigiri, shaped by hand and shared as a final gesture of care, often left in a basket in your room for later.
Individually plated courses and shared seasonal dishes come together at Takyo Abeke, where guests reach across the table in an unhurried rhythm of conversation and exchange.
Afterwards, guests gather in another renovated kura storehouse for dessert, a space dark, spare, and intentionally minimal, where conversation takes center stage. Dessert might be ice cream made from the gyokuro leaves left over from the tea served upon arrival, an expression of both resourcefulness and refinement.
Evenings rarely extend too late, given the pull of the bath and the comfort of the rooms. I change into pajamas made of double-layer gauze, the weave light against the skin yet protective, and slip into bed. The sasawashi linens, woven from washi paper and bamboo fiber threads, feel soft yet reassuring to the touch, regulating temperature so they remain cool in the heat and warm in the cold. With the seasons, the room adjusts. Earthenware foot warmers are tucked beneath the covers, or an indigo-dyed mosquito net hangs lightly above, catching the breeze and lending the room a dreamlike quality.
An indigo-dyed mosquito net draped lightly over the bed, catching the evening air and softening the room into stillness.
Breakfast the next morning is gentler but no less thoughtful, homemade breads, grilled fish, salad, and porridge. By then, guests feel less like visitors and more like participants in the life of the house. As I leave Takyo Abeke, already thinking of my return, I’m reminded that its gift is not escape, but a way of living in which each object and each gesture carries a purpose, and through use, reveals its beauty.
Staying at Takyo Abeke 他郷阿部家
Ha 159-1 Omori-cho, Oda City, Shimane Prefecture 694-0305