Anraku-ji was a small country temple, and nothing dramatic seems to have happened to it. The congregation faded away, the upkeep stopped, and at some point the heavy tiled roof simply gave in. Today the main hall lies folded onto itself, a hillside of splintered beams and roof tiles. The temple’s bronze bell still hangs from its beam above the wreckage, as if waiting for a hand to ring it.
Around the collapse, spring quietly does its work. Wildflowers bloom in drifts below the ruin, a carved stone guardian watches from the undergrowth, and in the one corner of the hall still standing, the altar survives with its lanterns and ornaments, frozen mid-prayer. I visited in April 2024, when the flowers were at their best.