By the late 1500s, sukiya-zukuri quietly emerged in contrast. Inspired by tea ceremonies, it softened the rigidity of shoin, replacing gold and lacquer with clay and bamboo. It was, in many ways, a philosophical turn toward a life of attentive simplicity, and a different kind of luxury: time, presence, and connection.

This architectural legacy is carried forward in the hotel’s design. Raw earthen walls, exposed wooden beams, and hand-laid tatami speak a quiet language of texture and tone. Alcoves frame seasonal flowers or calligraphy scrolls, creating focal points that shift with time. Pathways curve rather than lead, encouraging guests to slow their pace. Light is filtered, sound is softened, and the details reward attention.

The building’s transformation from ryotei to hotel was not just a physical undertaking it was a cultural act. Local artisans were brought in to preserve and reimagine the original wooden structure, using techniques passed down through generations. Walls were repaired with handmade washi paper. Sliding doors were block-printed using traditional methods. The garden, like the building, was shaped by quiet restraint rather than decoration.

‍

Underlying each decision was a commitment to continuity. Not to mimic the past, but to extend its relevance. By reviving this architectural language, the hotel becomes more than a setting it becomes part of an ongoing tradition.

What it offers is not luxury in the conventional sense. There are no grand lobbies or excess ornament. Instead, comfort is found in intention: a carefully prepared meal, the scent of tatami, a view framed just so. Guests are invited to experience time differently less rushed, more felt.

In a city where history is often viewed from a distance, this is a space that lets you inhabit it. And in doing so, it suggests a quieter, more lasting kind of wellbeing one built not on what is added, but on what is carefully preserved.

‍