A single flame climbs higher and higher. Here stands a climbing kiln 47 meters in length – one of the largest in its day. Called the “snake kiln,” its nine firing chambers stretch up the hillside like a serpent curling along the slope of the mountain.
Once upon a time, Tamba’s pottery was fired in kilns like this. Even now, once a year, this kiln is lit again, surrounded by a festival-like heat as local craftspeople gather here.
The first step is loading the kiln. Each craftsperson crawls into the kiln to carry in their works. In the low-ceilinged chambers, they bend their heads carefully and line up jars and vessels in orderly rows. When all the loading is finished, the entrances are closed and sealed with clay.
Then, before the fire is lit, one ritual is performed. Rice, salt, and sake are offered; evergreen branches are waved; hands are clapped in prayer. “Please let everything fire safely.” Only after prayers are offered to the god of fire is the kiln finally ignited.
The temperature cannot be raised all at once. Watching the wavering flames, they feed them with firewood and slowly raise the heat. Starting from the lowest chamber, they fire each in turn, sealing one room, moving on to the next, and sending the flame through them all. It’s more than just heat – it’s like a presence with a will of its own, enveloping the pieces of pottery and firing them.
While the kiln is firing, someone keeps watch by the fire all through the night. The leader among the potters feeds firewood through the side openings in the kiln wall. They listen to the sound, read the color of the smoke, and sharpen their senses to the slightest changes in the flow of heat.
The work is like carrying on a conversation with a living creature. Within that “conversation,” something special is formed.
Even when the clay, the glaze, and the shape are the same, a single path of flame can change everything: the color of the piece, its surface, its scenery.
Ash swirls, natural ash glaze forms, and firewood from red pine give a particular sheen. It’s a beauty that cannot be reached by sheer intention – a beauty born of accepting chance and embracing its changes.
This is why this climbing kiln is still used today: because of the “unpredictability of flame” that it produces. A dialogue with fire that no machine can replicate – that’s the singular time that breathes life into Tambayaki.
When all the processes are finally finished, all that remains is to wait quietly for the kiln to cool. Have the pieces fired successfully?
The answer is only revealed the moment the kiln’s doors are opened.
Entrusting everything to the fire, and then simply waiting – this, too, is a form of prayer handed down in this land.
