The story starts with two fishermen. On a morning in 628, brothers named Hinokuma no Hamanari and Takenari were casting nets in the Miyato river — the Sumida, as it is now — and pulled up a small figure. Their master took holy orders, turned his own house into a temple, and enshrined it. The image is a Kannon said to be about five and a half centimetres tall and golden, but nobody outside the temple has seen it: it has been kept hidden for the whole of its history. Legend adds that a thousand pines sprang up overnight where it appeared, and that three days later a golden-scaled dragon came down into them, which is where the temple's mountain name, Kinryūzan — golden dragon mountain — comes from.
Almost nothing you look at in Asakusa is old. The main hall has been rebuilt something like twenty times, most often after fire or lightning, once after an earthquake brought it down in 1041. The hall that stood here until the war was a National Treasure, and it burned on the night of 10 March 1945, when the firebombing of Tokyo reached this district. What you walk into today was finished in 1958, paid for by donations gathered from believers across the country. Kaminarimon is newer still. The gate burned in 1865 and then simply was not there for ninety-five years; the one you photograph was rebuilt in 1960, in reinforced concrete, funded by Matsushita Kōnosuke of the electrical company that is now Panasonic — who asked that his name be kept out of it. The great lantern hanging in it is replaced roughly every ten years.
One thing did come through. A ginkgo in the grounds, reckoned to be around eight hundred years old, took an incendiary bomb directly. It lost its upper trunk and burned hollow inside, and it is still alive, still standing, still treated as a sacred tree. It is the honest emblem of the place: what has lasted here is not the buildings but the willingness to put them up again.