Why this Japanese prefecture is obsessed with apples

Manicured orchard rows fan out before me, branches heavy with picture-book apples in glistening lipstick red. Between the succession of trunks, tufts of grass are tickled by breeze; in the sky above, clouds drift by lazily. Green and pleasant, this scene could be mistaken for rural Britain — but it’s actually northern Japan.

Think of Japanese produce, and rice, soybeans and wasabi spring to mind. But in the vast prefecture of Aomori, at the tip of the main island of Honshu in the under-explored Tohoku region, the picture differs. In this agricultural heartland — a landscape of plains and peaks, encircled on three sides by water and punctuated by the figure of ‘mini Fuji’, Mount Iwaki — apples are the star.

And when you visit the central inland city of Hirosaki, you won’t soon forget it. Disembarking at the central rail station, a giant, shiny apple sculpture greets you at the gates; in every cafe, flaky apple pies stare out from windows. In autumn, onsens are filled with ripe apples that slowly poach in the steaming waters, perfuming the air. Even local pottery gets its unique blackened hue from an enamel made using the ashes of burnt apple tree branches. And, of course, there’s also the unmissable apple trees: hugging the scenic Gono rail line that trundles into Hirosaki from Aomori’s rugged west coast or fringing roads leading to the city’s temple district.

“Try this one,” says my smiling young orchard guide, Misato Tanaka, who twists a ripe red orb off a branch with the flick of her wrist. “It’s called Saika and is a good balance of sour and sweet. It’s perfectly ripe right now.”

Arguably the most everyday of fruits, particularly in the UK, apples might not sound like something you’d venture all the way to Japan to taste — in particular, to this remote area three hours north of Tokyo by train. But then, Japanese apples aren’t just any apples. Like so many other things in this country of notorious perfectionism, from trains to patisserie, apple farming has been raised to the level of art. It’s not just about growing apples, but growing the very, very best.

Standing here with Tanaka in the 13-acre Hirosaki City Apple Park, a free-to-visit orchard where you can pick your own fruit, I’m surrounded by 80 different (mostly Japanese) varieties with a meticulous ripening schedule. Consulting the chart I’ve been given, I see that while now, in late September, guests are picking mostly Saika, in another few weeks, at season’s peak, there’ll be more than two dozen varieties ready for harvest.

“Everyone knows Fuji apples,” Tanaka say as we stroll through the sunshine-drenched rows, “but my favourite is yellow Meigetsu. It’s nice and sweet and, like most sweet apples, arrives later in the season, closer to November.” As we walk among the rows lined with ripe red fruit, she explains how to find the most flavourful apples to pick — those growing solo on a branch, or very close to the trunk — and how to buff them with cloth so they shine like rubies.

“This is Sekai Ichi, one of the largest apple varieties in the world,” she continues, pausing at a tree where gourd-sized orbs hang heavily. The Rolls-Royce of apples, they’ll mostly be given as gifts and might sell for ¥3,040 (£15) to ¥4,055 (£20) each in luxury Tokyo shops.

Written into history

Aomori is ideal for apple farming, with its mild climate, significant temperature swings and rich volcanic soils. But the industry is also a product of the prefecture’s unique history. The region was once home to the Tsugaru, a samurai clan who ruled the area from the 16th century. When the samurai class was abolished during the Meiji Restoration of the 1860s, many of these noble warriors were left to seek new purpose, and apple farming provided a lifeline. Seedlings were shipped to Aomori en masse for ex-samurai to plant and tend, and production blossomed.

Today’s apple farmers take many forms. The next day I meet apple farmer Mizuho Takamura, a petite thirtysomething former hotel manager who traded her hospitality career for agriculture. Having moved from Tokyo to Aomori, she’s spent the past five years learning about apple farming while tending a plot of 10 acres and shipping 40 different varieties across Japan.

Sipping some local cider at the A-Factory apple-themed food hall in nearby Aomori City, I ask what prompted her to make the change. “I think it’s important to protect the industry,” she says. “If we don’t maintain our agricultural traditions, we’ll lose them.” She tells me how much she’s learnt from elderly generations and how she worries about what might be lost when they pass on. We also talk about the future: how she’s incorporating tourism into her business with a new holiday rental, as well as tours and DIY picking experiences. Adaptability and resilience are key.

“Being in the north, Aomori is famous for its snow — some areas get around 26 feet of it annually — and it was so deep this year we lost some trees; it takes about five years to grow new ones,” she says. “But I also have to think further ahead, about new varieties or even entire new crops. With climate change, some areas are switching to growing peaches or cherries, as there’s just about 5C difference required between the crops. Maybe one day I’ll have to move to Hokkaido [the northernmost main island of Japan] if I want to keep farming apples.”

It’s easy to reflect on shifting times as I wander through Hirosaki later that evening. I walk through the park — home to one of Japan’s few remaining original castles, built in the 17th century. Around its tiered wooden structure and boulder-lined moat, hundreds of bent cherry trees slumber in greenery. But a few steps beyond are streets with darting cars, and a tangle of izakayas (restaurants and bars).

Down an alleyway I stumble across Snaw bar where, in suited perfection, mixologist Tsubasa Nishidate is serving up apples in a form particularly palatable after dark. In the intimate, whitewashed space, home to just around a dozen seats, he mixes me a Snaw City cocktail made with apple vermouth and apple brandy. The latter is made in the town’s local Nikka distillery using Aomori fruit. Speaking in English — Tsubasa-san trained in London — he explains the drink is his way of painting Aomori prefecture in flavour. “It has an elegant sweetness and a bit of acidity, like apples right after the harvest. It makes you feel happiness, like when spring comes after a long winter.”

After a second cocktail, I leave the bar, emerging into the cool night air, and feel a pang of hunger. Remembering the apple Tanaka gave me, I pull it from my bag and crunch loudly into its flesh on the sleepy street. Juicy, crisp and with an almost candied profile, it’s the taste of sunshine and snow, mountains and plains. Sweet and tangy, it sums up Aomori. Without hesitation, I go in for another bite.