Yoro Park is a tunnel you walk through, made of maples. The trees reach over the path from both sides and meet above it, so the ceiling is leaves, and the colour of the ceiling changes as you climb. The peak is long here — mid-November into the first days of December — because the park is large, about seventy-eight hectares, with real height between the entrance and the falls.

At the top waits Yoro Falls, thirty metres high and about four across, attached to one of the country's better-loved legends of filial piety: a poor son drew water here for his aged father, and the water turned to sake. The story was taken seriously enough that an era was named for the place. Walk up to the falls and you are walking into that story, under a red roof.

The park is one of the thirty-three autumn sites on the Hida-Mino list, and among the larger entries on it. Seen from below, the whole hillside carries colour as a single surface; inside, it breaks back into branches over your head. Two scales, one hill.

The way up is a steady climb, so wear shoes that mean it. Then comes the reward, which costs nothing: the walk back down, through the same tunnel, facing the other way. Same path, different picture. Few places give you two autumns for one climb. This one does.