The name means the tomb of Princess Nakatsuhime, and it is the tradition that she was the consort of Emperor Ojin, one of the early rulers of Japan, whose own tomb, the second largest in the country, stands not far away. She is a name from the chronicles, written down centuries later, so history and legend are tangled.
Like other tombs designated as imperial, it is protected by the Imperial Household Agency, which owns and manages the site and allows no digging and no walking on the mound. You can walk along the edge of the moat, which is wide and full of water, with the green slope of the mound rising behind. It is quiet, a bit mysterious, and in the evening you may see herons standing on the banks. A small ceremonial gateway of wood marks the place where officials make offerings, and a sign explains the identity of the tomb in Japanese.
Archaeologists have made some use of the surroundings. Outside the moat, in the fields and neighbourhoods, they have found rows of haniwa cylinders and the remains of workshops that made them, and small satellite mounds for lesser people, grouped like a family around the main tomb. What they tell us is that these mounds were part of a landscape of ritual and politics, with a power centre on the Osaka plain that controlled trade and iron from the Korean peninsula.
For a rider, this is suburban Japan. The roads are narrow, smooth and slow, with strict speed limits, many traffic lights and small crossings, and local drivers are patient. Parking is difficult, so look for the car parks beside the tomb or in the neighbourhood. Kashihara, about one and a half kilometres away, and Yao, five kilometres, have fuel stations, convenience stores and noodle restaurants. A bowl of udon and a vending-machine coffee are the right sort of lunch, and the cherry trees along the moat in early April are worth the visit by themselves.