Mozu is an old word for the shrike, a small predatory bird that impales its prey on thorns, and the name belongs to the stretch of Sakai where the biggest tombs lie. A chronicle tells how, when workers were building the tomb of Emperor Nintoku in the fifth century, a deer suddenly fell dead on the site, and a shrike flew out of its ear. The story is a legend, of course, but it gave the district its name, and it hints at how strange and mysterious these monuments seemed even to later Japanese.
Zenizuka is one of the small mounds that cluster around the great ones. These satellite tombs were probably built for relatives, officials and retainers of the king, and they are often square or round, grassed over and overshadowed by pines. They are easy to miss, wedged between houses and car parks, and have names that are earthier than royal, like Zenizuka, the Coin Mound. Whether the name has to do with coins or a nearby legend, local people have long folded these hills into daily life, drying laundry in their shadow and walking dogs around their moats.
This is flat, crowded urban Japan, so riding means threading through neighbourhoods and expressway ramps. Lanes are narrow and one-way streets are common, and cyclists and pedestrians share space everywhere. Stop signs and pedestrian crossings are strictly observed, and police are firm about speed. Parking for motorcycles is limited and often paid, so find a coin car park and walk. Typhoon season in late summer brings heavy rain and flooding, and winter days are mild and dry.
Sakai is a city of nearly eight hundred thousand people, so fuel, vending-machine coffee and noodle shops are on every street, and there is a good local tradition of grilled eel and sweet confectionery. Early morning in spring is the best moment to come, when the pines are green, the moat water is still and the light is soft. A little further out, the hills of Kongo and Izumi give you proper bends and forested slopes after the grid of the city.