A Japanese Woodworker’s Journey to Carve Community in Rural Wales
From Kyoto to Carmarthenshire: A Japanese Woodworker’s Journey to Carve Community in Rural Wales
In the quiet village of Llandeilo, Carmarthenshire—where stone walls wind past sheep fields and the River Towy glints in the Welsh sun—there’s a small workshop with a sign that reads “Yoshida’s Kizuna Woodworks” in both English and Japanese. Inside, 41-year-old Takumi Yoshida bends over a block of local oak, his chisel moving with the slow, precise rhythm he learned as an apprentice in Kyoto. The air smells of sawdust and linseed oil, and shelves line the walls with his creations: hand-carved wooden bowls with delicate cherry-blossom patterns, sturdy Welsh dresser drawers finished with Japanese joinery, and tiny wooden toys painted in the soft hues of the Welsh countryside. For Takumi, this workshop isn’t just a place to make furniture—it’s a space where two worlds meet, where traditional Japanese woodworking and Welsh rural life weave together into something new. His journey to this corner of Wales is one of patience, passion, and the quiet courage to share his craft with a community that once knew nothing of his heritage.
A Craft Forged in Kyoto, a Dream Born Far From Home
Takumi grew up in Kyoto, the youngest son of a master woodworker who specialized in kizuna-mokuzai—a traditional Japanese technique that uses interlocking joints (no nails or glue) to create furniture that lasts for generations. From the age of 12, he worked alongside his father, sanding planks until they felt smooth as silk and learning to carve joints so precise they fit together like puzzle pieces. “My father told me wood has a voice,” Takumi recalls. “You have to listen to it—to its grain, its weight, its strength—before you cut. That’s the secret of kizuna: it’s not just about making furniture. It’s about building a bond between the maker, the wood, and the person who will use it.”
After finishing his apprenticeship at 25, Takumi worked in his father’s workshop for a decade, but he felt a restlessness. He’d always been fascinated by Europe—by its old forests, its traditional carpentry, and the way communities valued handmade things. In 2017, he took a leap: he quit his job, sold most of his belongings, and moved to the UK with a single suitcase, a set of his father’s chisels, and a basic grasp of English. He chose Wales because he’d read about its ancient woodlands and its small, tight-knit villages—places where he thought his craft might find a home.
His first months in Llandeilo were disorienting. The Welsh rain soaked through his clothes; locals spoke a language (Welsh) he couldn’t understand; and when he told people he was a woodworker, they often asked if he made “cheap furniture from IKEA.” He rented a tiny cottage on the edge of town, but he had no workshop—so he set up a workbench in his garage, using a secondhand saw and a space heater to keep warm. “I’d work until my hands ached, and then I’d sit by the window, looking at the oak trees outside, wondering if I’d made a mistake,” he says. “In Kyoto, my craft was part of who I was. Here, it felt like no one cared.”
But Takumi’s father had also taught him resilience. “When a chisel breaks, you don’t throw it away,” he’d say. “You sharpen it. You adapt.” So Takumi started exploring. He walked through the nearby Brecon Beacons, collecting fallen branches (with permission) to practice on. He visited local carpenters, asking to watch them work and learning about Welsh woodworking techniques—like corbelling, used to build stone houses, which he found shared similarities with Japanese joinery. He even joined a local language class, struggling through Welsh phrases like “Dyma fy ngwaith” (“This is my work”) and “Rwy’n hoffi gwydredd” (“I love wood”). Slowly, he began to feel less like a stranger.
Carving Trust, One Piece at a Time
In 2019, Takumi found a derelict barn on the outskirts of Llandeilo and rented it with his savings. He spent three months fixing it up—repairing the roof, installing windows to let in light, and building a workbench that could hold large planks of wood. He named it Kizuna Woodworks—“kizuna” means “bond” in Japanese—and hung a sign outside, hoping someone would notice.
His first customer was Mrs. Evans, an elderly woman who lived down the road. She’d seen him working through the barn windows and stopped by to ask if he could fix her 50-year-old Welsh dresser, which had a broken drawer. Takumi agreed, and when he returned it a week later, he’d not only fixed the drawer but also refinished the wood using linseed oil (a Japanese technique) and added a tiny carved daffodil (Wales’ national flower) to the corner. “It looks better than the day I bought it,” Mrs. Evans said, tears in her eyes. She told her friends about the “Japanese woodworker who cares,” and soon, more people started stopping by.
At first, most customers asked for small things: wooden spoons, cutting boards, toy cars. But as they saw Takumi’s work—how his bowls fit perfectly in the hand, how his joints held without glue—they started asking for bigger pieces. A local pub ordered a set of tables; a family asked for a crib for their newborn; a village hall commissioned a memorial bench for a beloved teacher. Takumi always took the time to talk to his customers: he’d ask about their families, their homes, and what they wanted the piece to mean. For the memorial bench, he carved the teacher’s favorite flowers (daffodils and bluebells) into the arms and used wood from an oak tree that had stood in the village square for 100 years. “It’s not just a bench,” he told the village. “It’s a way to keep her memory alive—in the wood, in the craft, in the way people sit here and talk.”
Not everyone understood his craft at first. A local carpenter once laughed when he saw Takumi using interlocking joints. “Why waste time on that?” he said. “Nails are faster.” But Takumi invited him to the workshop, showed him how a kizuna joint could hold 10 times its weight, and explained that the technique had been used in Japanese temples for centuries. “He came back a month later and asked if I’d teach him,” Takumi says, smiling. “That’s when I knew: craft is a language everyone can understand—even if we speak different words.”
Building a “Kizuna” Between Cultures
Today, Kizuna Woodworks is more than a workshop—it’s a community hub. Takumi hosts monthly “woodworking days” where locals of all ages come to learn basic skills: how to carve a spoon, how to sand wood, how to listen to the grain. He teaches kids to make wooden toys, using scrap wood so they don’t feel pressure to “be perfect.” He also leads walks in the Brecon Beacons, pointing out different types of wood and explaining how Japanese and Welsh craftspeople use them differently. “I want people to see that woodworking isn’t just about making things,” he says. “It’s about connecting—with the earth, with each other, with traditions that are different from our own.”
He’s also found ways to blend his two cultures. Last year, he created a series of “Kyoto-Carmarthenshire Bowls”: each bowl is made from Welsh oak, carved with Japanese cherry-blossom patterns, and finished with a glaze made from honey from a local beekeeper. He sold them at a village market, and the proceeds went to a local charity that plants trees in the Brecon Beacons. “It’s my way of saying thank you,” he says. “Wales gave me a home. This is how I give back.”
Takumi’s family has even joined him—his wife, Yuki, moved to Llandeilo in 2020 and now helps run the workshop’s small shop, selling handmade candles and Japanese tea alongside Takumi’s woodwork. Their 3-year-old daughter, Hana, runs around the workshop, picking up small pieces of wood and “helping” her dad sand. “She already says she wants to be a woodworker,” Takumi laughs. “She tells everyone, ‘I make bonds with wood—like Daddy.’”
On a crisp autumn morning, Takumi stands outside his workshop, looking at the oak trees that line the road. He holds a small wooden bowl in his hand—one he made for Mrs. Evans, who passed away last year—and runs his finger over the daffodil he carved. “My father once told me that craft is a legacy,” he says. “It’s not just what you make. It’s the people you meet, the stories you share, the bonds you build. That’s the kizuna I wanted to bring here.”
Inside, a group of kids is gathered around his workbench, each holding a small piece of wood and a chisel. Takumi kneels down, showing a 7-year-old boy how to hold the chisel correctly. “Listen to the wood,” he says, in slow, gentle English. “It will tell you where to cut.” The boy nods, and as he makes his first small carve, Takumi smiles. In that moment, the distance between Kyoto and Carmarthenshire feels small—just a boy, a chisel, a piece of wood, and a bond that transcends language, culture, and time.