My daughter, a true Cancerian, isn't yet finished with the water. She wants to skim more stones. We see huge jellyfish floating in the tide line, and lucky for me they left me alone the evening before. Then it is time for our boat. We ride the five minutes back to town on the 2010 reconstruction of the Irohamaru, whose spiky black form looks a bit intimidating. It would have been a fearful sight to watch it appear from a bank of fog.
Our next boat is sleek and modern, but we have time for a quick coffee at a little shop near the Joyato. The smell of f afresh roast is strong, and once again I am glad that the Japanese are such world-class hobbists, that they work so hard to get things right. The ponytailed owner seems at peace with himself, and I think of so many like him that I have met over the years. It is easy to follow your dreams in the countryside, where prices are cheap and the locals are usually looking for an interesting distraction. The decor of this ramshackle old house has a number of CD's for sale, the bands probably having played here before. So reminiscent of my life before Kyoto. I feel so at home in these little rural environments.
A direct boat between Tomo no Ura and Onomichi seems such so obvious, but they only run it on weekend in the summer. After nearly boarding the wrong boat to god knows where, we jet away from the port. As looked at from the water, the town shows its most delightful face, held steadfast by the famous stone lantern. For a moment or two we too are part of "Japan's best scenery," before we too drift off on the tide.
Tides are little important at this speed, but time appears frozen, as it often does while on the water. Temples hang from cliff faces. Men fish from small craft, watching the flow of thought as they await the next strike. A large bridge arcs beautifully across the straight. A seaplane--a new service as of a few months before--unleashes a wall of spray then is aloft. Pulling close to the massive prop and
keel of a new frieghter being constructed here, but already registered to Panama. (I had found this strange at first, that an unlikely number of ships carried that registry, or for that of Monrovia. An obvious tax dodge.)
As the boat drops us near U2, we step in for lunch. This hotel is perhaps the trendiest in Japan at the moment. Ostensibly built for the use of bicycles prior to their crossing the Shimanami Kaido, the modern, cutting edge rooms are attracting all sorts, in order to enjoy the unique fusion of trad Japanese and the latest amenities. We grab a few interesting things for tomorrow's breakfast then sit for lunch in a hip cafe that screams ultra cool minimalism. Behind us is a funky gallery and a bicycle shop, filling this huge open warehouse with hip.
Our own digs for the night are up in the hills above, though also affiliated with U2. On the way to their offices to pick up the keys, we stop in the Onomichi film museum, commemorating the fact that this atmospheric town has been the local to over 40 films, the best known being Boy, Naked Island, and of course, Tokyo Story. This is one of my favorite museums in Japan, filled with stills and posters from some of the Japanese film industry's greatest works. I am obsessed in particular with Showa period film, in particular the 25 years after the war (From 1970, the works of even the greatest directors begin to look a little too much like TV.), and it is like revisiting old favorite. But perhaps the highlight is the old 1960s cinema they have erected in the back room, projectors whirring away.
Our accommodation is an old kura storehouse that has been gutted and rebuilt in a similar way to U2 itself, blending Japanese aesthetic with an almost Scando-minimalism. There is a sunken wooden living room where a hori-kotatsu had once been, the only furniture are a mass of throw pillows. The hinoki tub overlooks a vast garden, above which is an old Taisho era house that must offer amazing views of the straits below. The bedroom is as plush as any luxury hotel, though framed in dark wood and shoji. A dream.
We don't linger long as we are already well into the afternoon. We spend it wandering the alleys and passageway along the hill. I have already traced the route connecting the temple on two prior visits, so feel no real need to see anything. We meander the cat alley, then ride the ropeway to the park above Senkō-ji. There are many people enjoying the warm sunny day, but it appears that the Asian tourist groups have yet to discover the town. Here, and at Tomo no Ura the day before, reminds me of what travel used to feel like it Japan, three generations of dreamy but nervous young couples, the quiet, well-dressed, and somewhat jaded middle-aged, and the bus groups of old-timers.
We descend down the Path of Literature, stopping to try to read the large stones imprinted with quotes of famous poets and writers. My daughter ducks and hops the large stones the define the trail. After a spin around the old Buddhas of Senkō-ji, I climb the chains to the Ishizuchi shrine atop some towering boulders. The view from this point is the best in town.
At sunset we descend to town to haunt the old shopping arcade in search of dinner. Little is open on the three-day weekend, causing me to wonder yet again whether small business owners are truly serious about making any money. We continue to walk, and it is full dark by the time we reach the Takemuraya Inn, where Ozu filmed a number of scenes for Tokyo Story. (If it weren't for U2 I'd probably stay here.) In front of nearby Sumiyoshi Shrine is the tall and familiar lantern that served as a pillow shot for the film. Beyond it, the night is still and quiet. And despite the main takeway line from Ozu's classic, life, and this moment in it, isn't a disappointment at all.
On the turntable: The Band, "The Last Waltz"
On the night table: Ajahn Sucitto. "Great Patient One"
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