Before I even got close to the lake I found myself bobbing along the current. This was mighty peculiar in that this current flowed uphill. Or more precisely, up the stairs of Hikone station. I had purposely left early so as to avoid rush hour, and I was successful for the first part of the journey. But eventually, rush hour found me, and the train filled up with businessmen and schoolchildren, all of them kitted out in the dark attire appropriate to the season. I eventually left the flow upon arriving once again at the castle. I paid quick respects to the adjacent shrine, my mouth down-turned at the sight of a stele marking aikoku, patriotism, a concept I've never really understood, or accepted.
I traced the narrow trails along the old castle moat, passing fishermen, elderly walkers, and a man sitting in the bleachers above a tennis court, ready to launch a basket full of balls, atop which a racquet was laid. Workers were hard at work on extensions to the soccer stadium. These grounds on the castle's far canal were surprising in the their scale, an efficient use of ample land which had already existed.
I moved to where I had last left the Umi no Be, but along the canal I was surprised to see an elbow bend marking the path. Before long I was led back to the bicycle course I'd followed last time. As that had been a pretty uneventful walk, I had chosen a few Bob Dylan bootlegs to distract me from the steady and ever present flow of traffic hissing past to my left. For the most part I kept my eyes turned right, out over the waters of the lake. The peaks across were clear and well-detailed, and over my shoulder, the unmistakable shape of Ibuki loomed far to the north.
Luckily, a path led me down into a another lakeside park, as I'd found to Hikone's north. It was much more pleasant going, along a welcome promenade of trampled grass, and beneath sakura and pine. They'd obviously had some pretty severe weather recently, with a tremendous amount of flotsam as far as three meters from the now quietly lapping shore. The ground itself was sodden. Must've been a hell of a storm
And there were signs; warning of kamikaze crows, warning off the playing of ground golf (although one area must've been okay, either that or this city had some pretty rebellious seniors). I'd rejoin the road at river crossings, on one occasion startling a bicyclist zipping along. I popped into a convenience store to stock up on lunch. It was due to close in two days, though the remaining stock looked like it wouldn't last even that long. Had it been an hour later in the day I would've instead stopped at a tasty looking deli about fifty steps away. As I stood in front perusing the menu, an elderly woman caught me in the act of singing Dylan lyrics out loud, something about a tax-deductible charity organization.
I rejoined the grassy promenade. Further on, I noted that the Umi no Be signs were oriented toward the shore. Was the shale beach there the actual trail? I walked along it awhile, but it slowed my momentum, as my shoes found resistance in the stones. As feared, it ended abruptly at the next river inlet, forcing me to do a high-wire act along some sodden concrete wall slippery with moss.
The main highway moved away to the east, and my road was all quiet suburb now, except for a small factory where large and powerful pleasure craft spent their winters. My trail led me behind the houses, moving just above the beach, here too strewn with debris. There were many vegetable gardens here, and a friendly old man greeted me from his. Behind was a lovely deck with some comfy looking chairs. In one of them he would surely reward the day's labors with a brew and a view. He moved toward the shore, to rake the driftwood and detritus that had built up., telling me that this line of debris was about two meters further inland than usual. He then bid me take care, and we both returned to the work ahead of us.
A black robed priest bicycled past, wearing a construction helmet. Obviously heeding the new helmet laws, or perhaps concerned by the crows the signs warned about. The stretch of beach beyond him was lined by a meter-high concrete wall that apparently protected the houses within. More of the land here had been converted to fields, and in one an old man in a conical hat squatted to pull weeds. A few houses also had basketball hoops, in most cases the rims bent thirty degrees toward the ground. These were obviously the homes of bigger, stronger kids.
The houses began to get further from the shore, and my path was once again shaded by pines, much welcome as this early May day grew warm. Summer wouldn't be so far away. Finally the houses themselves disappeared altogether. I now walked through the grass just above the shore, amazed at the various shapes and sizes of detritus, at the forms trees and branches and twigs could take. Then it occurred to me that the patterns in which they lay were the actual shapes of the waves, which mimicked the shape of the underwater line further out where the deep becomes the shallow.
Ano benchi was listed on my map as a historical landmark. I imagine this is tongue in cheek, this lone bench sitting at the side of a carpark, denoted by bicyclists and bikers, and people out driving on a Sunday. The parks continued, broken now and again by inlets and bridges. Thus went the day.
I finally left these altogether, tracing the peninsulas covered by farm houses and their corresponding plots of land. I began to hate these, as they offered little by way of scenery, or variety, and simply meant more kilos walked under the hot sun. Most of the fields now surrounding me were wheat, and a couple of combines were making the rounds. Adjacent fields held green onions. Two workers sat pulling bulbs on overturned milk crates, faces unseen due to conical hats and unhealthy postures. I assumed from the tough physical work involved that they weren't Japanese.
I moved back along the beachfront now. Cars were parked in the intermittent pullouts, men lazed behind their vehicles in folding camp chairs or even hammocks, shirtless in the sun. One small section of shoreline had been cleared of debris, forming a clean sandy approach shaded by a table atop which were drinks. A trio of vehicles were parked above, filled with paddles, lifejackets, SUPs. One of the drivers was reclining along the length of one board, his own hammock of sorts. This stretch of the Umi no Be certainly was bucolic.
The beachfront was eventually replaced by a grove of trees that lined the shore. Through one break in the foliage I saw a half dozen people on SUPs, slowly paddling along the coast. Which explained the trucks, and their sleepy drivers.
I followed this frontage road to where sand hit rock, and finding no trail into the forest, I moved along the face of the small mount now looming above. There was a gate, which contrary to similar gates that break most country paths, was impossible to open, fixed as it was with three sets of thick, Gordian-knotted wire, the whole works smothered in cobwebs. Luckily someone had knocked down a small section of adjacent fence, which solved the problem of getting through.
In the carpark ahead I found a marker for the Umi no Be, the first I'd seen in awhile. It pointed me up a forested path toward Isaki-ji temple, which I was assured was 900 meters away. The trail was broad, lined with railway ties and covered with gravel which made for easy walking. But the slow steady incline gradually brought the rhythm of my breath into pace with that of my footfalls.
The temple hondo was an attractive wooden structure perched atop rock. A smaller Fudō hall further down by the shoreline was a mix of wood and concrete, which though less aesthetically pleasing, made sense I suppose, considering its position on the windward side of the lake.
Doubling back to rejoin my trail, I met the temple priest in the garden, the color of his work clothes matching that of the weeds he was pulling. He confirmed for me that people once traveled here strictly by boat, a fact made evident by the stones steps descending through an elaborate gate and to the water's edge.
But I moved away from these, up a path steep and overgrown and pointed due south. I kept my eyes lowered, ever aware of snakes. More active were the wild boar, who'd torn up sections here and there. I moved along, climbing and puffing into the dappled sunshine, quite pleased that, after days of trudging on tarmac, the Umi no Be would draw to a close in the hills.
Or nearly. There was a final short meander along a shoreline road, which terminated on the beach of the Kyukamura resort. All was quiet, but for a guy whacking weeds somewhere, and the occasional car drifting by above. I was able to thumb a lift from one, which brought me into Omi-hachiman proper, to celebrate with a pint (or two) at the local Two Rabbits brewery, an activity made more auspicious in this year corresponding to the same animal of the Chinese zodiac.
On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "1995-04-05, Jefferson Civic Center Coliseum"
