I should've called a taxi. I'd arrived at Kawake, granted a small country station, but as it displayed within a regional museum, I'd somehow assumed there'd be taxis waiting to meet arriving trains. I know better than to assume such things.
Hitching a ride saved me from repeating the dull 90 minute slog I'd undertaken in late 2021 when I climbed the ridgeline south from Shizu-ga-take. I'd followed the Umi no Be on that day, yet descended from the castle ruins at Yamamotoyama east toward the station, rather than west along the actual route. Ever the purist, I raced back up the mountain in three-fourths the map time, tapped the summit marker, snapped a couple of pics, then shot back down the other side along a very steep trail. The electrified fence at the bottom was hung with a drawing of a ferocious looking bear of the type that doesn't exist on these islands.
The Umi no Be led through some quiet farm villages, then out to Biwa's eastern shoreline. Here, near the waterfowl park, trees rose from the waters themselves, as well as along long, pencil-thin islets. Tiny waves gently made their way to the shore, and dotted here and there were the top-heavy white figures of cranes. I stood on a bridge, watching cormorants fish, seemingly unbothered by the trucks roaring overhead, shaking the entire structure.
My ex-wife used to often ask me what I am looking for on these walks. I guess today it hit me that I'm seeking melancholy. And melancholy is everywhere in the Japanese countryside. Its in the gradual physical decay and loss of memories that accompany population decline, perhaps Japan's greatest manifestation of mono no aware, the pathos of things. It is during these moments, particularly in autumn, when I am most happy while out on the road. I don't know, maybe it is that I'm looking not for the ghost of my late son, but for the ghost of the melancholia that accompanied the deep mourning from that time.
Again and again, I spied caterpillars crossing the tarmac. With the bicycle lanes it is basically a four-lane road, so they have a long way to go. It is almost like a scaled down version of what I'm doing. I too simply keep my head forward, seeing nothing but grayish blue tarmac stretching out before me.
I took a short snack break beside a small lake into which retired men fish, then its back to my long, straight trudge. The land jutted out at one point, and my feet were finally able to move along a softer surface, the path now connecting a series of waterfront parks and campsites. These led me into Nagahama.
I did a quick round of the city, up the castle for the view, into shrines and temples for the history. I'd twice visited here while walking the Hokkoku Kaidō, but warily passed through rather than visit. And again that was more of my focus here, admiring the old architecture and the well-preserved streets. I couldn't help but feel that tourist sites I paid to enter didn't quite live up to expectations. The best highlights were the last two: the railway station (where I spent a fair bit of time admiring the old photographs), and the Keiunkan villa across the road with its vast garden. The view from the second floor revealed a little too much of the borrowed scenery of Showa and Heisei Japan. As I left, I passed a group of quite elderly women admiring the azalea bonsai exhibition. I was reminded of Dylan, "your old road is rapidly aging."
I took a long rest with lunch and beer at Nagahama Roman Beer, to fortify myself for the final 12 km to Hikone Castle. Perhaps I'd waited too long, as the weather grew heavy, with dark, dark, overcast skies. Gone now was the beautiful blue waters upon which the sunshine danced. A set change had replaced it with the slate gray lake surface which mirrored the colors above. I preyed that this was merely a staring contest, and that the clouds wouldn't blink first.
When the rains did find me, about halfway along, I swore a bit. Not at the sky or the weather but at the meteorological team who seemed to have grown far less precise after the very expensive technological upgrade that the government had been so proud to announce not long ago. All remained a mere drizzle, mercifully. I was occasionally led into more of those little lakeside parks, but for the most part I was up on the main road, devoid even of a bicycle path. As such, it was a walk to get through, rather than enjoy. The rains slowly increased, and when I finally pulled out my umbrella, they ceased. I guess it was I who blinked first.
Slightly higher waves now brushed the shoreline, here and there decorated with a surprisingly large number of dead fish. Large brown kites feasted on the more fresh, showing that they too have an affinity for sashimi. Further out, what must have been one hundred cormorants, flying and diving, flying and diving, stalking a massive school of fish unseen beneath the water.
The final section in town was down a smaller, quieter road that hugged the shoreline. I remembered swimming here two summers back to wash off the sweat, after climbing some peak further north. I liked then the look of this little lane, the tidy little vacation houses across whose frontages leaned the toys of summer: kayaks, inflatable rings, SUPs, and small boats. A few sailboards lay along the water's edge, and a handful of people were taking advantage of the winds that the rain had brung.
A short walk away, I turned the corner to find myself face to face with Hikone Castle.
On the nighttable: Ian Buruma, "China Lover"
On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Rundown Rehearsals"
No comments:
Post a Comment