Hongudō revisited...revisited

 

I've mentioned before how my friend Daniel and I had missed a great deal of the Hongudō during our walk in 2019, due to most signage been oriented from Ise-ji, against our flow. I returned later that summer to follow a pass over the lower reaches, though this time in the direction of the signs.  But those upper reaches continued to haunt.     

Armed this time with better maps, I greet my unwashed taxi driver, who picks me up in the dark of pre-dawn, and drops me just above the Sanwanotsuri Bridge an hour later.  As I climb from the vehicle, the driver tells me to take care.  Even in the modern age, townspeople maintain their superstitions about the mountains.  Not to say they're wrong.  

I tip the driver a thousand yen, since the poor guy had to rise so early to get me, and on a Sunday no less. And the mind to begins to spin games of chance, for we never really know the outcome of intersections of one's life.  Perhaps he'll use the 1000 yen to buy a few bottles of rotgut sake, and beat the wife around later.  Or maybe, he'll use it to play pachinko, which leads to even greater riches to come.   

The light is just beginning to enter the forest as I do, so I am hyper-aware of animals commuting home from the night-shift.  But the only beasties I encounter are the olfactory delights of swine awaiting their slaughter at the abattoir atop the hill, filling every inch of lung with each labored breath.  Plum blossoms fill the eye, hoof prints of deer in the dew below.  

Most of the day is spent on forestry road, punctuated by brief sections of rip-rap, and fallen-down homes.  I am certain that Daniel and I had missed this, had stayed on the main road below.  I do remember the bouldering field of Yuhi-ga-oka, the immense stones as high a three story buildings.  What follows is probably the longest section of forest trail, which drops steeply down what in the rain must be murder. Just beyond at Otani, I realize that we had previously gone really wrong here in 2019, following the forest road straight down to the highway.  But a smaller road twists upward again, past what must be the home of a trainer of hunting dogs, who bark aggressively in an aural version of the wave.  

 

 Around a few corners, the signage keeps me on the road, but maps show a steep descent down into a broad clear cut valley.  I descend around the stumps and corpses of trees, until I notice my GPS indicating the trail is slightly above me to the left.  I scramble up, and meet the remnants of old trail that escorts me down to Route 311.    

It's a long road walk until a brief respite of forest leads me to the turn-off of  Maruyama Senmaida. I climb as the road switchbacks up to the handful of small souvenir stalls, and farmhouses, and a massive boulder.  I cut between the houses along a wonky rock path toward the top of the hill.  This is my third visit here, but the first in perfect weather.  It's over a month until the rice will be planted, but even the brownish fields are a marvel of geometry.  The landscape almost looks shattered.   

 

As I had already twice crossed Tōri-tōge, I stick to the road, ignoring signs telling me it is closed up ahead.  All is well until I come around a bend to encounter a massive landslide, with rows of truck tires stacked up to prevent encroachment.  As they are only waist high,  I am up and over, passing a handful of large diggers at rest within the landslide scar, then over the tires on the far side.  Thank god it's Sunday, and no one around to turn me back.    

I note a narrow road that leads me diagonally back toward the one of Senmaida's two bus stops.  I'd noticed earlier that the opposite end was marked with a sign for the Hongudō, and it is along this quiet forested road that I take my final steps.  Then my thumb takes over, gaining me a ride toward Kumano city, and my train, and enough time to yet again grab a Mosburger, an act that is becoming almost ceremonial at journey's end.

 

On the turntable:  The Police, "Synchronicity"  

  

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji V

 

I've forgone breakfast since I want to catch the first train of the day.  I'm backtracking a few days to recross Hajikami-tōge, taking this time the Meiji Road which I hear is more picturesque.  I munch bread and coffee as I await my train, winter's bite still in the air on this day in early March.  

The Meiji trail over the pass lives up to its reputation, and it gently leads me down to a long valley of farms sparkling in the morning sun.  I meet the road at the far end, close to an hour before my intended bus.  I throw out my thumb lackadaisically, but am soon picked by a nice old couple (and in Japan, it seems that it is only nice old couples who do the picking up).   They drive me all the way to Owase where I can catch a train back down the coast to rejoin the Ise-ji.  I walk down to Family Mart to grab a quick lunch, which I eat on yet another train platform.

 

I leave the train at Arii, where I finished up my walk of the Hongudō back in 2019.   I am led immediately across the highway and into the trees.  From the heights of yesterday, I could see these pines extend all the way down the coast, planted in earlier times as a wall to slow the encroach of future tsunami.  Breaking through the other side, I see that I am meant to walk a concrete berm which, although it allows me great views of the sea, is all I will get for hours.  Looking at my map I note a parallel path through the trees themselves, which though equally monotonous, will at least give me a softer surface on which to tread.  I decide to split the difference, and pick up the beach trail further on.  

The uniformity of features on the landscape soon has my mind spilling out all over the place, unbound by geography or temporality.  It goes on like this for 10 km.  One stretch has me up on my old frenemy R42 as it passes through Mihama and beneath it's towering boondoggle of the town office.  Any time the town office is far nicer than any other structure in town, you've got some politicos who have little regard for the needs of their constituents.

Ironically I'd stayed here a couple of nights before, at the rather bland Fairfield Hotel, though I'd enjoyed dinners at izakaya Benkei at the michi-no-eki next door.  Sadly, they aren't doing lunch today.  So I wrap behind the massive behemoth shopping center and follow the smaller road out of town, forced to rejoin R42 more than once.  There is little to hold my interest, and even the two historical landmarks that my map shows seem to have been swallowed by suburb.  (At this point I am ready to suggest to non-OCD walkers of the Ise-ji to give this whole Hamakaido section a pass.  Better to ride the train from Kumano to Shingu.)

Finally the trail leads me inland, climbing diagonally toward the forests above.  I hadn't expected a climb today, and am surprisingly more fatigued that expected, so I take a break at Yokote Enmei Jizo.  The path that follows is a nice wooded traverse along the upper edge of civilization, but all too soon I descend through a confusing spaghetti plate of overlapping roads and highways.  The weather had been so pleasant through the day, but a light rain wants to accompany me the rest of the way into Shingu.  Not sure why, as this stretch is fairly uninspiring, up until that bouncy iron suspension bridge that I remembered from my Kawatake-kaidō walk.  As on that day, the sky is dark as I enter the grounds of Hayatama Taisha, and I realize that I've approached this shrine from four different approaches.  But today brings completion as I've now walk every bit of the Kodō (except the Okugake, which leads to Hongu anyway).  Thus, the pilgrimage ends not with footfalls but with a pair of claps.

 

My accommodation for the night was chosen for its proximity to one of my favorite izakaya in Japan.  It's a guest house, which I usually avoid, but luckily I won't see or hear any of the other guests during my stay, their presence betrayed only by neatly aligned shoes.  I make my way to the izakaya, which I had booked ahead, telling them how happy I'd been on my last visit five years ago, and how much I was looking forward to seeing them again. Naturally, they had no idea who I was. 

Upon entry, I am surprised to see the extant of their renovation, and upon sitting, I realize I've got the wrong place.   I figure the proper thing to do is to order a beer, which I pound after I find my correct destination around the corner.  That owner does seem to remember me once I mention my last visit. And as on that visit, I double makase, letting him choose four dishes for me, and four types sake to pair them with.  We talk over the array of bottles that separate him from my counter seat, about my walks, and the history of the area.  As I leave long past closing, he gifts me a hand written pamphlet he's written on  Shingu.  Once again, Kumano has worked her magic on me, has me missing the hospitality of the countryside, has me wondering why the hell I am still living in Kyoto...

 

On the turntable:  "Everyone's Getting Involved: A Tribute to Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji IV

 

I linger over breakfast, not enthused about my upcoming day of five passes.  Luckily I've already down the Hōbō-toge, so I wait on the train platform with a handful of school kids heading toward more populous towns.  I debark in Nigishima, where I had intended to spend the night during my aborted walk through here back in December.  I really wanted to pass a night in this town that had once been a film set, but there had been red flags when I'd made that booking, mainly that I'd nearly had to beg to convince the owner to do a simple dinner for me, as there wasn't a single restaurant or shop in the village.  This time around Owase Seaside Hotel seemed (and proved) to be a more cozy alternative. 

All was quiet on this morning but for some fisherman offloading the morning catch.  The large concrete shell of the fish market is far bigger than their needs, a hint of a population base so diminished that they can no longer host what had once been a famous and lively festival here.  I rejoin the Ise-ji as it climbs steeply out of the village, literally through a house that is disappearing into the hillside.  Tiles from the bath jut from the earth like a set of teeth spilled in a vicious bar fight.  

 

 The ascent peaks out surprisingly soon, the trail continuing as a pleasant undulation through cedar forest.  The beach town vibe of Atashika seems a pleasant place to stay a night, especially if doing the walk in weather warm enough to swim.  But jeers to whomever decided to pave the steep trail climbing out of town.   The brief stretch of forested trail at the top leads me through the front garden of a pleasant woman hanging her laundry on a pleasant day, and past the coop of some rather raucous chickens.     

After a brief pop-in to Hadasu Jinja and its vast views, I drop drop drop down to the town proper.  Midway along I hide my bag in the trees for a quick detour over to Jofuku-no-Miya, dedicated to Chinese alchemist Xu Fu, who crossed the waters in search of the elixir of life.  (He never returned from a 210 BC voyage, so I suppose it could have gone either way.)  An ancient woman gingerly makes her way uphill from the train station, a walk that could be her own version of the elixir of life.  A few others are out resuscitating the vegetable plots after the long winter.  

 A massive boulder field contains the former site of Otake-chaya, but I get no place to rest as I climb again out of town toward Obuke-tōge. I pull up short to at the trailhead as I intend to double climb this pass later in the day, so instead follow the road back down and around to the quaint little Hadasu station, where I have lunch on the sunny platform as I await my train. 

 

 It is a short five-minute ride to Odomari. I wrap myself up and out of town and soon enter the forested Kannon-no-michi, which is the more atmospheric, if not more challenging, of the two passes. I detour at the top to the old Tomari Kannon ruins, and am surprised to find that it is in the process of being rebuilt.  But there are no workmen here today, so I sit and recharge with some chocolate but pushing on.  It is a wonderful roller-coaster stretch that rises and falls beside more of those Shishigaki stone walls, with a rewarding view of the upcoming Matsumoto-toge and the crescent of shoreline beyond. 

I reach Obuke-tōge, where I stash my bag in the forest before racing unencumbered down to the trailhead that I'd tagged a couple of hours before, and back.  The descent off the pass is gradual and smooth, but near the bottom, as I ponder a large sinkhole in the forest floor, I hear the unmistakable sound of a bear lumbering through the thicker on the opposite bank of the stream.  I don't remain in the forest for long.   

 

 

The Ise-ji moves through a pair of small fishing villages and over a towering concrete breakwater to Odomari.  I'd crossed the upcoming Matsumoto-toge about ten years ago, but from the other direction. Ever the purist, I climb again, but regret it immediately, as the steep set of stone ishitatami steps taxes legs weary from a day of passes.  Once atop, I admire the tall Jizo marking the pass, this one complete with bullet hole from the 19th Century shinbutsu bunri version of MAGA lunacy.  

 

I hadn't time or daylight during my previous visit to follow the lateral trail heading through the forest toward the Onigajō ruins, and this too was another reason to repeat the climb . Rather than following a straight line, this path too rises and falls.  The views over sea in three directions proves the effort.  Then quickly back down the other side toward the outskirts of Kumano City.  As I sit with a cold drink from a vending machine, I startle the attractive middle-aged woman opening up the Okonomiyaki shop on whose bench I'm resting. 

 

One last section to go, following the path that winds around the base of Onigajō, up and down steps cut into the soft sandstone cliffs and terraces.  Being a Friday night, a group of rather rough looking youths are drinking chu-hi and staring out toward the sun now beginning to set.  I pass more of them as I move along the narrow paths, like I'm a spectator at a chimpira parade. One of them looks old enough to be someone's mother, yet she too had affected their funky look.  Now I know who bought the booze. 

This truly is a magnificent place, and my delight with it would be further enhanced if I weren't so damn worn out from the day.  After passing through a pair of tall arches, I finally reach the carpark on the far side, then pick up pace in the falling light, reaching baths and beer and food at the oasis of Hotel Nami.

 

On the turntable: The The, "Infected"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji III

 

On the Ise-ji, Yakiyama terrifies most.  The height and length of the pass are well out of scale from that of anything else on the entire walk.  Getting an early start out of Owase is a good idea, and the road out of town is narrow and straight but for a long detour around the quiet neighborhoods that now squat atop the former masagata curves.  I almost miss this, except for a passing bus driver whose gestures I take for a simple greeting.  A moment later I realize that he was gesturing that I had passed my turn-off a few dozen meters back. 

As I trudge along, I come to realize that walks and hiking have come to serve as a Vipassana of sorts.  It is a practice of dealing with sensations in the body, and then letting them go.  As regards walking and hiking, more than letting them go, I simply ignore them. Which rarely leads to desired consequences, as with my aborted attempt at this route last December.

But today, so far all was well.  Until a sign at the trailhead warns me that a large section of the route is off limits.  And in true Vipassana fashion, I choose to let this information go.  I don't mind detours on regular hikes, but on historical courses I want to get in every step. In the majority of cases, the damage is minor, and easily skirted.  (Though due to the more ferocious weather patterns of recently years, some warnings are better heeded.). As I move through a section of high grass a few hundred meters further on, I try to ignore the workman running up behind me.  Luckily I am able to do my usual blag -- "reporter on assignment to write about blah blah blah" -- and surprisingly he lets me continue, after giving some advice about how to navigate the damaged section.     

 

 Luckily I'm allowed to go on.  The trail is a beautiful passage though a forest that gradually grows more natural the higher it gets.  There are ample historical markers and plentiful jizo statuary.  Then suddenly the trail stops, where a crucial bridge has been washed out.  The workman had suggested I cross the steam higher up, but the forest is too thick and the going looks tough.  Instead, I lower myself into the stream bed, using the new metal rails that would support the new bridge.  They serve as monkey bars of sorts, as I go arm over arm, my feet resting lightly across the rocks midstream.  Then I heave myself back onto trail again.  

It had been a gentle ascent up to that point, but then the path begins to switchback sharply up until the peak itself.  The old rock-laid trail has grown uneven with centuries of erosion, and the irregularity of footfalls are an unwelcome challenge.  Near the top is a new-ish shrine that would make for a great place to overnight.  There is another smaller shrine out back, each anointed with dozens of identical bottle of sake, complete with white plastic caps for partaking.  They spread across the hillside like the kodama forest sprites of Mononoke-hime.    

But the peak comes up sooner than I'd expected, and the climb is done.  I take a long lunch break in a large open area of grass nearby, enjoying the view of the fishing towns stretching along the peninsula below. I note that there was an adjacent Meiji trail that hadn't been on any of my maps, but the path looks pretty hairy, so I stick with the Edo route.  At its lowest reaches the tree graffiti begins.  They are complaints from local woodsmen that granting World Heritage status to the Kodō would deny them the livelihood their families had had for centuries or more.  

 

 The final stage of the trail is a bisection of low stone walls meant to keep the fields below beast-free, and reminds me of the stone walls of the lower Ryukyu Islands.  A beautiful house with an lush and ample grass yard stands just where the forest ends, overlooking the broad bay and got me playing the what-if game.  It would be lovely to live here.  

I had met a young couple on my previous visit to Mikisato, with shared interests in kayaking and yoga and taiko, but sadly they aren't at home when I drop by their guest house.  So I instead take a chocolate break at the water's edge, before climbing up and through the village and around the other side of the bay.  

Entering forest again, I'm not prepared for how the rest of the day will go.  The trail hugs the forest walls above the road below, and climbs and drops before returning to tarmac for short stretches. These roller-coaster routes are always the most tiring for me, and I had already had a pretty full morning with Yakiyama.  Like some kind of punishment, the trail drops all the way down from Miki-tōge before climbing all the way to the heights again.  But the trail along the Hago-tōge that follows was an ample reward, running smoothly beside more beautiful stone walls, before eventually depositing me on the edge of Kata.  I pass schoolkids on their way home, as I move through the village toward my accommodation on the other side of the bay. 

 

 Owase Seaside View is my splurge this trip, with luxuriant dinner and baths overlooking the quiet waters of the bay.  My room proves massive, and I am happy for my early arrival, soaking myself post-soak with the view and some quiet reading and the generous yet dangerous complimentary samples of plum wine.

 

On the turntable:  Avatars of Dub, "One Drop Theory"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji II

 

Early the following March.  I arrive at Kii-Nagashima in a gradually diminishing rain, and am out of town within minutes. Uomachi is much quieter than it had been in summer 2022.  The number of beauty salons is out of proportion somehow, but I suppose it is something to do is this quiet town. Plus I love the huge sign for "Liza and Bambi (since 1957)." The village shrine looks smaller on this grey day, the plum tree on its grounds a contrast of pink petals on dark black boughs.  The waters of the inlets are haunted by the ghosts of karaoke boxes, and in front of one I am finally forced to pull on my rainwear.  The scent here of hot metal and dead crab is nearly overwhelming.  

I meet a trio of older hikers atop Ikkoku-tōge, the only walkers I'll meet over the entire five days.  The views open over the sea, then I'm on the far side. Into Furusato Onsen, where I overnighted on my previous trip. The village greets me with plums, yet it hosts a mikan stand, closed this late in the season.  I suppose the same can be said for the overgrown temple nearby.  

Miura-tōge comes and goes, with its beautifully simple wooden bridge and old Toyota Crown rusting into forest.  It's not long to the next pass of Hajikami. There is a choice of two routes here, but I take the shorter one, with the intention of returning to the newer Meiji Road later. This afternoon of small passes reminds me of the Kumano Kodō's Kii-ji and Ohechi sections, days spent traipsing through the long waterfronts of villages, ultimately broken by a quick up and over to the next one.  The warmth of the day brings about thoughts of bear, but the date on the calendar helps allay those fears.

 

Funatsu hosts the Miyama history museum in a lovely old Meiji building, but it has closed just a few minutes before.  I am rapidly losing light when I hitch a ride down to Owase, and my digs for the night.  I'd already climbed Magose-toge, so I'd begin the following day's walk from here.  

I've written before (and critically) of the city, dubbed by the tourist fathers as the belly button of the Ise-ji, yet one filled with lint.  I have friends who are enamored with the place, but I find it far too gone in its decay.  There is a revitalization of sorts going on, but it feels lackluster to me, and undertaken far too late.  Still it is an indisputably important resupply stop for the long distance walker.  

I still have a bit of time to kill before the restaurants would open fro dinner, so I wander over to the grand Owase Shine, then ramble around the town's lanes, amazed at the vast number of long-shuttered buildings.  I spy light coming from an izakaya, and upon entering, I quickly rattle off a few lines in polished Japanese so as to set the owner at ease with a foreign face popping through the door.  He tells me that they are booked for the night (which I inevitably wonder whether is true, or simply a ploy to ward off the foreigner and his uncertain behavior), and directs me to a shop a few streets over.  The granny running the place looks friendly enough, but the shop is really run down and allows smoking.  So I wander yet again, finally settling on a small joint run by a young guy and his mother. As I am the only customer, I sit at the counter and chat with them awhile, until a few other people straggle in.  I quietly head back to my hotel, whose name of Viola  always reminds me of the Dead, as in Grateful, rather than civic.

 

On the turntable: Abbey Lincoln, "It's Me"      

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji

 

Despite a very early start, I didn't arrive at Kawazoe Station until around 10 a.m.  Not any ideal situation, as I had a good deal of ground to cover, and the December day allowed me only six hours of daylight to do so.   A steady pace would get me there, though I'd have little in reserve to explore more deeply things found along the way.  I also wasn't looking forward to the fact that much of the walk would along the busy Route 42, but at least its steady buzz of traffic would keep me moving rapidly forward.  

I recalled well the little station at Kawazoe, where I'd finished the last leg in the summer of 2022.  The village (and all the other villages) must have been a charming place to live, before being denigrated to a place to blow past along R42.   My map mentions some statuary beside the path, but despite my walking a few back-and-forths, they never reveal themselves.  Perhaps they'd been moved during renovations for the brand new shrine on the hillock just above.  I am further puzzled by an exercise bench set-up where the barbell is weighted by circular stones of concrete, Flintstones-style. 

Route 42 comes up all too soon, and the wind whips me up and over the pass. A new religion has built a temple-cum-castle at the top, beside a large rock where a legendary princess of old had taken a break. A mysterious cluster of Jizo just off trail has me wondering if the route was dumbed down to have us follow the new highway rather than squiggle across a mountain route that I see on my map.  That also matches the description in some of the older books for some other statuary that I never actually saw.  There are plenty of historic information signs, but little trace of what they indicate.  

At any rate, I am finally led off R42, down a gentle road that leads to the picturesque Yahashira Shrine on the outskirts of Misedani.  There a junction here of sorts, with a small trail that wraps around the back of some houses and down to the banks of the Miyagawa.  In old times, a ferry service led pilgrims across, but today it would need to be prearranged.  I decide to go to the landing anyway, in the off chance I can blag a ride.  But all is quiet along this jagged, rocky stretch of river, but for the flags whipping on the landing across the water.  

A backtrack, then back along the new Ise-ji route.  Apparently, no one under 60 lives in Misedani.  The town hall shares a carpark with the michi-no-eki, which feels Reiwa appropriate somehow. I take a quick lunch, then head over Funaki bridge, a 125 year old concrete beauty, with waist-high, vertigo-inducing railings.  Safe across, I have a long monotonous slog above the river, and paralleling for the second time the mountain pass that I'll be crossing posthaste. The eyes drawn repeatedly upward to the heights to follow, this approach takes a toll on the walker's psychology and spirit.    

 

I finally reach the opposite boat landing that I'd seen earlier, just below another Yahashira Shrine, this one elegant and quiet and shaded by bamboo forest.  The climb toward Misesaka-toge begins sharply and in earnest from here, but despite being the first day, the going is easy, and I suddenly find myself on the other side.   

Takihara-no-miya appears like an oasis.  I walk a long while under towering forest that shades her. It appears that the shrine is modeled on the grand Ise Shrines, and squares empty of all but stone suggest that these structures too are rebuilt every 20 years. I'd love to take a longer break here, even doze out of sight behind one of the grand trees, but the sands continue to fall through the hourglass.

Adjacent Taki has some very nice schools, old timey and made of wood, which always catches the citified eye more used to concrete prisons filled with shouting kids.  The town also has a penchant for VW Beetles.  A beautiful campsite of tall A-frame cottages stands at the bend of the Ouchiyama River, which brings giggles to my Anglophilic brain.  

 

The jōyato of Aso are telling me to hurry up and get the hell to my inn.  My knees and my feet and my rapidly dropping body temperature agree.  Dusk is rising up too quickly.  I take a long rest at a shuttered takoyaki stand, phoning my inn to mention that I am running late, and to check on the time for dinner.  Six.  Shit, I'm going to have to push it if I want a bath first.  And that would be a need, rather than a want.   

The stretch that follows is a mind-numbing trudge along R42, then finally onto a quiet road leading gently into rice paddies, still dormant for the season.  Sadly, dark has fallen fully, one of the very few times that I've been caught out on my walks.  Nothing to do but march toward the lights in the distance.  The lack of visual stimulation brings my awareness to fall heavily on the condition of my feet, which are basically hamburger.  Large blisters have colonized the balls of both feet, and each push forward is agony.  I eventually arrive at Dairen-ji, and I plonk myself on the stone steps for a rest.  I curse the dark, as the temple looks inviting, as does the Kiseiso inn next door.  It is only after I return home to my notes that I realize that that was where I should have booked for the night, as recommended by other walkers I follow online. I watch a train disgorge its passengers at the station below me, then trudge the last 15 minutes to my own inn, which in my current condition takes twice that time.       

My innkeeper winces when she sees my feet and mercifully lets my have a quick shower, despite it being well past six.  I too wince when I notice there is no bath here, something my feet desperately need.  Dinner brings respite, though I can almost feel my blisters bubbling under the kotatsu, and sitting on the floor is an agony for overworked hips.  I never have walked myself into such a pathetic condition, yet somehow I covered 34 km, far beyond my predicted 24.  That distance is simply masochistic for a first day.  Sleep comes quickly, but often broken due to pain.

 

I depart at daybreak, the light just coming into the sky.  The foot pain has receded to a dull throb, but with the promise of a steady increase.  It is a beautiful morning, the river almost yellow in the rays of the new rising sun.  I hug the twisting curves, along high berms bordering rice fields.  I can smell the pig farm a good half and hour before I got to it.  No matter what type of animal they process, these kinds of places always share the same scents: of shit and blood and death.  

 Luckily the trail keeps me off R42.  The highlight is the shaded section of wood of Ashitani, though my mincing little steps between tree roots quickly returns the pain to my feet.  By the time I hit tarmac again, all is agony.  I also realize that it is 8 a.m. and I hadn't yet had any coffee, the walk thus far devoid of vending machines.  I find my first at Ouchiyama Station and have a long sit to rest my feet.  Satisfactorily caffeinated, my final stretch up to Umegadani Station is mainly along R42, though it is quieter here and the beauty of the morning brings out the best of the landscape.   

The pre-trip intention was that I'd catch a train down to Kii-Nagashima, as I'd already walked the twin passes that split off from here.  But for my feet.  I can go no further today, or any other day to come.  As I await my train, I mentally recalculate what I need to finish the rest of the walking route, and find a window next March to where I could shift my accommodation dates.  As my train arrives, I hobble aboard, disappointed when the doors close on what promises to be a week of perfect walking weather.

 

On the turntable:   Jani Kovačič, "Thomas Alan Waits: A Tom Waits Homage"

 

The City that Almost Wasn't

 

 

A second piece in this weekend's print edition of The Japan Times, on Kokura, the city that almost wasn't.

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2025/08/09/lifestyle/kokura-walking-tour-atomic-bomb-nagasaki/

 

 On the turntable:  Traffic, "On the Road"

 

Kyoto and the War

 

My latest for The Japan Times, on Kyoto's WWII legacy. 

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2025/08/07/travel/kyoto-wwii-aerial-bombing-history/ 

 

On the turntable: Bruce Springsteen, "The River tour 1980"

 

Sunday Papers: Albert Camus

 

"Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth."

 

On the turntable:  The Ramones, "Too Tough to Die"

 

This Blog at 20

 

Two thousand, three hundred, fourteen posts, and counting...

 

On the turntable: David Gray, "White Ladder 20th Anniversary Edition"

 

 

 

Greek Sketches 2024: Southbound

 

...we meander Thessaloniki, past ruins lying in open lots between the streets, in search of Byzantine churches, in search of lunch, in search of coffee.  The amazing Archeological Museum, Arch of Galerius, Rotunda.  Mount Olympus steadfast across the water, ships moving toward the Aegean.  Posters and stills in cafes for films I've never seen.  Dinner in a woody, nautical themed place that looked more at home in New England, or Central California, but for the bouzouki strumming in a back room.  We meet Adam in the morning, to wander the markets to sample Turkish delights, then up to the castle ruins to pose and photograph. Long lunch on a veranda with great views over the city, plus pizza and wine, as LYL tells our respective futures from Turkish coffee residue... 

...the road south.  A fire in a tunnel brings traffic to a crawl, but we escape before we get caught in it, and the rest of the afternoon is a long counter-clockwise loop around Olympus. Lingering snow on her upper flanks halts any discussion about a springtime climb.  The valleys beneath are broad and high, bringing to mind Colorado yet again...

...long pause in Volos, sipping cloudy ouzo on a patio beneath a spreading tree, talking Jason and the Argonauts who sailed from here.  It today has a somewhat run-down look, graffiti laden, with some threatening backstreets.  We wander one, peering through a workshop piled high with antique saddles.  The waterfront is tidier, with a massive model of Jason's Argo, and a sign warning Turkey to get their hands of Cyprus...

 

..the road climbs high along the Pelion peninsula, though little clinging villages that Adam narrates, creating bridges to legend and antiquity.   A brief stop for honey, then into Kissos as dark falls full.  This is our base for the night, in a beautiful old inn that is as charming as it is dark and cold.  The morning rain is heavy, so we linger long in our room before fleeing to a small and dark cafe in the village square, once again transported to the middle ages.  We read beside the fire until Adam shows up, then we grab our bags to descend through the fog to Agios Ioannis for lunch.  All is windy and stormy, the waves bashing against the concrete breakwater mere meters from the terrace where we dine...

 

...two nights at Damouchari.  I'd wanted the room at Ghermaniko Guesthouse where Romy Schneider stayed, but a German family has it.  Our room above the water is bright and spacious and has a massive terrace, where I read away much of our time here.  Little else to do but stroll the cliffside paths out to ruined cave temples, and to hidden beaches fed by towering waterfalls.   We share the paths with no one but olive trees and goats.  The quiet almost haunts us, here in the domain of the Centaurs.   We take a few meals on the stone terrace of Miramare, beneath photos of the cast of Mamma Mia, shot in this little bay.  (I hadn't seen the film, and upon watching it later, wish I still hadn't.) A fox joins us for lunch one afternoon, which I could practically hand-feed.  The Aegean beckons, but the wind-swept waves remain high and too dangerous to swim...

...driving the winding roads of the peninsula, visiting friends of Adam, both expat and local. Lunch at Itamos, then meander the stone paths up and down the hilly villages in order to work off the wine.  Tsagkarada is a regular fixture, particularly its great tree.  A final dinner with Adam at the magical Lost Unicorn, with the wine and conversation, cats and fireplace...

 

...and northbound again, albeit briefly.  Lunch at Dion, busy with Sunday families, then wander its remarkably expansive ruins, an overlap of Roman and Hellenic, where Alexander paid tribute before sojourning onward to Persia.  Olympus majestic above all.  I drive as far up its flanks as I can, then wander a trail briefly before retreating from the increasing rain, popping into a lively cafe here where hikes have been abandoned in favor of booze.  All is sunny and bright down in Litochoro. It is a charming little town, with an outdoorsy basecamp vibe that I always love.  We have a slow dinner at Gastrodromio, LYL looking toward the sea; me up the gaping yaw of valleys toward an Olympus fading in the light, whose full snowy form I won't see until the clear light of morning...        

...the incredibly varying scenery along the back roads, highlighting the vast extent of Greece's gastronomic agriculture.  We bisect a number of mountain ranges laterally, making us earn the journey back to Hellenic Greece.  The Monastery of Agathon is a courtyard oasis that is almost Himalayan, perched high above a broad river valley.  We dine on this view further over a terrace lunch nearby, before wending down past a downed fighter plane on a hillside, a tank in a village square.  And modern day tanks, caravans with license plates from all across Europe, clutter the landscape around Thermopylae.  I knew of the battle here, but not the springs.  I appreciate those more, and walk along the fast running stream of pleasant heat, trouser legs rolled high...

 

...we are surprised by the amount of snow on Parnassus, and surprised even more by a group of wild horses running up the road, thankfully cleared.  We keep pace with them awhile, before speeding onward to Arachova.  This too is a pleasant town, and our room sits on the valley edge, the perfect perch for late afternoon reading.  We wander the town as the light falls, up to the church atop all, though sadly our target taverna across the square is inexplicably closed.  We find another in the town center, Bonjour Cafe, with a cool wine cellar built into an ancient basement. Around the corner is a small Judo school.  I pop in and talk awhile with the teacher, a friendly young guy whose full beard and physique are outright heroic. Walking the dark lanes to our room, we pass an old women who enters a modest house on the corner.  Looking back, we note that the home she seemed to enter is boarded up, abandoned.  For two weeks we've been in pursuit of the ghosts of history, but here in this small town we've seen the real thing, one who probably never appeared in the pages of a Penguin paperback... 

..Arachova is on the doorstep of Delphi, so after grabbing take-away coffee and bread, we rush over to beat the tourist coaches.  We've done well, but more and more people arrive as we stroll the stones crawling uphill, and the fallen columns that are simply everywhere.  There are too many people are the museum, but we have the Tholos to ourselves, sitting quietly above the view...

 

...the drive back to Athens is through civilization gradually making its presence felt. Brief stops at Elefsina and Marathon, thankfully devoid of anyone but us.  The final descent through the hills is through a blackened landscape of last year's fires.  We wander aimlessly in search of lunch, which we take in Exarcheia, with its "edgy alternative vibe, its streets decorated with politically charged murals and lined with anarchist bookshops and stores selling rare vinyl and vintage guitars. Bars and clubs host live music, including rembetika (Greek blues), jazz and punk acts."  (Thank you G**gle.)  I love parts of cities like this, a mix of student and boho community with a dangerous feel that reminds me somehow of Seattle of the grunge years.  The archeological museum nearby impresses, then we continue our wander to get to the Acropolis for our reserved entry around sunset.  The alleys below are a riot of people, Americans mainly.  We retreat into smaller lanes, finding a quiet cafe beside Hadrian's Library.  Our server is a poet, and not being busy, he has time to chat Japanese poetry, and of course Lafcadio Hearn.  The Acropolis is as I remember, but sunset is far more pleasant than the heat of full morning.  I'm still put off by the never ending construction, and by the crowds, which are admittedly smaller at this hour.  I am far more taken this time with the views of the city.  We descend past a West African playing kora, and on into the tourist labyrinth of the Plaka.  We'd read about a classic old restaurant, with a mid-twentieth century vibe of old tables and celebrity photographs everywhere.  But this last meal in Greece was the worst of the trip, and the tourist circus outside was grating.  Two weeks in the countryside had given us so much, had taught me a great deal.  So it was a shame to end the trip this way, surrounded by the trappings of a century that thus far, has failed to impress...

 

On the turntable: Phish,  '1998-04-04, Providence Civic Center"

 

Greek Sketches 2024: Northbound

...Octavian found victory at Actium more easily than we found the old battlefield itself.  The handful of homes scattered along the marshy shoreline blocks any access to the water, and there is no signage of any kind.  Surrendering, we drive north to Nicopolis, whose old walls parallel the quiet country road.  The crumbling stone edifaces and archways were put here by Octavian in 29 BC, after his victory, hence the name.  We walk awhile, gazing into the amphitheater, followed by a dog who briefly adopts us, before returning to the car to visit other Roman ruins that lay scattered along this narrow isthmus. The Necromanteion of Acheron is just to the north of here, above a small village.  I found conflicting information about whether the site would be open on this Holy Friday, but it is the locked gate rather than the old Oracle that tells the tale.  The dead would begin their journey to the underworld from here, floating down the River Hades.  Today it is kayakers who make the journey, drifting through a broad and beautiful valley.  The friendly dog who trails me as I enjoy the views I naturally call Cerberus, who chases the car awhile as we drove off...

...Dodoni lies nestled in yet another beautiful valley, whose surrounding hills reminds me of Boulder.  The ruins form a berm of sorts, hinting at an elaborate palace befitting the Oracle of Zeus.  Spring wildflowers bring color to the grassy spaces between the stones, watered by a quick and sudden storm that is a brief interlude to otherwise perfect blue skies...

 

...Greater Ioannina is a city of traffic and graffiti. Our target taverna is bustling for lunch, so we choose an outdoor seat just up the road.  Away from the sea, we settle on moussaka and a local white, a stronger tipple as befitting hearty country people.  As we eat, I watch suspicious looking figures pop in and out of an adjacent pharmacy. Once inside the inner walls of the old citadel, we immediately regret our choice of accommodation in the grotty modern city, as here all is tidy and clean.  The atmospheric upper ramparts of the castle give great views over the lake, and music wafts out from the church.  Byron had been here too, a guest of Ali Pasha, with whom he was not terribly impressed.  The Pasha is still here, his tomb covered by an iron cage.  Back in town, we have ice cream with Voula, an old university classmate of LYL.  She and her husband Vassilis are based here in Ioannina, working with the university.  We walk along the water's edge, then pass up and over the citadel to the other side.  A number of times, Vassilis is approached by apparent strangers who take him up in brief conversation.  I knew that he has a number of books and has a newspaper column, but it is becoming clear that he has some significant fame as well.  We wind up at a lakefront restaurant, quiet for the holiday, and with only about 10 percent of its menu available. But there is wine.  We make due, watching the ducks bounce in the waves of an evening gone windy...

 

...The winds have brought unstable weather overnight, which is what we don't want for our walk along Vikos Gorge.  But the mist at play beneath the towering stone walls is hypnotizing, a good distraction from the sheer drops a mere step off the narrow path.  The weather clears as we climb off trail to unmarked viewpoints, and allows us good photos of the meadow crowded with stone towers and small cairns that we stumble upon on the way back to Monodendri. We walk the cobblestone trails through the village, until the rain determines that it is lunchtime, which we take in an old inn that is familiar from any film set in the Middle Ages. Being a hotel, it would make for a great overnight.  But we are daytripping, so continue our walk, around town, down to the Monastery of Saint Paraskevi, an almost Indian name, as is Vikos itself, magnificent now in the full light of the sun... 

 

...We drive in and out of the clouds, over high mountain roads that abate at Papigko, tucked deep into the Zagori. Our digs for the night are in a sort of B&B, an old house horseshoed around a stone courtyard.  Our proprietress is a funky artist type, almost witch-like, with an apparent penchant for knitting. She takes us to the upper garden, but it is too misty to sit, and there are no views anyway.  LYL and I walk the small village, then settle in for dinner.  Our first choice is an atmospheric old taverna, but the menu was limited and the vibe a tad unfriendly.  Next door is bright and cheerful, and beneath the table my foot keeps time with the 70s rock coming through the speakers overhead.  The stone walls of our bedroom make for a chilly night, but we go out anyway, to enjoy Easter services in the village church.  We've arrived too early as not much is happening, but over the next hour more and more people fill the narrow recesses as the priests drone on and on.  Being from a small town myself, I begin to recognize archetypes, and my mind creates stories about them as I wait for something to happen.  Finally at midnight it does, as the bells begin to toll, and we all step outside to enjoy the fireworks, and those candle-lit balloons that drift ever heavenward like the souls of Jesus, though their eventual return will bring not salvation but polluted forests...

...I awake early to read in the courtyard, but the cold chases me in again.  I have coffee and little Easter chocolates until it is time for breakfast proper.  We walk the village again, this time under perfect blue skies.  In the full light it becomes clear that this mountain village is the preferred choice of holiday homes of the wealthy Greek city-dweller.   And why not, set beneath the towering stone spires above, still dusted with snow.  We find too that we missed a better hotel by a dozen meters or so.  Booking our hotels for this trip was tricky, as the trip was quite last minute due to scrambling after a cancelled cruise, and some prolonged coordination with friends we'd meet along the way.  While our accommodation was perfectly fine, the better spots had all been snatched up, which now makes sense with the awareness of the Easter holiday weekend... 

 

 ...We point the car deeper into the mountains, winding down some steep switchbacks that we'd come up the day before, which bottom out at a quaint little water crossing, before climbing steeply back up again. Here again is classic southern European mountain scenery, moving through forests from which a village will suddenly appear, clinging impossibly to the steep hillsides. (We can thank centuries of foreign invaders for catalyzing such charm.)   We stop the car at the Konista stone bridge, whose steep arch we climb for the obligatory photos, before sitting to coffee at a taverna on the far side.  We are meant to meet Voula here, or so we thought, for we find later that the bridge that served as our meeting point was not this (obvious) one, but was the one at the quaint little water crossing of an hour or so before.  But all is well as we walk the forestry road built high along the river, as beneath us kayakers drift toward Albania, drawing my eyes downward and past them to the older stone trail that plays peek-a-boo on the river's rougher side. We'll take lunch out on a terrace that overlooks a very smokey smokehouse across the car park.  The restaurant is busy this Easter Sunday, but the streets of town are silent, but for some wandering Romani musicians, who we pay to play a folk song for us.  Voula's house is at the top of the hill, with great views over toward Albania.  Though still geographically Greece, this is historically Macedonia, and Vassilis is one of the top scholars on the Vlachs, a medieval Balkan people from this region.  (Culturally, this segment of the trip has very little Hellenic Greek feel, having crossed a cultural border of sorts once we hit Ioannina.)  I read on the patio until the change of light brings out wine, then leafy dolmas.  Neighbors pop by to offer holiday greetings, all members of Vasilis's family, who all have adjoining properties.  I imagine there had once been a large family estate here, now divided up post-war.  When the light finally goes, we head off to a bed, and a very cold night.  Up here, spring is synonymous with winter...

 

...We take the faster lowland route back to Ioannina, then trace the lake's north shore before climbing again.  Aside for a quick coffee, we only stop again at Meteora, the trip's highlight for me.  I was memorized the first time I saw the cliff monasteries in a 45 year old Bond film.  We pass the rest of the morning visiting a few, up and down the steep stone steps to the eyrie churches taking up every inch of space atop the rocks.   But between, the crowds and traffic are too much.  (Easter Monday too is a thing here.)  So we retreat to the lowlands for a late lunch, then rest through the afternoon on the lawn of our small hotel, as a team of climber rappels from the impossible chimneys high above.  An early start brings respite from the hordes, and I've saved the three most intriguing sites to have nearly to ourselves.  Traffic begins to build as we move out of town. We follow small rivers, alongside which villages come and go. We climb again, though the roads run straight as they cut across high plateau, punctuated with small reddish shrubs like every other highland in the world.  We had to forfeit a visit to a site related to Alexander the Great due to Holy Tuesday (enough already!) but pulled into Thessaloniki by lunch time. It felt like we'd left Greece, and arrived in Turkey.  Which, culturally, we had...

 

On the turntable: David Johansen, "Live it Up"