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 he 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"
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