Stalking the Shimanto

 

 

Japan's relationship to its natural environment is a complicated one.  Its literature and culture exude about a close affinity for nature, blessed as the nation is with a diversity of landscape, vast food sources, and four (if not more) truly distinct seasons.  Yet that same landscape and those same seasons too often turn deadly, if the form of earthquake, volcano, or typhoon.  Over time, living in harmony with nature has shifted to an attempt to control it, be it a bonsai tree, a tidily tended garden, or, at its most extreme, massive public works projects.  The visitor to Japanese countryside will be quick to note the impact that the construction industry has had, its coastlines tetrapodded, its hillsides shored up, its rivers dammed.  

Luckily three of Japan's rivers have been allowed to run free.  The longest of these is the Shimano-gawa, which wends its way for 196 kilometers across Shikoku.  The smallest of Japan's four islands, Shikoku remoteness makes it almost an afterthought, which is a boon for the traveler looking for the "lost" Japan.  Distant as the river is from large cities, tracing the Shimanto as it flows in an inverted-S across southwestern Kochi prefecture seemed an ideal way to get into the heart of the Japanese countryside.  

It feels only fitting to start at the source on the slopes of 1336 meter Mt. Irazu, below the Tengu Highlands.  In the feudal days, the mountain was referred to as Otome-yama, or maiden peak, whose forests were protected by the local lord from logging and trespassing.  As such the landscape is wild, its rocky trails lined with moss and lined by a lush natural growth forest.  The Shimanto has a quiet birth, a small spring which gathers together the water emerging from the nearby rocks to tumble slowly down a gradual slope.  Quite characteristic of this placid river.

But like all to often with character, rambunctiousness hides beneath the surface.  The water running through Inaba Cave is wild and violent, spilling through the narrow openings worn smooth and streaked with the color of mineral deposits.  Discovered it 1972,  the cave became an object of study for Swiss scientists  due to the rare geological formations that were pushed up from Antarctica and New Zealand 200 million years ago.  To the locals, these formations resembled the scales of a dragon, considered the ruler of all the dragon gods in the country, and it is here that the Dragon God summit is regularly held.  My guide, Tanizaki-san slides thorough the narrower chambers with apparent familiarity, leading us to the White Dragon cave about 30 meters in from the shrine at the cave mouth.  I peer down the beam of my torch at the underground river that is the Shimanto.  

Reentering the sunlight, I walk beneath pleasant autumn skies, past terraced tea plantations, and rice fields already shorn.  Halfway down to Tsuno town, I stop at the birthplace of Yoshimura Torataro, one of the Tosa domain's most famous samurai.  Lunch is on offer here, so I naturally choose his namesake set lunch, the Yoshimura Torataro Gozen, which uses local ingredients, such as ayu sweetfish, fried konjac Tatsuta, and wild vegetable tempura.  Thus repleted, I carry on toward town.  

The town of Kubokawa, my base for the night, is a gentle afternoon's ride along narrow back roads that more or less stay true to the course of the Shimanto.  Villages frequently come and go, but the true highlights are the twenty-two chinkabashi bridges that cross the main river (another twenty-six span the tributaries).  The distinctive feature of these bridges is their lack of balustrades, which allows them to become submerged as the waters rise in storm, allowing debris like fallen trees to flow over them.  But more than that, they are incredibly picturesque, set against the bucolic rural landscape, and in summer, would incredibly fun to jump from.   I begin to use these bridges as way points cross-crossing them in a kind of river slalom.  The oldest is Ittohyo, built in 1935, is less than an hour from town.  

Before going to my accommodation, I take an iced coffee at Hanpei Cafe, a tastefully nestled in an spacious old house whose abundance of windows hints at a Taisho era construction.  I am lucky to nab one of the tables, a front row seat for the garden making its final bows in the warm sunshine.  Nearby Iwamoto-ji, temple number 37 on the Shikoku pilgrimage, is the place to stay due to its friendly priest and friendly vibe.  While the temple has been here since the 8th century, it was after the 1978 construction, that the main temple hall became famous, due to the 575 painted tiles that form the ceiling, each representing not only images of Buddhas or nature, but more contemporary figures made familiar from pop culture.  The current priest has extended the temple's artistic connections to include the rooms themselves.  'SHETA's Room' is perhaps the highlight, the walls adorned twith colorful cartoon images drwan by Tokyo-based artist Sheta during an artist-in-residence stint here.  It is always makes for a pleasant stay, enhanced by sake tasting, the rooftop sauna, and BBQs in the summer.

As I've previously stayed here, I opt out of meals, in order to see what the town has to offer.  Unfortunately it is Sunday, and the town is dead.  I wander around, looking for a sliver of light, the red glow of cho-chin, but find no activity except for a modest eatery called FORM, which takes up one corner of the train station.  It feels right out of an old English film, where the lead characters have a final cup of tea before parting ways, perhaps forever.  Not needing to run off anywhere, I pass a long meal in conversation with the friendly owner, picking and choosing of this izakaya's menu, local pork and river fish, and a side order of fried clams.  The sake too is local, though the craft beer traveled some distance here from Tokyo.  

What I'd been most looking forward to in Kubokawa was breakfast at Jun, one of my favorite cafe's in Japan.  The walls are covered ceiling to floor with photos, drawings, pamphlets, magazine cutouts, with jazz is always on the hifi.  It feels as if the entire Showa period simply exploded in here.  Again, I am the only customer, so I am able to pass the time chatting with the friendly couple who run the place, my eyes pulled here and there to book titles I see on the many bookshelves.  The front door is probably the only part of the building not covered in ivy, and passing through,  I take only a handful of steps to reach Iwamoto-ji again.  

Perhaps the temple's most unique amenity is the river meditation.  After slipping into samue, the work clothes of Japanese monks,  I follow the head priests into the shallow waters of the Shimanto,  the find a comfortably flat stone on which to sit and perch.  We are in late October, a few weeks past the usual cut-off date for this activity, but the water isn't unforortably cold.  While the waters that I'd been tracing the day before had long flowed to sea, that which followed now coolly caressed my back and flowed around me.  I had become part of the river. The mind found calm in the soothing sound of water over stone, and in the patterns the ripples took through half-closed eyes.  

While departing Iwamoto-ji later,  I was seen off by a dozen schoolkids, who were handing out treats to passing pilgrims.  While not in that particular role today, I graciously accepted, and later added to loot with Choux creme at the Hiromi pastry shop, happy to have something to have snacks for the train.  As the JR Yodo line ran along a good portion of the Shimanto, I thought I'd pass an easy day with the river as travel companion.  It's a short trip, broken at brief stop at Tosa-Taisho for a quick lunch, but more to visit the shochū museum, housed in a former bank.  Hundreds of bottle climb the shelves, making almost wish I enjoyed this strong, distilled spirit.   But I'm here more for the bygone vibe, and a return across the street to the old-timey train station is a journey back a century more, though I know all to well it is only as old as 1974.  I leave the train again at Hage, cross the Nakahage bridge, and walk off the rest of the afternoon to my accommodation.   The Hotel Seira Shimanto is a beautiful building of stone and wood, offering incredible views down river, the water below shimmering, as the sun leaves this narrow valley.  

It is a short drive downriver to meet my river guide at Yanai bridge.  I realize within seconds that my guide Horikawa Ken is a laid back guy, at ease on the river, at ease with himself.  He is quick to joke, and his gentle teasing is sure to gain instant familiarity with his clients.  I suppose to be at ease means not to fight the river, but rather to paddle amiably with it.  In that spirit, it is a relaxing day, though these Canadian canoes are a little more technical that the usual kayak.  Other too have found equanimity with the waters, fishermen attempting to beckon amago salmon or Japanese trout, or one of the 150 other species that live in this river.  In the summer, some of these men might even undertake torchlight fishing, a method in which fishermen strike the water's surface with a pole in order to frighten the trout, then drive them into an underwater net by waving a torch.

We take a long, well-deserved break beside the Katsuma bridge.  That is to say, I take a break, for Ken is busy preparing a lavish barbecue, constructing an entire camp kitchen with enough gear to fill a station wagon.  Not far off, seiran, a form of river seaweed, waves placidly in the limpid water.  Breaking camp is surprisingly quick, and the steadily increasing flow of the Shimanto ensures that it is a mere hour or so paddle to our takeout spot above the Takase bridge.  Ken's place is a short drive from here.  It brings to mind old frontier homesteads from Western films, the tools and equipment laid out across the grounds a reminder that a life lived in the heart of nature requires regular work, a far cry from the convenience of cities.  Guests on his overnight or four-day canoe tours will get a taste of this as they camp onsite and cook over the open fire, possibly gibier meat that Ken's hunting tours bring in.  The skins of two wild boar hang nearby, waving gently as the late afternoon wind begins to pick up.    

A look at the forecast shows that the weather is no longer in my favor.  A half-day's walk or pedal away, the eponymous town of Shimanto tempts, particularly its twin surf breaks beyond, Hiroano and Futami.  (I’d also like to break my ride for a float upon one of Nakamura town’s Semba Roman Matsuhiroya senba boats, a roofless style of vessel used in the 1930s for the transport of goods.) When I can return to complete the journey only time will tell, to be revealed in the wisdom of its own flow.  

On the turntable:  The Shins, "Wincing the Night Away"

 

Muroto

 

 

The island of Shikoku's principle attraction is of course its pilgrimage.  While the 88 temples that serve as waypoints are of varying grandeur and importance, Cape Muroto's Mikuriyajin Cave must certainly be considered of primary significance, for if Kukai had not had his spiritual epiphanies here, it is doubtful that the pilgrimage would exist at all.  Legend has it that the holy man, then known as Mao, lived and trained in the cave during the early 9th century.  During meditations, his gaze would have been limited by the narrow rock mouth to the separation of sky and sea beyond (from which he took his name, "Ku," sky and "Kai, "sea), a separation that would have been erased in times of the cape's foul weather.  

Cape Muroto is infamous for being a typhoon magnet of sorts, including the 1934 storm that was considered the strongest ever at that time.  Yet the violent intensity of the accompanying wind and wave have bestowed a bounty of sorts, in the stunning rock formations they have carved along the shoreline.  Forces below have provided the foundation, in this seismically active region ever sculpting and expanding.  The area's unique beauty was the centerpiece of the founding of the Muroto-Anan Kaigan Quasi-National Park in 1964.  The Cape itself was listed as a Place of Scenic Beauty in 1928, with the local vegetation receiving its own recognition as a Natural Monument the same year.  The waves here have even been selected by the Ministry of the Environment as one of the 100 Soundscapes of Japan.     

But it is Cape's 2011 designation as the Muroto UNESCO Global Geopark that drew me here today, as I find this special landscape to be indelibly connected to Kukai, and the three pilgrimage temples found nearby.  I leave the bus at Taishizo-mae, just in front of the towering statue of Kukai, a clean white figure that pops out against the green of low scrub trees behind.   The Mikuriyajin Cave is just a few minutes walk away.  The cave had been closed for a number of years due to rock fall, but chain link fencing now help protect visitors from gravity-enhanced enlightenment.    

A low candle-lit altar is now set against the back of the cave, marking where young Kukai had presumably sat, when he too had been part of the geology.  He'd vowed to chant the the Kokuzo buddhist mantra one million times, which surely would have resonated powerfully off the narrow walls of the cave.  One morning while going through these aesthetic practices, the Morning Star, Venus, rose from sea and into the sky, entering the young monk Mao’s mouth.  Kukai, and Shingon, were born.  It is as easy to see how the sight of Venus, cutting through this cold damp darkness, could jar one into Enlightenment. 

I backtrack a short ways to enter the narrow trail that runs for two kilometers, through the heart of the Geopark.  Bisago-iwa towers above me, its name (like many of the rock formations here) having religious connotations, in this case, Vaisravana, the guardian god of Buddhism.  But this 14 million year-old piece of magma jutting horizontally into the sky predates all religions.  As if in contrast, Eboshi-iwa, mimics the shape of the headwear of a Shinto priest.  I move to past the Gyosui-no-Ike pond for bathing, and the Me-washi-no-Ike pond for washing eyes, which is said to cure eye disease. There are also a good number of uplifted marine terraces, the land here having risen 1.2 to 1.6 meters every thousand years.  The walker can also spy the fossils of tube worm colonies that bring intricate paterns to the towering rocks.

I follow the trail down toward the cape.  The sky is a brilliant blue, the aki biyori of a perfect autumn day.  The path climbs and falls over the lessor rock formations, then on through the cavernous covers of low scrub and tree.  At times I feel that I am in a dense, prehistoric forest.  Emerging out the other side, all is spiny yucca-like plants, driftwood, low brush.  The hillside above is what in another continent would be called parasol pines.  Probably most noticeable is the wealth of birdlife, far more than I usually see in the hills and forests of Japan.   

Around the cape's sharp tip and the ubiquitous Meoto-iwa pair of wedded rocks, conjoined by a rope.  Muroto is unique in that from here one can see both sunrise and sunset, and legend dictates that if one views the sunrise between the rocks on any day between the autumnal and vernal equinoxes, he or she will be blessed with a good marriage.  Another trail extends away from the road, this one wild and overgrown, forcing the walker to scramble over the rocks in a number of places . It leads to a small cove of remarkably clear water, well over a meter deep, and if the day were five degrees warmer, I'd have a dip.  Stone steps cut into the rock face away from the direction of waves, a sign that this would be where fishermen of old had moored their boats.  Amazingly enough, the rocks on this side are smoother and less dramatic than their counterparts around to the east.  The cape creates an obvious waterbreak, which is no doubt a clue as to why the town of Muroto stands where it does.          

I return to the cape's east side, and find the trail for the steep climb up rock staircase to Hotsumisaki-ji, the 24th temple of the Shikoku Pilgrimage.  Though this picturesque temple has a 1000 year history, the curent building are just over a century old, rebuilt after a fire.  A horseshoe of low buildings make up the grounds, anchored by a low pagoda in one corner.  As it has one of the few remaining shukubō (pilgrim accommodations) on the entire circuit, walking pilgrims would find that it makes for a good place to stay after the long arduous approach down to the cape. 

Temple 25, Shinshō-ji, is six kilometers away, in the center of Muroto town.  After a pleasant descent through the forest, I traverse a long narrow village that parallels the shore.  At its center stands a beautiful house surrounded by stone walls, more reminiscint of those seen on the outer islands of the Ryukyu islands far to the south.  Muroto's port dates to the feudal Edo period, and ships used to wait here for favorable winds before carrying on to Osaka and the Kansai.  Today, motorized ships can go out in most weather, in search of the tuna that enliven the meals of the many restaurants standing just above this deep harbor.  The seawall that surrounds it is an impressive piece of work, built like a labyrinth in order to protect the boats and the town from the typhoons that return again and again like the fishing boats themselves.  

Shinshō-ji has pride of place, at the top of a long flight of stairs extending away from the harbor's edge.  The arched gate near the top is almost Chinese in style, and turning around I am rewarded by marvelous views aout to the Pacific and up the coast to the north.  Though of an older history, the current structures date only to 1881, on grounds far more modest than they'd been in the past.  

It is only about an hour's walk to Temple 26, Kongōchō-ji, through an older section of town, which empties eventually into quiet countryside.   This temple too requires a steep climb, though I am rewarded by the fine views, and a pleasant atmosphere of weathered halls pleasantly nestled by old growth forest. It is obvious why this place was chosen as a location for ascetic practices, seemingly far off from the complications of the modern world.  Apparently it was here that Kukai had engaged a tengu goblin in debate, who, if I understand correctly the explanation overheard from a nearby guide might actually have been a foreigner.  My own pet theory is that the tengu might have been a tree, as the forest here is filled with twisted and fantastic shapes.  Ironically, on the way down the mountain, my pack caught a tree limb, which broke away from the trunk to crash down a few inches to my right.  Most of the wood is rotten (and currently sprinkled across my clothes and pack), but the center of the limb is solid enough to have broken a bone or shattered my skull.  It's a close shave, but somehow I survive the tengu's revenge. 

I could take a bus to Kiragawa, but the day is warm and pleasant and the path pointing downward.  I take a a late lunch at Sadamaru Burger, rewarding myself for the 18 kilometers I'd walked through the morning.  The simple interior charms with its laid back beach town vibe, but I sit on one the benches out front, admiring a pair of Harley Davidsons that pull in, the sun shining off the chrome. 

My digs for the night are a very short walk away in Kiragawa, a once-prosperous charcoal-making town.  The narrow lane that runs through the center is framed by houses and shops of an older vintage, and even the newer buildings have the almost English look of late Meiji.  To walk up the main street, the pilgrim wishes the entire Shikoku circuit were like this, which is one of the finest parts of the Kochi section.  I spy the familiar kura storehouse whose upper layers look like a wedding cake.  I often stopped here for coffee while guiding the pilgrimage,  allowing my guests to marvel at the guitars and the records and the sci-fi hi-fi, while I caught up with the friendly man running the place.  Today, his wife tells me that he has passed on, the cafe opened sporadically.  She leads me through an attractive open garden courtyard of rock and green, all ringed with rooms facing in.  I'm given what I assume is the best, with a large tatami room complete with sofa, and a pair of beds hidden away in a smaller room off to one side.  The sliding doors in front make it simultaneously private and pubic, and to open them invites conversation from the rooms adjacent.  

Meals are not included at Kura Kukan Kurashuku, so  I make my way up to Home Bakery for tomorrow's breakfast, then backtrack to an old renovated house that is now Gen~kuro, a small izakaya with a growing reputation. As it is early, the owner is free to sit awhile and chat.  Besides serving as chef, he further specializes in charcoal making, which forms the base of his food prep.  I try a few types of his grilled vegetables and fish, (including the region's famous katsuo tataki), and even my beer gets a dose of charcoal.   

I cross the now quiet Highway 55 and descend to the cobblestone beach.  Today in its full glory, the moon extends a long length of silver tinsel across the water to my feet.  The waves are soft, and the wind light, but I've seen what they can do when provoked, shaping and reshaping this entire shoreline.  The Buddhist monks in the hills above can encapsulate their entire practice in the concept of impermanence, to which the geology of the Muroto peninsula would certainly concur. 

 

On the turntable:  Soul Flower Union, "Winds Fairground"

 

Sunday Papers: H.G. Wells

 

 “Science is a match that man has just got alight.”

On the turntable: Sneaker Pimps, "Uncover the Fans Project"

Reminiscing Ryoma

 

 

Nothing reminds you that you're in Shikoku like seeing an ubiquitous figure in white.  I see my first pilgrim within seconds of stepping from the train, this white shrouded young man making the rounds of the island's world-famous pilgrimage.  I too worn similar garb when I had followed iconic holy man Kobō Daishi around Shikoku on foot.  But on this particular visit I am following another man, Sakamoto Ryōma. 

Ryōma was born in 1836 to a family that held the lowest rank in the samurai hierarchy, a title purchased by an ancestor who'd made his name as a sake brewer.  Despite these humble beginnings, Ryōma went on to become a mater swordsman, and in the recognition of his skill, the Tosa clan allowed him to continue his training in Edo.  It was during his time in the old capital that American Commodore Matthew Perry sailed to Japan in order to forcibly end the shogunate's policy of national isolationism. Ryōma and many of his samurai colleagues resisted this opening to the west, and began to agitate for the shogun's overthrow.  As the Tosa clan too was anti-shogun, Ryōma got involved with many local political groups upon his return, yet disagreeing with the limited scale of their proposed reforms, he left the domain without permission in 1862, saying he was going out to go see the cherry blossoms.  Now a masterless samurai, he sought out to assassinate Katsu Kaishū,, a high-ranking official in the shogunate who supported westernization.  But instead of killing him, Ryōma was convinced by Katsu to join the cause, and with this shift he chose negotiation over force, taking part in important negotiations and alliances, as well as establishing the first Japanese trading company.  Despite (or due to) these achievements, Ryōma was still considered an outlaw by the authorities, who were never more than a few steps behind.

In front of Kōchi Station stands an imposing trio of tough-looking samurai, superimposed against the even taller Prefectural Police Station behind.  It's the perfect metaphor for Ryōma's story, and a thus an auspicious start to my own journey, which in practicality begins at Yamauchi Jinja, the tutelary shrine for the Yamauchi clan who were the feudal heads of Tosa. (The eye quickly catches sight of the statue of the clan's final lord, Yodo, who called himself Gejikai-do or "drunken lord of the whales and seas," his marble hands raising a cup in honor of the restoration of the Meiji Emperor.) Originally built within the grounds of Kōchi Castle, the shrine was moved here towards the end of the feudal period. Ryōma would have long left the clan by then, and in that spirit there is no trace of him here. Still, the grounds are pretty, set in a long and narrow stretch of green, alongside the Kagami River. Behind the shrine is an long nagaya row-house that was once part of the Yamauchi clan residence.  Despite its rickety appearance, it is one of the few authentic samurai nagaya in the country and a national cultural property.  I find Ryōma within, his photograph as part of an exhibit on Tosa's important figures, hanging above a number of intricately-carved miniatures of wooden ships.  

Ryōma's birthplace is a short walk away,  small and unpretentious as befitting his low-ranking family status.  Though not English friendly, I am immediately drawn to the old-timey Edo vibe of wood and paper, with loads of cartoon illustrations that are no doubt popular with school groups.   The museum also offers eight walking courses for Ryōma purists who want to dig deeper into the fine details of his youth and grown as a samurai.

As a family of foot soldiers, the Sakamoto house was in close proximity to Kōchi-jo castle, a place it is safe to assume Ryōma would have visited in his time. Standing proudly and prominently at the city center, it has the distinction of being one of Japan's twelve original remaining castles and best preserved. Originally built between 1601 and 1611,  most of its current structures were rebuilt in 1748 after a fire. Despite being a crisp and perfect autumn Saturday, the grounds are free of crowds, though as I wend my way up to the castle keep I am greeted by the numerous statues of prominent figures intertwined with the castle's history.  I am coming to find that Kochi city loves statues. 

I arrive at the top to a funny optical illusion, as the keep proves to be a lot smaller than it appears from below.  Yet once inside, as it feels bigger yet again. All castles in Japan function as museums, and this one is particularly good, the centerpiece being the large-scale model of how the grounds and the surrounding jōka-machi town had looked in their heyday. But the highlight for me was the upper level of the keep.  Unique in being utilized as a both a residence and for military purposes, the warlords would have delighted in the views of a town stretching toward mountain and sea, neatly cut by the angles of roof lines that fan out below.  A large number of Japan's remaining castles can be found in Shikoku, their host cities having gone to great lengths to cultivate picturesque parks to surround them. The greenery and the tiled feudal structures blend well with the surrounding city, as if the modern buildings beyond are some sort of extension.  Despite major renovation in the 1950s, it is refreshing how original everything looks, not overly restored as is the case of all too many historical sites the world over.

Returning to the park below, the literary museum tempts, but it is overruled by the needs of the stomach.  Hirome Market is a mere block away.  I first visited during my 2009 pilgrimage, and my tastebuds have ever-remembered Kochi's renowned Katsuo Tataki, or seared bonito.  Upon approach, you feel as if you are going to pass through one of those long, narrow shopping arcades so common to Japan, but once inside you find yourself in a warren of right angles, filled with food stands. The picnic table seating at center is near full, probably occupied with groups on a bus tour.  My memories of dinners here were quieter and recalled more locals.  I find an empty seat and tried seared bonito at two neighboring shops, promising to try a couple more this evening.  

Good meals should always be followed by a good walk, and in that spirit, I make my way to the botanical gardens, leaving Ryōma on his own for a while.  The Kochi Prefectural Makino Botanical Garden was built in 1958 to honor the life and work of Kochi native Makino Tomitaro , known as the "Father of Japanese Botany" for his pioneering work in the field.  The garden's eight hectares contain 3000 species of plants, and are unique in being tidily stretched along the ridgetop of Mount Godai, rather than being laid out on flat ground as is more common.  A person could spend a half day getting lost here,  following all the little serpentine paths that branch off the main route.  The spectacular views from the North Garden take in rice fields extending to the hills further inland, the garden slopes coming ablaze in color during the cherry blossom season.  But if time is short, its best to focus on the South Garden. Once part of the adjacent Chikurin-ji Temple, its terraced levels lead down to a series of small ponds and rock gardens.  I am amazed by the size of the tropical water lilies inside the greenhouse, and enjoy following the paths spiraling around in a way reminiscent of caves in the sci-fi films of my youth.   

Neighboring Chikurin-ji reveals its age in the form of copious statuary lining the main path, blending near-invisibly into the well-tended moss.  The temple is relatively  free of people today, so I sit awhile before the five-tiered pagoda, enjoying the quiet.  The temple's roots date to 724, founded by wandering holy man Gyogi, before becoming part of the Shikoku pilgrimage. These days, the maples above are the temple's biggest draw, and though not yet in color, I find consolation in the 14th century garden, built by legendary designer Muso Kokushi along Tang Dynasty lines in a way that draws comparisons with Mount Wutai, one of China's most scared peaks. The garden was named a Japanese National Place of Scenic Beauty in 2004.   On the way out, I spot the rough and irregular set of stone steps that my knees remember all too well from my pilgrimage 15 years before.  Luckily today,  I'm only going as far as the bus stop in the car park.  

I rejoin Ryōma at the Sakamoto Ryōma Memorial Museum, built atop the low mount that marked the site of Urado Castle, Kōchi-jo's predecessor.  Built in 1991, the museum goes into incredible detail about the man and his legacy, ranging from letters, photographs, and even his pistols.  The attention to detail can also be found in the neighboring exhibit space dedicated to Ryōma contemporary John Manjiro.  Rescued after a shipwreck, Manjuro was brought to the United States where he acquired knowledge and language skills made him an indispensible part of Japan's opening to the west.   The images, videos, and hands-on exhibits found in the museum's sunny main exhibition hall brings more context to this tumultuous time.  I ascend a set of stairs to the roof, finding even greater context in Katsurahama below, and entire south coast of Kochi spreading far off, beneath brilliant skies.  To Ryōma this was Tosa, and in its beauty, it is easy to understand the man's love for it.  

I follow a set of neat stone steps through the forest and down to the beach, It is busy with visitors to the aquarium here, with many young couples sitting atop the wall that lines the picturesque crescent beach. This little cove is one of Japan's more attractive beaches, but sadly no one is allowed to swim.   I climb a small set of steps up to the Kaizumi Shrine, known also as the Dragon King Palace, where people prayed for safe voyages and for good catches. The latter apparently applies to romantic catches as well, as many of those offering prayers this day are young women.  I too offer a quick prayer to give thanks that my own journey has proven a safe one, but I have one last visit to make.  

Sakamoto Ryōma doesn't notice my approach, his gaze focused on the sea, on the West, on the future.  First built in 1938, this statue reached its current height of eight meters in 1999.  Ryoma stands in the pose well known from his iconic photograph, leaning casually on a podium, hands tucked into his traditional clothing in a manner somewhat Napoleonic, yet his western shoes a hint of what direction his footsteps were leading.  From here, I'd need to follow them to Kyoto, as there is where his story continues, and ultimately, ends.     

On the turntable: Timbuk 3, "Edge of Allegiance"

 

Driving through the Breadbasket

 

 

Finally journaling last summer's Italian road trip...

 http://viewsfromaprovincialperch.blogspot.com/2023/12/driving-through-breadbasket.html

 

On the turntable: The Beatles, "The Beatles 1967 - 1970"

 

Happy New Year!

 

 

 

A year in reads: 2023

 

 

On the turntable:  Little Feat, "Little Feat"

Stuff from an Old Notebook #20

 

Random thoughts and ideas from the last year. 
 



-While pouring hot water for tea, my favorite cup gets a dark line down the side and the liquid bleeds through.  It is this kind of cold that defines Kyoto, I suppose.  And who knew porcelain cups could crack?

-Declaration of Independence as Dear John letter.    

 

-With all the bottled vitamins and pills, the medicine cabinet looked like Neil Peart’s drum kit.  

 

-Social media is like 1000 voices shouting in an empty room. 

 

-It was August, the month that Buddhist priests actually earn their living. 

-The delight I take in closing the shutters at night, always spending a few moments out on the darkened patio, the light now shut in by ancient painted wood. So many stars here. Their number is rivaled by the blinking lights of planes, of satellites, always in a hurry. Why such a rush, when surrounded by such beauty?  (France)

 

-Even in France I long for France.  Barely engaged with the outside world, didn't even dine out once.  I wasn't really in the mood for moneyed chic Riviera France.  I wanted quieter meals in the villages and towns up in the country.  But I knew from the number of ambulating tourists that I'd had to dodge in the narrow lanes of Ramatuelle that it wasn't the right year for it. Instead I passed long mornings out on the terrace and read, until the heat bullied me indoors.  My reading led me to Paris, and its writers and painters of the 1920s.  And introduced me to the familial bohemian scene at the Vila America, an hour's drive from here in Antibes.

 

-The S&M quality to election slogans:  "Allow me the privilege of being chosen to be your next abuser." 

-Near to where birds sang…

 

 

On the turntable:  The Shadows, "Reunited"

 

Reel Trouble

 

 

 Thinking about cinema on the 128th anniversary of its birth.  The so-called Seventh art has historically renewed itself every decade or so.  Origins in 1895, narrative in the 1910s, sound in 1929, color trickling in in the '40s, 3D and Cinescope (et, al) in the '50s, New Hollywood formally burying the studio system in the late '60s and '70s (further countered in the late 70's by Blockbusters, ironically ushered in by those same New Hollywood directors), video in the '80s, then digital and CGI in the early '90s (countered by a little blip of Indie film in the mid-decade).  

With no real innovations since, little wonder the product has grown so shoddy.  

 

On the turntable:  The Shadows, "Life Story."

On the nighttable:  Stephen Teo, "Wong Kar-Wai: Auteur of Time"

Sunday papers: Gustav Mahler

 

“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”

 

On the turntable:  Don Drummond, "Skandal Ska"

Now Rest, Ya Weary Bedouin

 

 

Last weekend's performance at the Writers in Kyoto bonenkai, with Gary Tegler on soprano saxophone. Many thanks to Gary for indulging my spoken word "solo," and apologies for the errant drumming here and there. 

 

The original piece can be found here:

https://notesfromthenog.blogspot.com/.../life-imitates...

 

 

On the turntable: Combustible Edison, "The Impossible World"

On the nighttable:  Ted Morgan, "Maugham: A Biography"

Sunday Papers: W. Somerset Maugham

 

"Using notes I have taken, not as a story outline which would limit and constrain me, but usually of character of. servations, or pertinent descriptions of certain settings of the story I have devised in my imagination, I find that the story comes to me in a straight line. I am convinced that the sub. conscious does the really difficult work. I sit down with a fountain pen and unlined paper and the story pours out, However lousy a section is I let it go. I write on to the end.

Then the subconscious mind has done what it can; what is to be created is there. And the rest--the rest is simply effort.

You may go over and over, polishing, rewriting the lousy parts, sometimes rewriting a page for the whole day, going over a chapter time and time again, until, though you know it isn't right, it is the best you can do. But that is the labor of the conscious mind, the effort of a craftsman. It is the first draft, the creative draft, that is basic."

 

 

On the turntable:  Calexico,  "Feast of Wire"

 

Being and Nothingness

 

I was a big fan of Existentialism in University, but no lesson was as profound as the moment I realized that I had reached an age greater than that of my father when he died.

 

On the turntable: Dexter Gordon, "'Round Midnight"

(untitled)

 

Atop the solar panels

That shadow a small pond,

Cormorant dries its wings. 

On the turntable:  Count Basie Orchestra, "Basie Meets Bond"

Sunday Papers: George MacDonald Fraser

 

"In a republic like America you have to suffer the tedium of fawning upon the common shopkeepers all day long and becoming as stupid as they are; and over there, there's no opera."

 

On the turntable: Led Zeppelin, "Led Zeppelin III"
On the nighttable:  John Updike, "Rabbit at Rest"

 

October 14 Elegy

 

 

 

Sunday Papers: Thomas Merton

 

“In order to become myself I must cease to be what I always thought I wanted to be, and in order to find myself I must go out of myself, and in order to live I have to die.”

 

On the turntable:  Sarah Vaughan, "Hall of Fame"

Some Completely Uninformed Observations of Wales

 

 

How well can you really get to know a country and its people in a short week?  But it was a week of investigation, fueled as ever by curiosity.  Back home I don't believe I have any Welsh friends in my inner circle.  We are fed so many stereotypes about the Irish, the Scots, but little on the Welsh.   So I sought the history and culture of the country, not so as to generalize, but more in the spirit of wondering how it differs from that of the English.     

 

We begin at the rainy castle at Caerphilly, with its attractively wonky tower.   Restoration prevents us from entering the grand ballroom, which fuels a rant about the whole world seemingly under renovation, spurred on, and funded by, the lucre of overtourism.  The comfy pub lunch, subsequently walked off within the confines of the St. Fagans National Museum of History. I'm most intrigued by the row of Welsh cottages, each one set up in period decor of varying ages.  Moving left to right brings you into the present. Smoke drifts above thatch farmhouses here and there, moving up through the grey sky overhead.  The fires are fed by friendly but talkative attendants, who linger in dark corners.  They startle me more than once.  The old church that wasn't an old church but rather the Royal Court which the Princes of Gwynedd used during the 13th century.    

 

 

Cardiff in the rain.  Wet and dry wander through the city's Victorian arcades.  Beautiful shops, loads of colored glass, London culture brought over to appease the wives of the mine owners. Then a respite from the weather with a brief look at the market.  The following morning dawns blue, and we stand in the sunshine, waiting for the castle to open.  A tall South African and his son are the only others in the queue, in town for the rugby.  This explains the unfamiliar language we heard over breakfast at the hotel -- Afrikaans.  The castle is the usual handsome tower of bricks, which charms, but I am more drawn to the WWII era tunnels that ring the perimeter.  I move through them quickly, under the low lights and the recorded din of the war, which bring clarity due to having recently watched a number of war films, in order to get a better sense of history.  (Unlike when I first watched many of these same films when was a boy, I now tend to glaze over the battle scenes themselves.).  

 

 

The weather holds as we move down the shore to Mumbles, with all the feel of a middle class British beach resort.  It's timelessness is a far-cry from a self-conciously hipper Brighton of a week before.  

 

 

In Swansea, I quickly beeline to the Dylan Thomas centre, where another friendly but talkative docent gives me a rough idea of Thomas-related sights to visit.  Two of these are bars.  I feel a bit vibed-out at The Queen's Hotel, still patronized by those more at home standing upon the decks of a thousand cinematic ships.  I am more at ease in a more cozy No Name Bar, but would rather be there with a companion, for long drinks and attendant conversation.  I nurse my pint before the fire, dipping into my vintage New Directions volume of Dylan's verse, but more amused by the animated liquiform conversations of Swansea's living residents. I later regroup with Lai Yong back at our digs at Morgan's Hotel, for dinner at the harbor, passing as we go more of Thomas' characters, though these made of bronze.  And we look for more during a ramble through the quiet sunny Sunday Swansea streets, playing connect the dots with sites relevant to his history, or those left after the fall of Nazi bombs. It still feels a bit run down and abandoned, but for the charm of aging monuments.  (And charm is what I personally found lacking in a smarter, but somehow rougher looking, Cardiff.)   The last stop must of course be Thomas's birthplace, now run as a B&B, though only those willing to do multiple-night stays.  Two people are in deep, intimate conversation out front.  I take photos conspicuously, hoping to blag my way in for a quick look.  When the talking ceases, they both wander off, unaffiliated with the place.  Nothing left to do but hit the road, and move toward Thomas' grave, an hour's drive away. 

 

 

We detour broadly first, first for a ramble out the broad watershed of Three Cliffs Bay, beneath the dilapidated Penard castle on the hillside, where silhouettes take turns filling the ruined windows.  Large backpacks betray the figures of long-distance walkers moving along the Wales Coast Path, backlit by the sun as if on the cover of a hiking guidebook.  We arrive at a row of large stones that serve as a foot crossing of the broad brook, traversed by families, and completely ignored by their dogs who instead splash across. 

 

 

The higher cliffs of Rhossili are an absolute highlight for me, like a mini Seven Sisters, but scoring bonus points due to the long beach running below, and Worm's Head rising like punctuation just offshore.  A return visit is in order, to stay a few days, wandering the hills and the beaches.  Thomas had been here too, of course, stranded overnight on some rocks when he misjudged the tides.  I in turn find the world's best reading spot, nested into the smoothed rocks, a paradise with some tea and the view and a book.        

 

 

We move across the Gower, bypassing the monoliths of King Arthur's seat, which I later regretfully find are closer to the road that I'd thought.  We do sneak in another quick visit with a King Arthur theme, Kidwelly Castle, film location for the Python's Holy Grail.  But momentum and my mind sped us onward toward Laugharne.  There is a little bit of a jiggle to get into Thomas' favorite pub, Brown's; it is Sunday, the roasts are done, and the cook wants to go home. I blag my usual blag -- travel writer on assignment, blah blah, blah -- which at least gets us a pint and some old but tasty chips.  We follow with a wander down to the waterline, then over for a quick visit to Thomas' Boathouse and his writer's shed, lengthened only by another friendly but chatty caretaker.  Thomas's grave was far quieter, the churchyard empty, leaving me alone to admire the views as the hills sloped down to the river valley below. 

 

 

We overnight in Tenby.  Our late afternoon stroll takes us through a much livelier beach town than Mumbles had been, with its busy little lanes, houses of multi-colored frontages, and steps descending toward boats stranded at low tide.  I am sorely tempted by the craft beer place yet resist, as St. Catherine's Island is about to get cut off by the rising tide. We climb up to the old prison there, which has a profound feel of The Man in the Iron Mask; little surprise since it had been filmed there.  But even the most talented set designers couldn't possibly add to the forlorn nature of the place.  The cold and the damp must have been truly awful to its guests.      

 

  

Morning brings a different saint, Saint Davids with its cathedral and ruins.  We are beginning to weary of ruined castles, for, as with Japanese castles, their appeal is with their outer architectural aesthetics rather than in meandering stone corridors leading to yet another featureless chamber. (This is true too of the massive and gorgeous Pembroke Castle along the way.)   We move onward though the incredibly narrow country roads lined with hedgerows, praying to not meet oncoming traffic.  This shortcut bypasses Fishguard, a mirthful name that later turns sour when I discover it was the filming location for Under Milkwood.   

 

 

Eleven bikers fill the pub in Rosebush where we hope to have lunch, so we decide to do our hike up Foel Cwmcerwyn, the highest point of the Preseli Hills.  The monoliths of Stonehenge come from here, mysteriously moved far away to England's Salisbury Plain, which the most intriguing theory suggests were carried along by glaciers. Our climb takes us up through what could be a Christmas tree farm, passing families with multiple children descending low grey clouds brought on by a strengthening wind. Luckily the rains never come, but we seem to get this same weather anytime we attempt a country ramble.  Later reading mentions two other nearby spots where the stones actually originated, one a much shorter hike away.  In hindsight, this would have been a far better choice as our own hike takes much longer than the 90 minute map time.  We race to make it back to pub before the service stops and we face yet another lunch of old chips.   And much like yesterday, I feel the need for a return visit.  

 

 

Photographs of Castell Carreg Cennen show the castle to spread majestically above the rolling Welsh landscape, but the weather is truly gloomy, and the shutter closes in.  We hurry on then to our base for the next couple of days.   About 30 years ago, I first read about Hay-on-Wye, and ever since, whenever I heard mention of Wales, this town of books was the first place to which my mind traveled.  I am finally able to make the pilgrimage.   The gardens of The Swan, where we stay, make a perfect perch with a beer and book.  Were I to stay again I'd stay at The Black Lion, due to its history and terrific menu.  After lunch there, we passed the rest of the day popping in and out of book shops.  I could easily spend thousands and thousand of dollars here, so like the man who turns away from a banquet in order to maintain his diet, I pick up only a few titles.  Because where would it stop, really?  I feel the need for a longer visit sometime, a week perhaps, in order to poke around the shops longer and to explore the area.  Armed with a very large budget.   

 

One greatly anticipated highlight for this trip would be the ramble up Pen-y-Fan.  Dawn is magical and blue, but the mountain's top is all socked in.  I was heartbroken when I later saw the views in photos online.  Due to the deteriorating weather, Lai Yong turned back, so I am proud of myself that I cut a full hour off a three hour hike, in order that she wasn't kept waiting long.  

 

 

The final drive, castle hopping down the Wye.  The first stop is at the medieval stone bridge at Crickhowell, followed by coffee at the former courthouse.  A friendly local walking his dog explains some of the town's history to me. More brief stops at Abergaverny's St. Mary's Priory, a mini Westminster Abbey with its marble grave markers covering the entire floor.   We get White Castle to ourselves, and we wander its single circular chamber, my mind never far from the burger chain of the same name.  Raglan is large and atmospheric and busy.  I'd earlier seen a photo of it standing gloriously above its river valley, but am unable to find where the photo was taken, far from the crowds and the carpark. Monmouth has another stone bridge, Monnow, fortified by a simple yet graceful arch tower above.  And the final castle, Chepstow, a sentinel overhanging the Wye, the first line of defense against those ever-encroaching English.

 

 

Then there was Tintern.  Upon first glance, I feel as if all the other castles we'd seen up to then had simply been warm-ups for this.  The Abbey and the lovely valley that surrounds it is a picturebook idyll, akin to something from Switzerland, from Bhutan.  Once inside, the similes lean toward the ruins of Southeast Asia--Ayuthaya, the lessor temples of Ankor Wat.  I relish a return, to overnight in the hotel above, the grounds beyond the edges of my feet.   

What of the impressions then?  The landscape rolls in a way that England's doesn't, broken up by the right angles of hedgerows. The sheer number of castles hint at a warrior people, but these were to mainly to keep the English out, most built by the Normans in a remarkably short time following the conquest.  Old William was shrewd in offering land grabs, and his barons (or rather their men), did all the heavy lifting.   It took the English kings two centuries to take control of the region.  In modern times, parking proves to be the headache.  Public car parks are like a grown-up example of what happens to children who never could color within the lines.   Paid lots were worse, each with its own unique payment system, universal only in their being counterintuitive and a waste of a good ten minutes in figuring them out.  (On one occasion we left a garage unsure whether our card had been received, so I stopped the car along the road just outside and I ran back in the rain to find that it hadn't.  The fee property paid then, only to receive a month later a ticket for illegally parking alongside the road.  For all of three minutes, with my wife actually in the car.). Overall, Wales felt more like a ruralized, poorer version of England itself.  The two main cities had a slight twinge of danger about them.  And the cliche'd rolling accent not as unintelligible as expected, except in the case of restaurant waitstaff.  

Again, I recognize these are immature, uninformed sentiments. But I certainly came away with a greater familiarity of the country.  Reading Chatwin's Under the Black Hill, and watching the film adaptation, was like viewing a slideshow of the trip:  Crickhowell bridge, the Brecon Beacons, Hay as film locations.  The beauty once again came through.  And 'return visit' continues to be the mantra.  Plus, the entire North awaits...

 

On the turntable:  Super Furry Animals, "Mwng"