A year in reads: 2024

 

On the turntable: Cowboy Junkies, "Long Journey Home"

Sunday Papers: Chris T-T

 

"Rock has remarkably quickly become just a peripheral, niche art-form, lost within the pop diaspora, similarly to what happened to jazz when rock’n’roll happened in the 1950s."

 

On the turntable:  Jack Johnson, "Jack Johnson's Holiday Jams"

 

Seeking Adventure in Japan's Newest National Park

 

Another piece born out of last summer's trip to Hokkaido. Thank you to Outdoor Japan and Gear Junkie for putting it together.  

https://gearjunkie.com/travel/adventure-newest-national-park-japan

 

On the turntable: Louis Jordan, "Jivin' with Jordan"

 

Sunday Papers: Albert Camus

 

"Note that our age marks the end of ideologies.  The atom bomb prohibits ideologies."

 

On the turntable: Desparacidos, "Anonymous/Left is Right"

 

Tracking the Unseen in the Old Capital

 

 

A nice treat to see my latest article live on The Japan Times...

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2024/10/26/travel/kyoto-haunted-ghosts-halloween/

 

On the turntable:  Phish, "1995-12-07, Niagara Convention Center"

 

Sunday Papers: Kyle Frost

 

"I feel like most travel writing and promotion in 2024 has one flavor – “Hey, visit here, it’s great”. Influencer culture has narrowed the scope of storytelling, minimizing meaningful reflections and stories in favor of nicely packaged Instagram posts, snappily edited TikToks, and SEO-optimized blogs that are more about appealing to every possible Google search."

 

On the turntable:  Phish, "1994-12-01, Salem Armory"

October 14 Elegy

 

 

Sunday Papers: William Carlos Williams

 

"Memory is a kind of accomplishment." 

 

On the turntable:  Neil Young, "Journey to the Past"

 

Venturing into the Garden of the Gods

 

Thank you to the iconic Outdoor Japan magazine for sending me out on a fun and educational journey...

https://www.outdoorjapan.com/activities/travel/venturing-into-the-garden-of-the-gods/ 

 

On the turntable:  Phish, 1993-08-07, Darien center, NY

 

Set-jetting with the Shogun

 

 

Thank you to The Japan Times for publishing my latest piece, on a rather timely subject. The print version is expected to appear on Saturday.

 

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2024/09/17/travel/shogun-osaka-castle-travel-historical-sites/ 

 

On the turntable: The New Pornographers, "Brill Bruisers"

Sunday Papers: Simone de Beauvoir

 

"In America, the individual is nothing. He is made into an abstract object of worship; by persuading him of his individual value. One stifles the awakening of a collective spirit in him. But reduced to himself in this way, he is robbed of any concrete power. Without collective hope or personal audacity, what can the individual do? Submit or, if by some rare chance this submission is too odious, leave the country."

 

On the turntable:  Neil Young, "Mixed Pages of Storytone"

 

Sunday Papers: Bob Copper

 

"The consequent invasion has taken its toll and, sadly but incontrovertibly, many of our most cherished heritages have suffered the fate of becoming tourist attractions. And you don't have to be madly misanthropic to recognize that the presence of people means pollution. When commercialism comes barging in through the front door, romance and beauty tiptoe hand-in-hand out at the back." 

 

On the turntable:  Spoon, "Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga"

 

Sunday Papers; Michel-Rolph Trouillot

 

"Human beings participate in history both as actors and narrators" 

On the turntable: Santana, "Santana III"

Cycling through Asuka

 

 

After 10 years away, I'm quite pleased to have an article in The Japan Times again.

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2024/07/06/travel/asuka-tour-cycling-temples/ 

 

On the turntable:  Neil Young, "Live in San Francisco 1986 , Part One"

 

Sunday Papers: Hunter S. Thompson

 

"Life has improved immeasurably since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously." 

On the turntable: The Smashing Pumpkins, "Pisces Iscariot"

 

 

Sunday Papers: Gary Shteyngart

 

"Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life."

 

 On the turntable: Snooks Eaglin, "New Orleans Street Singer"

 

Greek Sketches: 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: 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"

 

Greek Sketches: Westbound

 

...That 2018 cruise around the Greek isles instilled in me a love for the country.  From ancient ruins to the animated kindness of most of those we met.  I find that my frat boy days paid off in an ability to still read the language, even without knowing the meaning of the words created by combining those familiar sounds.  And the biggest takeaway was that there are few afternoons better spent than one spent sitting outside a waterfront taverna, washing down calamari with local wine, and watching the cats frolic...

...no islands this time, being early May.  We'll drive the mainland instead.  Arriving late, we grab a hotel, and it is there that I find that we've arrived during Orthodox Easter week, something I'd never even considered.  The holiday is spread out over 5 days, and along with Mayday, mean a great number of frustrating closures.  Our hotels are set in stone, but I am able to reconfigure how the days will be spent, and though that means more time spent in the car, in the end we only miss two intended sites...

...the rental car process adds further frustration.  (Moral of the story: take great care if booking with a local company.). We pull out of town late, but finally free ourselves of the Mayday traffic and head north at first, though a rural landscape of dry jagged hills.  I'm intrigued by the vast number of shuttered petrol stations, no doubt hangovers of the financial crisis of a decade ago...

...up a narrow windy mountain road common to southern Europe.  The valley opens up to reveal a charred landscape, black stick figured trees abound.  The flames got as far as an old tree of great height standing on the edge of the terrace of Holy Monastery of Hosios Loukas, perhaps then turned back by the power of prayer.  Luckily for us this 1000 year old monastery lives on to dazzle us, stone courtyards framed by the Byzantine architecture I love so much.  We grab a sandwich in a small shop here and eat quietly with the silence and the views...

...the road to the sea winds downward as switchbacks cut into a steep mountain face, then traces the village-punctuated bays. People here drive like New Mexicans, well under the speed limit. When you live in the middle of nowhere, what's the hurry?...

 ...Galaxidi is our base for the night, a terraced room atop a hill.  The door opens onto views of the village proper, set around a square that fronts the water. We'll follow the waterline along to the marina, settling into a taverna just across from a flotilla of small fishing boats that are props in 1950s films.  The rest of the night is seafood and a bottle of white and pondering a life here, as cats nuzzle our calves...

 

...as we breakfast, a large tortoise traces the white chalk lines dividing the flagstones of the terrace.  We'll move significantly faster along the coast, west toward Nafpaktos.  Classic Mediterranean beach town, quaint shops and eateries bisected by traffic moving at a crawl.  We flee the latter for the heights of the old castle, the jagged ramparts overlooking the Gulf of Cornith, formerly known as the Gulf of Lepanto.  Cervantes lost a hand in an eponymous battle here, and his statue still stands beside the now tranquil waters.  Thank the gods of literature that he kept his writing hand...  

...not far away, another foreigner lost more than his hand.  Missolonghi honors Lord Byron with both a grave and a tall statue at one end of town.  We wander its narrow streets, first in search of lunch, and later the house where the famous poet drew his last breath.  The way to the latter is unclear, and we find ourselves moving into an unattractive area of empty lots (though we are puzzled by a house whose lavish third story is supported by two unfinished floors below. Very Indian.)  Giving up, we decide to circle back, and find ourselves passing a stone plaque telling us that this is where Byron died of fever in 1824 during the Greek War of Independence...

 

...a heavy rainfall accompanies us along the road to Lefkada.  I had wanted to have a quick dip in the sea here, my first immersion in the Ionian Sea.  But the day has grown cold, and our hotel provides no parking, forcing me to park way across the city, everything else full on this Holy Thursday(!).  The town is the birthplace (and namesake) of Lafcadio Hearn, a hero of mine, whose first residence in Japan was 30km up the coast from where I myself landed a century later, and whose Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan proved a valuable guidebook to the area. Today I find his museum closed, the first of the holiday sacrifices.  I do find his birth house, tucked down a small lane that leads to the main strolling street, overhung with bunting.  We divert to the waterfront to watch the sunset from the famed wooden bridge.  Apparently at one time the entire town was built of wood, after being leveled in an 1825 earthquake. But the taverna we settled into is now stone, as is the hotel balcony, where I watch the sun rise the next morning, over the pontoon bridge that now connects this once-island to places further afar...

 

On the turntable:  No Doubt, "The Singles 1992–2003" 

 

Tracing the Shimanto

 

 

Thank you to Perceptive Travel Magazine for publishing the third article in my recent "Kochi trilogy."

https://www.perceptivetravel.com/issues/0424/japan.html

 

On the turntable:  "Letter to Brezhnev" (Sdtk)

Reminiscing Ryoma

 

 

"In a new article, free on KJ’s website (link in bio), Edward J. Taylor follows the historical figure Sakamoto Ryoma through the city of his birth."

https://www.kyotojournal.org/asian-encounters/reminiscing-ryoma/

On the turntable:  Stockholm Syndrome, "Holy Happy Hour"

Muroto, High and Low

 

 

"Writers in Kyoto member Edward J. Taylor is well-known for documenting his explorations on foot. Now up on the website is a recent account of wanderings through the unique and picturesque landscape of Cape Muroto, Shikoku Island."

https://www.writersinkyoto.com/2024/03/05/wik-members/muroto-high-and-low-edward-j-taylor/ 

On the turntable:  Screaming Trees, "Ocean of Confusion"

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"