WHEN WALKING

Shikoku 88 Temples – Day 3

Hacchozake to Chochinya (Temple 44): 22km

Mama-san is on duty today, and her morning duty is to look after me. When I go in for the Japanese breakfast, no one else has arrived yet, and so I have no one to copy or to ask. But Mama-san, realising this, shows me everything.

She points at the rice. I know the word for rice. This is good. She points at the egg. I know now, from the first day, that this egg will be raw. And she points again to my rice bowl. I know from Hiro’s story about his daughter that the egg mixed into the hot rice is his daughter’s favourite food.

She shows me a tiny bit of uncooked bacon in the pan in front of me, points to the lighter, and gives me a bowl of something which she doesn’t explain, but which I discover all by myself to be delicious miso broth. I’ve nailed it.

Now I’ve got the basics in place, I’m quite glad I get to eat it unobserved. My dining companions from last night arrive as I leave, with a smile and an appreciative nod towards my empty tray.

Walking out, it’s raining slightly. Mama-san checks that I’m fully protected against the rain before sending me off with another nod of approval.

I’m geared up, possibly more than I need to be. But there’s nothing better than walking fully waterproofed on a day when a sensible person would stay inside. But a sensible person would not see the mist rising from the valleys into the mountains. A sensible person would not hear the drips of water from the cedar forests or smell the cedar in the rain.

A sensible person would probably also look where they were going a bit more than me, as I completely miss the first turning once I leave the main road. I’m a kilometre in, wondering why the path has become so difficult, and whether it’s normal for what appears to be a wild boar to be running around on a pilgrim trail. I look at my phone, which now finally has data after some late-night research, and realise the last half hour, although not without its flaws, was entirely wrong.

Temple 44 is not quite as developed a complex as 45, no huge towering cliffs, but deeply moving. It is set at the foot of a mountain, in an ancient forest, with water dripping from the trees. A rainy day suits this place.

The number of visitors is smaller. Only pilgrims come, who chant the sutras in front of the temple halls, and a little office monk gives me my calligraphy and stamps in the book. I feel a million miles from anywhere. The trees feel as sacred as the temple and I feel that’s how it is meant to be.

As I make my way down through the main gate, with its famous giant sandals, a couple approach and the husband takes photos of his wife with her tiny little dog in her arms. He then takes a photograph of me. And when I say goodbye to them, the wife takes the paw of the dog and waves it at me.

Walking back into town, I see a couple of pilgrims, including one going my way. This pilgrim is Anthony from South Africa. Pilgrims seem to like to barely acknowledge you the first time you see them, and chat the second. We chat the second time, having approached the same convenience store. This is the other kind of temple.

I joke that I’ve got what I wanted, possibly not what I need. Anthony tells me not to condemn myself. It’s funny how people take jokes as judgements. He seems primed to spout wisdom.

Walking along the main road out of town, I think about little everyday objects that photograph well, and large, extraordinary ones which you can’t capture at all. Looking across the main road, there are little wisps of condensation coming out of the hills. On a picture you see the main road and the hills shrunken in the background. Looking at it in the moment, the main road fades away and all I see are giant mountains and huge wisps of cloud.

Looking to my right, past a very ordinary house, a man in full Japanese costume is standing while some sort of ceremony takes place. I wonder if they hire themselves out, these men in costume. I wonder if that’s what I saw on the train to Uchiko.

I’m falling very behind with all the little temples around here and the little diversions I’m accidentally making. But as I walk along a minor road just off the main one, a lady stops me and chats. No matter what I say, she’s convinced I can understand her. I use Google Translate a little bit, but it can’t keep up. She just wants to talk more. But I get the gist.

The trees will turn beautiful soon, but mainly along the rivers. The cedars, she says, will always stay the same. We talk about the fact that there will be snow. Weather and numbers have been very useful. I am grateful to my wonderful teacher, Yuko.

She talks about the rural populations declining, something which I’ve been thinking about myself. I wonder how long a pilgrimage like this will be possible. The mamas and the papas keep it going.

Before we leave, she gives me a bottle of apple juice. She must have needed it. Why would she have bought it otherwise? But it’s mine now. And she seems happy.

Finally, the time comes to descend the mountain. And rather than the journey speeding up, as I had hoped, I find that, with the wet rocks and the moss, I’m doing baby steps all the way down. I’m possibly more cautious than I need to be, but this morning, I slipped and I’m careful not to do it again. Having said that, all I did was fall on my backside, and that’s what backsides are made for.

But the greatest hazard to walking down is the temptation to keep looking all around at the mist in the cedar forest, and the little notes attached to trees by the local primary school, telling you to keep up the good work and walk safely. Turning to read these little messages is probably the greatest danger.

But I stop to photograph one where a handrail has been put in place.

At the bottom of the hill, just before the easy road begins, the reward for the descent is a pagoda and a waterfall. It’s so extraordinarily beautiful that, although I’m running very late by now, I have to sit down anɓd enjoy the moment.

As I walk through the village at the bottom of the mountains, I try very hard not to stop too long at every shrine and little temple. Not to photograph the very traditional houses. It’s getting rather too dark to do that now anyway.

Look! a shrine To my right! But no, this one I have to miss. I’m going to get closer to the main road.

A lady jogger runs past. Smiles a huge grin.and stops. No jogger does this. She wants to chat. I tell her I’m English, but she wants to chat aI understand the word tomorrow. Tomorrow. And I tell her, tomorrow holiday. Not exactly true. A shorter day, at least, just catching up on all the temples I’ve missed today.

She asks me if I have somewhere to sleep tonight. Although this reminds me, I somehow manage to tell her I do. I’m not sure if she was offering me somewhere or just wanted to make sure that I could get by. ÙBut her loveliness makes me completely forget the fact that the light is fading fast. I arrive in the dark once more. So much for the shorter day.

I change into my Japanese loungewear, slightly more successfully this time, I think. Have a quick Japanese lesson and go for dinner. As I had read online and feared, it is eel on the tray in front of me. But everything is everything. And I tackle the eel first. It’s okay. It’s okay. If I treat it as medicine, it’s okay. Could I grow to love it? There’s something in my palate that just can’t get excited about fish. But I eat it and it’s fine.

At the end of the table, there is Toyoda-san. He nods to me as I come in. The lady opposite him wants to chat a little, and now Toyoda-san, a bit more confident, helps to translate the odd phrase. He teaches me once more the words for beautiful and difficult. I still can’t remember them, but they sound so lovely when they’re said by a Japanese person.

To my left, a quiet young Japanese woman and a Danish man, Tomo and Christian. They have met walking. She tells me she is learning English. Christian tells me he is learning Japanese. They have a quiet, slightly awkward friendship, but they are very sweet together with their basic vocabulary jokes.

He’s trying to remind her of something funny that happened with a pancake, and she just looks back at him quizzically, again saying, “Pink, pink, cakey, pink.”

Unluckily for Christian, he ate some bad fries yesterday. Fries! I can’t even think to commiserate. All I can think is “Where on earth did you find fries? But the good news for me is that I get an extra pink cake, a small red bean sweet, which is my favourite. Pink cakey more than makes up for the eel.