Monday, 4 December 2017

Moomin the dog

I’ll miss having the dog around. This black, beady-eyed, curly-tailed thing. Moomin. She is a true companion and as I walk with her across Wormwood Scrubs, a large expanse of playing field, with one of the only unbroken horizon lines I’ve ever seen in London, I remember how much she’s aged since the first time I walked here with her. How much I’ve aged too. The same amount technically, but not in dog years. She’s a grandma now (an obaachan) and that would make me a fully-grown woman. I am technically, but not in mental years. But then perhaps I’ll always stay this age in my brain, just my bones and body will begin to wear thin, and my memory will lapse but I’ll still think the same. Feel the same in any case, probably about the same issues, sticking even more stubbornly to my guns as I age with everybody else. Moomin’s back legs wobble, when she jumps over tufts of grass her belly scrapes the underside in a way it didn’t use to, when her skin was more tort and she had a stronger abdomen. She tires more easily and sleeps for longer. I bet I'll age without realising it and then one day I won’t be able to get my leg over a stile without incurring some pain, and then I’ll notice that I’ve grown old, a bit too late to do anything about it.

Now as she lies here, sprawled as I write I am thinking deeply about mortality. What will happen when she’s gone? I’ll probably still be here and then I will be left sad. I’ll probably get my own dog and name it after a Moomins character in honour of this dog and also to pay homage to Tove Jansson, an absolute genius in my eyes. It’s easier to say for a dog that they have had a good life. Easier to judge, if they live until they are thirteen (human years) and they can still bound with abandon, ears flopping excitedly down by their snout, can still sleep and eat healthily and dream. That’s a good life. But for humans… more difficult to judge and who are you to judge anyways? If I’m healthy and can still run, eat, sleep and dream am I having a good life? Yes, most likely. When I die will everyone be able to say, with hand on heart, that she had a good life because of these things?

On the way home from something I noticed on the path infront of her house a black figure lying there. A small furry black thing with limbs outstretched as if it were sleeping, the way Moomin does on her blue cushion upstairs. My heart stopped. I edged closer as if walking over a frozen lake about to crack and splinter in to shards, any minute, when I saw it was a black cat. Dead cat. Black-fluffy-big-dead-expensive-looking creature, just lying there, not moving a whisker. I couldn’t be sure if it was dead but I really couldn’t touch it either. I was afraid I’d wake it up and then it’d be angry. I said out loud to a passing stranger, ‘Dead Cat.’ They turned around, confused possibly, so I said it again louder and more clearly pointing at the laid out cat on the pavement. Thank god the stranger came back to check, he bent down and checked the cat’s pulse (is that normal for things that aren’t human?) and I asked, ‘Is it cold?’ The man said ‘Yes. Dead.’

There was a pause that may have been a long a silence. ‘I’ll go and get a bin bag.’ He said and sauntered off. I tread carefully around the cat and wondered what had happened, no markings or wounds, no seeming violence or blood, it looked like it had been placed there. Probably chucked out of a car window or off the curb-side after a hit and run. I worried about the human owner of it. How sad they would be to see their cat in that state, distraught. Something still bothers me about that cat. I went upstairs and patted Moomin down, brushed her a bit and read a book, turned the lights off and went to sleep. I dreamt about a black furry creature that night, whether it was a dog or a cat was unclear, it was just a nice animal that I liked a lot.

Now I’ve been thinking about that dead cat again, and seeing it lying there was so unusual because I have always believed strongly that cats land on their feet. Even out of four-storey buildings when they leap, they still land on their feet. That cat looked like a suicide and that’s what been nagging me, a little.

Thursday, 16 November 2017


I got my teeth cleaned and scraped today. They feel quite nice, though it hurt in the chair. I walked to the dentist because I didn’t know how close it was to my new workplace. A few Saturdays ago I was stuck on a bus, no, I was sat still on the top deck of a bus that was stuck in traffic. Barely moving at all because of sodding road works up ahead on my narrow street. I wasn’t doing anything: being a lemon thinking of nothing, staring out of the window with no thoughts when my phone goes off - with that awful jazz tune I programmed it to play, so that I would answer it faster. The noise was playing loudly and I answered it then a voice on the other end said,
‘Hello Miss blah blah blah this is a courtesy call from your dentist. You haven’t been to the practice in over a year and we’ve been sending you e-mails…’
By the time I hung up I had an appointment booked in for two weeks time, ‘You can cancel within 48 hours notice’ she said. I was still stuck on the bus.

It was too late to cancel because I had forgotten all about it until the day before when they sent me a reminder text, sneaky bastards, so now I was walking towards them from work. Quite pleasant actually. I walked down a nicely paved road that led me from the city, north to town. Near where the Library stands. On the way I saw a greasy spoons, serving hot plates of bacon and beans-on-toast. Pubs being swept out before the evening crowds and a pallid young lad reading a book, with those spectacles on from the thirties. Then I hugged the side of wrought iron railings that enclosed a stucco building, that’s when I saw a goat grazing on the other side of them. Really close too, to pedestrians like me on the pavement, I felt like I was at a farm but I wasn’t, I was in Euston. 

I entered a green space, a small park, technically a square because it’s called Brunswick Square. I didn’t take a photo but I should have because the colours were bang-on. Yellow doesn’t do it justice but the leaves on that plane tree, or maples? or whatever they were so yellow, golden, reds, on fire. It looked like pure autumn and pigeons were plump, the air was cold and still, I had more minutes to kill before the dentist because I wasn’t going to be a mug and turn up early, to sit in their disinfected waiting room for ten minutes (and appointments are always late, they aways make you wait, maybe so that the waiting room can live up to its name, think, what if they had named it the on-time room).

So I stood, looking up at a faded sign that had been made to inform passers-by like me about this little square with the grandiose trees. I see the square had been part of the property of the Foundling Hospital, the first ever charity for children. They had wanted to keep an open space for them, as respite from the city, back then in seventeen-hundred-and-so-and-so we were at the outer edges of the city of London. After this it was all fields and common land, until you reached Highgate and other remote villages. So I guess the goat came from those backwater days, when I could bring my goat and untether him to graze on common land, because these lands belonged to me as much as it belonged to anybody else. They should have more goats in London. Bring back the goats. I also learned that one of these plane trees had been here since the beginning of the square, some two-hundred-odd years ago. Impressive that, I think when a tree stands tall during two world wars and sees the decline and fall of empire. One tree, some goats. And that’s all I need to realise a day is worth living.

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

Flash in the heart

A mad looking man on a bicycle pushing a trolley cart shouts, ‘It’s actually Happy Hour all the time!’ at some students who are looking at their shoes. I pass by them on the tight pavement, looking at that man’s harrowed eyes beneath that GoPro strapped to his forehead, blinking.

My heart is pounding inside my cavity and I wonder what if it all blurs in to one and happens in a split second? 
One thought escapes my confines and flutters in to the big world, never to be regained exactly, but thought again, by me and anyone else who thinks. Sometimes my brain clicks off. Then whirrs back ON at high-speed I shock myself.

I learnt today that there are hidden words at the ends of sentences. The easiest ones are those with ellipses, like, ‘Last night was fun…’ (so let’s not get emotionally involved)
Or there are agreements made between those who should truly know what it means when they say, ‘Let’s make it happen!’ (not yet or ever, so, see you in about a year)
The classic one is, ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine.’

Strange the road looks wet when it hasn’t been raining. May be a spillage. The scaffolding looks like ship’s sails. The decking wet with salt water splashes, the ground uneven and being on the sea, is bent at all levels underfoot. The loud bassoon of a fog horn cuts through the pedestrians and we’re back in the city, after dark, before any of the bells toll.

Thursday, 14 September 2017

Electricity hums

Everything emits electricity these days. My gaze bounces off of screen, to wall, to phone and strobes always. My eyes are tired but they still work, thankfully. Drumming out a little tune with my fingers, a faint thrumming in the cockles of my heart like the heart-race flapping of a minor bird, caught. I see through the fat windows the rain drizzling, terrorising the lunch-breakers; making a run for it or sheltering under the Sainsbury’s. Tomorrow I will be off on holidays but today I am stuck, here in this undrenched room, in stifling heat with no evacuation coming soon although we wouldn’t want one, we’re lucky really to be sat here in this non-plussed silence looking down below at the soggy shoppers. Sandwiches shoved under arms. Free magazines turning to pulp. 

As I leave I see a rainbow, beautiful and beheaded by a galaxial axe. The seven coloured stumps shine without pointing me the way, but I appreciate it anyway, whilst an adolescent rat scuttles along the railings following my footsteps until I stop. Shoots up a drainpipe thinking I could pounce, not realising I have places to be, other than in bed with that rat. Drops of water fall and it makes such a difference to not be inside, to feel cold, or to feel even a little bit, alive.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

City poems


There was a day of
Wasps,  I remember
As I walked to work
Buzzing in the bins

A Barboured old man
with a puppy dog in
his hands, the colour
Of burnt caramel

Today will be a good day
I can tell.


The man with the blue tie
  glides by
The man with the pink tie
  points his finger
    at others
The man with the dry eyes
  looks tired
And, I with the wry
smile feel removed from it all


The thing about all of
these things is
I cannot be bothered.

I wrap myself up in
Cotton wool and
Dive down under the covers

Sleep til light
Then do it all over again
Five days a week
Until the Sabbath

Forgetting all of what's gone
past as I dip my
Toes in to the future

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Some sort of manifesto

As I sit here on the stairs thinking to write, forcing each quaver in to my mouth for the crisp to dissolve or crunch away, I am struck with a sense of foreboding determination. I came home and I was so hungry but lacking the willpower to cook anything I ate two bowls of cereal, using up that extra carton of soya milk I bought by accident. Kill two birds? Not the right idiom. Like when I cocked my eyebrow in that way no one else can do apart from on the silver screen, at my friend across the pub table and pronounced, ‘So he’s quite the dark stallion.’ Meaning horse. As I crumple the yellow packet between my twisting fingers, I am doing sums in my head. I have exactly 9 hours I spend at work, 1 hour for lunch, which I completely waste doing nothing, 30% of which is eating. I bore myself eating my lunch, eating the same thing I have cooked every day for the past month now, too afraid to try something different in case it comes out horrible like that baltic curry I tried to muster (and from a jar). Either way that’s 9 hours gone. That leaves me 15 hours in a day. Now if I try to scrape back the equal amount of time I am not at work for myself i.e. to do waking, living things, then that would leave me 6 hours to fall asleep in. And that’s if I really squeeze everything I want to do in to my 9 hours, which has to, by nature, include things I don’t care about doing like putting out the bins, tapping in through commuter barriers, buying soya milk, etc. That’s not even including all the miscellaneous things I sort of want to/have to do in my play time, like answering WhatsApp threads and watching YouTube videos. 

So I pace it up the stairs.

I leave the cereal bowl behind me on the table - I’ll clean it up later - I open this laptop and start padding for words to appear on this screen (a lot like the screen I have to stare at for 9 hours at work), but that’s my bread, you know how people used to say wholesome things like earning your bread and butter to mean doing an honest day’s work? Yeah, well I don’t remember, but I still get the gist. Everyone’s got to make a living and I spend all day looking at brands. We don’t eat as much bread any more but we sure consume a lot of brands and that gave me a job, in the end, I’m grateful for our gastronomic capitalist habits in providing me with a wage. I feel like I’m writing some sort of manifesto, just so that I can get my head stuck back down to the thing that I want my head to be stuck to. And that’s write.

Monday, 10 July 2017


You would know by her languid airs that she had all the time and money in the world, well. Not so much of either, anymore.

Grown up in Tokyo, daughter to a wealthy merchant father and an heiress mother, Keiko had never know hunger, nor desire, nor anything that moved her to want. Living a perfect sheltered existence through childhood, attending an exclusive playschool at the age of six and graduating from a ladies’ university at nineteen, the world awaited her with cradling arms. Beckoning her so close to their hearts to become human.

Her looks couldn't be bought, only cultivated like a true pearl, through the harsh revolving grit and grind of a careful, possessive shell.

In her formative years she felt no stress, hands flocked around her to take care of that. Keiko knew how to dress with understated glamour, not an eyelash out of place, lips the shade of roses that flowered and whithered with each season.

Men would tap her on the shoulder as she swanked down Ginza Bouleavrd, as she kept friends in lockets who’d grab any hot-blooded male’s attention: Miss Arashi being one, a JAL air stewardess being another. The 1960’s. Her hair, her make-up, her wider than usual almond eyes that sloped off in to a distinguished smile.
‘Are you free to have tea with me?’
‘May I take you for a dance?’
‘Would you and your friend escort us to a private member’s club?’

She never had to cook a meal for herself, never. Always a new man vying for her attentions. Youth, money, beauty, song, gourmet, dance, evokes the memories of an old lady.

Seventy-six is old by any standard, and yet, as if it were yesterday the melody of the American band and the sequined nightgown of the maitre’d float by, leading you coaxingly, deferentially away to a table.

Handsome face, aquiline bridge, light green eyes, a pilot from Egypt with the manners of a prince. ‘I thought, I would never be so happy again.’

Married at twenty-one to a man, a nuclear scientist of all things, who had won her heart with sweet devil talk. Her simple softness seduced by his slick tongue, it was all a complicated dance and she felt lied to. He died at forty-six leaving her a home that only accrued escalating taxes with age.

But by the sea, everything so green and turquoise blue, it never got cold so the fruit always grew so plump. The spiders were hideous and hairy beasts, butterflies with wingspans she’d never believe. Fruit flies the size of horse flies.

The very tanned surfers, with sculpted bodies would ride the waves each morning, forgetting the storms and Keiko liked to imagine mustering that kind of resolve one day. To approach relentless crashing with forethought and courage, mixed with a thrill of the fun.

Those two years of freedom, working as an elevator girl at the Department Store had finished her. She had been too attractive to not be taken off the shelf, wrapped in one of those sharp-cornered bags strangled in frilly ribbon.

She had never bought a cigarette in her life, yet had always been offered foreign silk cuts out of silk pockets, handkerchief, necktie, studs.

Wondering whether the fish danced with the surge of the wave or got swallowed whole in to a vortex –
Keiko alone liked to watch the setting sun, rise, then set again.
It was called the Land of the Rising Sun, perhaps this was the reason why, purely for her to amount to being at this windowsill.

That was her routine, never lonely looking out to shore.

She would never be sure of herself again in her life.

Monday, 29 May 2017


I waved goodbye to my boyfriend through the train window and made my way back to Obaachan’s. It was a Sunday, so I shared the carriage ride home with all the drunken sleepers retracing their steps on the first train creeping in to the suburbs, the dusty velvet green cushions smelt of stale smoke and cocktails, whilst I dreamt about the mountains.

Yagisaki Station – Yokokawa – Karuizawa

Hiking shoes on, rucksack strapped, walking stick bought. We’re on our way in to the countryside for a five day hike in the Kiso Valleys, following the Nakasendo Trail, an old Edo trade route linking Kyoto and Tokyo (which used to be called Edo). Doing the whole trail would be impossible in the time frame and with my short legs, but we can walk a fair stretch of it and take in the beautiful historical scenery. Aidan planned the route superbly with train rides to break up our long walks, so I’m hopeful that I won’t drag down his pace or morale if I get tired and hungry.

Yokokawa station is at the foot of some big mountains and when we arrive there is a cold drizzling mist blanketing the earth. I look around and it feels like we’ve come to a nowhere town. The mist tastes great. My aunt Mariko told me the night before we left on the trip that Yokokawa is famous for their kama meshi; a ceramic bowl filled with warm rice and delicious things that travellers ate on their way. A bento bowl. I had that on my mind as we disembarked the train but we were too early as none of the shop fronts were open, and so, we two ventured out in to the mist like the brave explorers we were. Halfway down the long road we realised that we were going the wrong way. So we turned around and trundled back up the road and here my co-pilot and I learned our first lesson of hiking holidays: Setting off in the right direction is the first and most important hurdle. On the bright side, when we returned to Yokokawa station the shops were open and serving kama meshi. Yay! We bought two solid pots that were radiating heat, and I stuffed them in to the top of my rucksack.

On the road again, walking by the side of a winding highway for the first part, until it got quieter and we passed a shrine at the foot of the mountains with no discernible name. I’m always up for visiting shrines/temples when we come across them on the way, so we climb the steps and have a look. A plateau clearing amidst a dense dark forest with a wide wooden shrine standing at the back. It seemed forgotten, tranquil and held a subdued awesomeness - just the kind of shrine I like. I shook the bell, made a racket and did omairi (showed some respect) then we headed on our way. Sometime soon after we see a thin wooden post with a sign that reads:


It looked very unassuming so we doubted it for a second, but as we’ll find out over the course of our trip not that many people do this walk. And the truck drivers will wonder when they pass us on highways whether we’re mad or foreign, or both. But yes, here it was the first sign of the old road! It led us under a newly constructed tunnel and then up a steep hillside to a shelter. In the shelter were an old Japanese couple who looked like true hikers, so I knew we were in the right place. To the left of them was a small dark path that led upwards in to a thick forest and mountains and then disappeared. The initial clamber was steep and sweaty, and as we rose above the road we’d left behind, the mist caught between the trees and dissipated a green glow around my ankles. At least it wasn’t hot or humid but cool and wet. I used Piston (the name I gave my walking stick) to haul me up the mountain, whilst Aidan strode out in front, bounding off boulders and I felt very heavy. There were small stone markers along the steep track, and we passed an Australian group of hikers who chirruped some friendly comments, which I can’t remember because I was concentrating on moving my feet. Already feeling so tired I wasn’t sure if I could actually keep this up for five days, but not listening to my brain, I carried on struggling up rocks. At the steepest point we passed a huge pile of stones that previous passers-by had accumulated on top of each other, which I guess was a form of encouragement. But I was still out of breath and feeling dizzy so I said I really want to - eat – lunch - please? My kind co-pilot told me that we were scaling a mountain, so, I shouldn’t feel too bad about being tired already and at the next carved out hollow on the mountainside we opened up our kama meshi, still warm in the pot. I’m not going to lie, lunch was my favourite part of the first day. It held inside the best meal I could have wished for. A cute egg, mushrooms, sweet ginger, apricot, pickled plum, bamboo shoots, pork, chicken, and a chestnut all on a bed of white rice. After chomping down the meal and a good glug of water I felt ready to climb mountains again.

The rain had stopped but thankfully the cooling white mist was still present, and once we had cleared the steep rubble path we entered a surreal dreamlike forest. The tree trunks shot up in to the canopy like telegraph poles, and the earth beneath my feet was bouncy. Good for treading. The green leaves above and the foliage all around produced a matcha mist to walk through, whilst in the distance you could make out a smokey blue horizon. When you stopped all you could hear were raindrops far above, dripping on leaves upon leaves. Bird song and silence. The walk had become satisfying and Piston was doing a good job of holding me up. Eating the lunches had lightened my load and the whole thing seemed magical now, and comparatively easy. We pass a stone Buddha on a lotus leaf encased in a green thicket. There are a multitude of  おじぞうさん or jizo we pass along the path, protectors of travellers and markers for the old Nakasendo road. Inconspicuous stone saints with bald bowed heads, whom I want to give a nod of appreciation to every time I notice one. We press through a high peak between the mountain, splitting the North and the South side, and when we reach the “middle” of the way there is a tumbledown teahouse, well abandoned with smashed panes of glass and sagging roof. Quite surprisingly looming in the mist high above us is a long-forgotten hotel. A ruin and a relic from the Bubble Era, with a skeleton of a bus precariously driven to the end of the road and parked there for the rest of time, beside this eerie collapsing building. I thought about the last hotelier who must have closed-up shop, turning his back on that strange mountain life of luxury and loneliness.

Four hours in to our six hour walk is when you’re feeling grateful for the escape that the mountains provide. No people, no talking, just trees. But then I feel a little sad that I’ll be leaving this mountain behind, even if I did struggle at the beginning - that this soon will pass.

We reach Kumano Jinja near the summit of Mount Asama, which has two shrines and a very old bell and tree, both as holy. Cutting through Kumano Jinja is the border of two neighbouring prefectures of Nagano and Gunma, so I guess we were in both at the same time. There is a spectacular view over the mountain ranges from the precincts of the shrine but due to the mist we saw nothing. But we ate a Calorie Mate snack bar (the maple flavour is the best) and imagined the view we could see through the freezing fog, and took it all in. We only had to walk down a proper road made for vehicles and we would soon be in Karuizawa town. Instead of following this boring road we took a winding trail that led us through woodland, betwixt the second-homes for the famous and wealthy. Odd modernist shapes stuck out from the fertile ground, one had an indoor swimming pool and others looked like the Sylvanian Families house. The hiking trail shot us out in to Karuizawa Ginza, a classy boulevard of designer shops and bakeries. A funny spot to see us in after hours of sweaty trekking. We walk through this rejuvenated Edo post-town of Karuizawa, a resort-town now for tourists and a hang-out for moneyed families, and keep on walking to our out of the way motel.

Karuizawa Station – Kiso Hirasawa – Narai juku

We are now chasing the sun riding on a tetsudo train called the Shinano WanMan ンマン* It's very exciting because we’re chugging along over the railway tracks and I love old trains. Mountains appear broken up by towns and sometimes I get a glimpse of river. After yesterday’s long and arduous walk I’m glad to be plonked down on a train seat, eating gummy sweets and looking out over fast-paced scenery. The train ride takes approximately three hours, with a transfer break on a station platform where we share an Ebisu beer. The mountain range we left behind in Karuizawa looked like it was about to be engulfed in swathes of rain, so good riddance, because here we are on our sunny platform drinking a beer. My sun hat from Okinawa is being used for the first time after a soggy start.

*Until recently I thought it was called a ManMan train, but when I visited my friend Moe in Kyoto we rode on a similar kind of train driven by one conductor aka. one man aka. WanMan - even thought it was a woman - so now I know what the train is correctly called and why.

The train drops us off at Kiso Hirasawa Station, where no one else gets off and it’s a clear blue sky day. The JR ticket office attendant did her best to hide her wonder when I asked how much a ticket cost to this place, and the lack of trains presumably attests to how unpopular this post-town is with tourists. Kiso Hirasawa is famous for lacquer ware, because in the Edo Period the profitable post-towns along the Nakasendo had to diversify to make their income after the Shogun made it illegal to sell off their timber. The Kiso Valley has lots of forest and good sources of cypress, which the Shogun zealously controlled and taxed. Walking through Kiso Hirasawa there are lots of lacquer ware shop fronts, beautifully embellished with Edo period architecture but for some reason all the shops are closed. It is a dead zone. With the lack of people and the old wooden roofs however, swallows swoop in and out darting every which way, tinged with cobalt blue and red cheeks. Enjoying the sun we walked around this pretty post-town twice, swinging by the main Hachiman shrine at the end of town. On the second time round we passed a pickle van and man, who had parked up beside two old obaachans in the street. I asked them Why were the shops all closed? and one says because Nothing happens and if we were looking for somewhere more interesting then we should try Narai, the next town. That’s lucky because we’re staying there tonight, I think and buy a packet of dried apricots from the pickle man. But the two old ladies are perfectly happy basking in the sun with their pickles.

Following a well-trodden path beside a river we head toward Narai juku. Juku I find out simply means post-town, so a lot of the towns along the Nakasendo have this adage as they were built for the purpose of serving runners and riders along the mountain way. There are five main historical trails in Japan: Tokaido, Nikko-Kaido, Nakasendo, Mito-Kaido, Koushu-Kaido. And they all linked cities to Tokyo in the feudal times but are now out of use because we have cars and aeroplanes. The trail we’re taking is called the Nakasendo, also known as the Princess Road, because a famous princess from Kyoto once travelled across it to reach Edo after she got married. The Nakasendo was better suited for women and their entourage plus all their belongings and dowry, because the trail does not cross any rivers, which the speedier Tokaido passage would have encountered. I imagine, getting expensive silks wet or drowning men for a cedar closet wasn’t a risk a daimyo was willing to take when it came to his wife. But it must have been knackering for all those carriers and commoners (many probably died) to help move important possessions along this narrow and steep path, bravo feudal barrow boys.

Reaching Narai juku by foot is a sight. The exquisite Edo period features remain on the minshuku & ryokans (inns) and shops lining the main road; the upper half of the buildings jut out slightly over the lower half, giving the street a lean-to feeling of antiquity and bygone bustle. We reach Narai in the late afternoon sun. Western tourists are wondering the street admiring the wooden frames and swooping swallows, and I discern the figure of a busy innkeeper wiping down the back of a frosted glass door. Not quite sure where we are staying but knowing that it is in this idyllic postcard post-town makes me excited and nervous, but as we look at the street map with all the names of the minshuku and find ours, we walk on as a green-blue mountain steadily rises over the road in the distance. We find it with a wooden sliding door and a small lamp outside, which has a blue and white stencil of a crescent moon and two stars; Tsuchikawa Ryokan is a blessing. Going through a long corridor and up the stairs in to an old Japanese house, we’re met by an angelic woman who feels like a mother. She lets us take off our muddy shoes, and shows us the way to the top floor, to our spacious room, then gently leaves us. The view from our tatami is breathtaking. Mountains upon mountains and sky. Later at dinner she tells me that we are 934m above sea level, so tomorrow our walk up to Tori Toge Pass won’t be too difficult as we’ll only have to ascend another 100m, or so. The air is pure and the stars are bright. And we have a wooden bath tub to soak in, and there’s only one other guest whom we don’t see until breakfast, who turns out to be a lacquer ware specialist out on fieldwork. This place is a mysterious precious stone you should hold on to but not stare at, keeping it safe in your pocket. A writer wrote about the room we’re staying in at Tsuchikawa Inn and we flicked through his book in the evening, but as we’ve noticed when the sun starts to set in the mountains, it gets dark fast so we turn in to sleep early and wake up with the dawn.

Narai juku – Tori Toge Pass –Yabuhara – Route 19 - Miyanokoshi – Kiso Fukushima

Today was the first hot day. As we left the minshuku of dreams the innkeeper gave us two sweets, which I sucked on all the way up the steep mountain path made of rubble, Piston again helping me to survive. The song of the uguisu also kept me going, that Japanese bird of springtime, as beads of sweat rolled into my eyes and made them sting. Aidan was in shorts and climbing heroically, along the trail we passed a few points where fresh cool drinking water could be caught and drunk straight from the mountains in two blue ceramic cups left there by some lovely person. The town of Narai juku we left behind was the real deal, with 200 stone jizo statues and graves for ancestors carved in to the steep mountainside overlooking the town. As we climbed, I thought what a relief it would have been for travellers making the descent to end up in that thriving civilised post-town, but sadly we were going the other direction. There was a respite at the end of all of this clambering, which turned out to be this Big View of mountains Far Away and a feeling of accomplishment. I took a long drink of water whilst Aidan drenched his cap in a clean spring and slopped it back on top of his hot head. He’d adopted a walking stick on the way up, one that had been left behind by previous ramblers, and named it Magnus.

The Tori Toge Pass should be somewhere around here - but neither of us knew what it looked like or what it was, so we walked around in circles at the top of this Big View for almost an hour, getting lost and ending up at a maintenance facility point for an electrical satellite. We finally decided that the Tori Toge Pass was this crossroads that we’d walked over several times now, and we were right, it’s an ancient checkpoint for guardsmen who had been off duty for about 400 years. We took a wide gravel path that descended down the other side of the valley, nowhere near Narai anymore and ambled happily under the shade of the tall trees heading towards the next post-town called Yabuhara juku. The Nakasendo trail led us out on to hot tarmac and no shade in the midday sun, so we walked through this quiet town until we spotted the railway. Positioned on a peak next to Yabuhara Station was a shrine, so we climbed up to see it, and we sat down on the cool damp earth and looked over the town, deciding whether to take a train or not, and more importantly where to have lunch. We found Oginoya soba restaurant, where the pugnacious dedicated chef provided us with refreshing zaru soba seasoned with ginger and ume, a tart plum sauce. In the dark interior of this renovated old Japanese house where we ate the noodles, there was a Colorado family who were loving the mountains, and walking the Nakasendo in the opposite way. We’re heading towards Kyoto, and they’re heading towards Tokyo, and from what they said it sounded like we had a lot of interesting post-towns to come. The head chef owner gave me thorough advice in rapid fire Japanese about what we should do next. The train wasn’t leaving Yabuhara Station for over an hour so we should carry on to the next post-town called Miyanokoshi, and get the train from there to our end destination. OK I said, and he warned us there was a strip of motorway on Route 19, but it wouldn’t be too bad, so that’s what we did.

Leaving Yabuhara there is a preserved steam locomotive with flowers growing up and through its spokes, and a farmer couple planting down rice saplings in neat straight lines. The paddy fields where Obaachan lives have been seeded for a while now, so they must plant later in the mountains, as it’s cooler in the higher altitude. The temperatures in the morning and afternoon differ by ten degrees or more, and it gets really hot around 2-3PM. We’ve come in a good season when it’s not raining or blistering, although it feels like it as we walk hugging the highway, buffeted by hot gusts of wind from cars and lorry exhausts. After one ugly mural and my asphalt based nose runs, we reach this calm divergence off the highway crossing the river. I stop in the well-needed shade and chew up all the apricots I bought from the pickle man, then Aidan spots a little vermillion snake swimming avidly upstream and not making it very far. Entranced by the slippery snake I slap on more sunscreen over layers of old sunscreen, and we head on south through the valley. Suddenly there’s a snow-peaked mountain far off in the distance (probably Mt. Kyogatake) and we break out in to the open, amongst placid sun-baked paddy fields. Luckily we took the scenic route avoiding a causeway tunnel we can hear thundering off in the distance, but I spoke too fast, because coming up is the highway again and jesus we have to walk through a tunnel. Murderous vans roll past perilously close I feel, but there’s a raised pavement so I guess we’re safe. Echoes like rumbling thunder strike every time a truck goes through the entrance or exits, and it feels like we’re getting close to Mordor.

Out on the other side there’s a Seven Eleven where we rest for half an hour sipping on cold sweet coffees, dusting ourselves off, and making the most of the free wifi. There’s still a leg to go before we arrive at Miyanokoshi Station, but on the way we pass a great deep lagoon where a dragon who disguised itself as a princess is said to be sleeping. Peering over the edge in to the dark turquoise waters we encounter a boy of about three or six who thinks I’m an obaachan (a very old woman) because of my attire (towel draped over my head under a sun hat), and he explains to us that if his Obaachan fell down the abyss then she would turn in to bones. Yes that’s true. We walk on. To reach the station we pass through a hamlet and fields being irrigated by gurgling sparkling water, storehouses filled with timber and made of the stuff, a few people walking their dogs and finally here we are in Miyanokoshi juku. There is a museum here dedicated to a samurai family with a well kempt garden, but we don’t have time to investigate it because there’s less than one train per hour and it’s almost time. We hurry on through the sleepy post-town and enter the station where there’s not a soul in sight apart from a cleaner who is mopping the stairs. I ask her How do we get to Kiso Fukushima Station? And she gives me a toothy grin and tells me to Cross the bridge over to the other platform then wait exactly in that white square. When you get on the train you take a coupon then pay for a ticket. We collapse in a heap on the other platform gulping lots of water, knowing we probably hadn’t drunk enough. My face is all red and dirty from the road, and Aidan is sprawled in the shade. The small train comes on time and we board feeling like the muckiest passengers alive, and the cleaner with her mop boards with us; she tells me, I live in Fukushima. I come here every day and clean that platform and by the time I’ve finished cleaning the other platform my train pulls up. I do it every day. It’s my job. That sounds like a nice routine I think, and nod to show her my appreciation, then the brilliant landscape of the Kiso Valley opens up and flits past us through the carriage windows.

Off the train at a neighbouring major post-town called Kiso Fukushima juku we pop in to the tourist bureau to ask for directions to our hotel. It’s on the other side of town but we get to walk beside the Kiso River to get there; the sun is setting as we venture through the most urban place we’ve visited yet. Wearily treading over the pavement that skirts along the foot of the impressive Mt. Ontake, we pass a crowded graveyard full of ancestors cut deep in to the hillside looking over the town, the remains of a chapel, and lots more jizo. It’s the time when school ends, so we pass a lot of children in yellow caps carrying randoseru bags, and as we pass each child Aidan gives them a hearty greeting like he does with every other walker we pass on our travels. One cheeky kid mimics his foreign accented Konnichiwa! leaving me laughing. We stay in Kiso Mikawaya that night which has an onsen (hot spring) in the basement and a view over the Kiso River. It’s beautiful at dusk, but I’ve got a primal fear of the raging river outside in the darkness and Aidan’s eyes are red from an allergic reaction to the sun cream, but I feel like a queen to not be wearing walking boots.

Kiso Fukushima Station – Nojiri – Junikane – Route 19 / Kiso Valley - Midono – Wago – Godo – Watashima – Tsumago – O-Tsumago

A big day of walking ahead so we get an early train out of Kiso Fukushima. It was a nice town with historic sites and a visible population that made it tick to a modern clock. Many people spend a day hiking around Mt. Ontake, which is a spiritual spot for healers and good for creative inspiration. And passing through the town I saw a road sign that read like poetry:

Please drive slowly
Swallows are flying lowly

So I liked the place. It was a shame we didn’t have more time to explore it but we were on a tight walker’s schedule, you know how it is. When we got to the station half an hour early for the train it was crucial to stock up on food before it came, otherwise we’d have to do a whole day’s hike with no provisions apart from those dry Nature Valley bars, which no one fancied. Some guy who looked like a tech start-up founder walked over to us and started talking in English, with confidence, which is a rare and brilliant effort from a Japanese native. And we asked him and his lovely wife standing there beside him Dyu know if there’s a supermarket nearby? And he said Sure, we need to go anyway, I’ll take you. And with that we followed him not down the road but in to his car and he drove us at a pace to the nearest convenience store, then drove us back in time to catch our train! What a top bloke. His name is Naoki and he loves walking too, he’s even done that 88 shrine pilgrimage around the Japanese islands and now lives near the mountains to live out his hobby. Hi-five for Naoki. With a swift goodbye and plastic bag full of onigiri, sweets, and drinks we boarded the train that would take us to Nojiri.

From Nojiri Station the plan was to walk through mountain paths to miss out a highway and then drop down somewhere in the remote valleys, but alas, we walked up into woodland and then got lost down a logging track and had to retrace our steps. It was hot but early, so, undeterred we found another track that looked promising, which led us through a tori gate towards a shrine that looked undiscovered or wholly attended by spirits, but we figured that we were still lost however mysterious and pretty this all was, so we left that place. We returned to Nojiri juku and walked through this peaceful village following its main road that had been built with sharp right angles to deter attackers. It may not be exactly here - but it’s in the area anyway so it’s worth mentioning - in the near distant past a samurai came through the Kiso Valley and was asked by a small village to help them fight off the raiding bandits. The samurai agreed and won the battle for the village but lost his life in the fight, and this inspired Akira Kurosawa’s film Seven Samurai. Neat. We were soon in the neighbouring post-town of Junikane, a sleepy hamlet and one of my favourites because all the inhabitants owned Shiba-ken dogs. They look like foxes with a smile and they’re keen-eyed without being nosy. As we turned a bend the whole verdant valley opened up before us and we were greeted by a rounded-back obaachan in the fields, and a friendly peaceable natured Shiba pup who loved to be petted. Junikane is comprised of a few houses and shrines, so we sat in the main shrine precinct and ate an onigiri before deciding to press on.

Down below us we could see a railway track, which meant we were by Junikane Station. I had a look at the train timetable and there was no train for over an hour so we walked on as planned, and were soon joined by a bunch of healthy-looking old people, all possibly embarking on a group walking tour. It meant we had company for perhaps the first time on our holiday, and it gave us confidence that we were indeed walking in the right direction. An old couple in matching bucket hats leads the way. Hurray. We walked beside the Kiso River, sandwiched between stunning scenery and a busy highway (Route 19 that’s built on top of the old Nakasendo road), moved along by the calming presence of pensioners. The enormous boulders on the riverbed, cracked and bleached bone white by the sun looked immovable; but the ice-water melt off the mountains and the litres of rain during typhoons gushing in to the river, means they must be have been budged. It was scorching hot and my eyes were dry even though I was downing lots of water, all thanks to my over-active sweat glands. When the single file of oldies in front started to cross the highway, one by one, and we followed I was pleased. Then when we got into some shade and felt a cool breeze I was joyful. Aidan bought me a can of cold drink from the vending machine and I stripped off in to my bra and wiped down my sweat, and did a little dance under the shade of a tree. Free from the straps of my rucksack! We were now in Midono juku where there’s also a station, but we’d made it through the toughest leg on the motorway, so after my breather, I was happy to carry on going.

Early afternoon in the mountains is hot and the shade from bamboo groves is a solace. We pass through a post-town named Wago, I think famed for their sake because another post-town was prohibited from making any. Then Godo, which I like because of its name that sounds like my favourite play. We take a break in the shade of a monument erected for a particular professor. Whenever we find running water, Aidan douses his cap and slaps it on to his head to cool down, whilst I continue to wear my obaachan attire with the hand-towel draped over my head and under my hat. Caked in sun cream and sweat. The gardens of the residences in this area are super well cared for, pruned and preened to perfection, not a pine needle out of place. There is a breezy cobbled path that leads us through bamboo and I laugh at how idyllic it is here. It’s as hot as a summer’s day and we spot two small kids, a brother and his younger sister, being sprayed down by a hose by their dad. He’s cleaning out their coy carp pond and the little girl comes to show me, there’s a round plastic pool brimming with water holding gold and orange fish. Her brother looks like the boss because he’s got a fishing net, casually slung over his shoulders like the barrel of a gun. You know we’re almost where we want to be? And that’s Tsumago: The Postcard Post-Town of the Nakasendo.

Before we reach Tsumago juku we climb yet another steep mountain path - because why not - that leads us to the ruins of Tsumago Castle. It curves through dense forest to a clearing on a mountain top where the castle used to stand. From here we can look down in to the valley and see the straight long narrow street of Tsumago in front, which is famed for it’s Edo Period authenticity, thanks to a ban on overhead wires and vending machines. The view makes it feel like an accomplishment and I stretch out my un-baggaged arms to the stratosphere. My shoulders are going to ache tomorrow but it’ll be the last day, so I’d better make the most of it. Piston helps me down the ridge and we take the final part of our route that leads us straight in to Tsumago juku. I’ve become accustomed to our solitude and so find it alien to encounter the multitude of clean tourists in town, especially anyone who looks fashionable, they’re an exotic bird to me at this point. First thing we do is grab an ice cold beer in the garden of a tea place. Yes. There’s a small dark pond with brightly coloured coy darting through it, and we sit and drink and cool off.

Walking down the street of Tsumago there are museums and souvenir shops, you can buy geta (old wooden sandals) and I overhear a shopkeeper showing off that he once killed a black bear There’s his skin, hanging right there! Our post-town experiences have all been of a similar shade but this place feels like a living museum with no town’s people living here, perhaps they run the shops and commute in. At night when we come back to walk the streets, it is dead quiet and we stumble across a few other tourists taking night time photos, and one cat. Our minshuku for the evening is located at O-Tsumago, which is an off-shoot post-town a few kilometres away, so we amble slowly through the historical settings to reach it in time for tea. The croak of the frogs in the night time, a million horns and trumpets rising out of the rice paddies, sounds like a hilarious orchestra, drowning out the sounds of the trees and rivers.

O-Tsumago – Magome

We stayed the night in a cheerful inn called Hanaya Ryokan, where the innkeepers had a family of their own, four or five boys and a girl. We encountered a little one in the corridor who showed us his grazed palm, and I was witness to another one’s meltdown when he found out the bath wasn’t ready. The whole family looked picturesque in the fading light of the evening playing with fireworks by the river.

After breakfast we set off in to the mountains to walk the most popular part of the Nakasendo Trail, between Tsumago and Magome juku. You pass two waterfalls on the way, the male waterfall Otaki and the female waterfall Metaki. We posed according to gender in front of those watery wonders. At some point on this trail is a tea house run by an old man dressed in a jinbei. He serves tea for guests and walkers and keeps a record of everyone who passes through and their nationality. Yesterday: 124 people. Canadian, Spanish, Australian, French, Mexican, Taiwanese, Dutch. Friday: 108 people. American, English, Brzailian, Finnish, Chinese, German. His eyes light up when I ask him about the traditional hearth he’s prepared, and why there’s always a model of fish hanging on top of iron kettles? The fish is a water creature and the kettle is of fire, so the fish will work to keep the fire below its line to protect the rest of the house from catching fire. He chops wood blocks with an axe and serves us tea. The phone rings and a fire announcement for the mountains crackles over the loudspeaker. We bow and place some coins in the donation box to get on our way to Magome, but afterwards I’m still thinking about what he said, in the few moments of dark quiet we stole in the smokey shade of his world. In that old museum piece of a Japanese house on the Nakasendo. He is interested in telling people about the original walkers of the Nakasendo, commoners who had to carry loads, run to feed families, sell wares to make money. They stopped along the way at havens like the place he’s housekeeping, slurping noodles, drinking water, sharing stories. Today he is the only volunteer working 360 days a year to keep that place running - I get five days off for New Year.

We pass a famous twinned cypress tree; two trees that grew in to one. And for the final memorable time on our hike we pass a group of stone jizo, or saints marking the way. I have loved how the sunlight dapples the forest floor and the sheer amount of green I have grown used to seeing every day. The path leads us out of the mountains and onto a road that winds steadily downwards towards Magome juku. There’s a viewpoint from where we can see several mountains under the searing sun, and it feels like we’ve done something. Magome is another touristic post-town, not too dissimilar from Tsumago, hence maybe why they’re linked together in the guidebooks. There’s a general hustle and bustle but because it’s 28 degrees and rising, everyone is melting (or maybe only me) so we duck in to a soba shop and order noodles and beer. We’ve got a bus to catch out of the mountains back in to the city of Nagano, then a bullet train to hurtle us back towards Tokyo, undoing all the beautiful labour of the last five days. And we’re happy.