by Lucy Dickens
I wait a while, looking at the scenery, calming down, and peering down at my foot to check it’s still there. Nobody comes past.
I film a little video, because maybe this will be funny to look back on one day, and when I’m done, still nobody has come past.
At this point I’m getting cold, and I feel like it might be getting darker. Checking my watch, though, it’s only mid-afternoon – I’m imagining it. But … I really don’t want to be out here in the dark, especially with only one working foot. If I had to run from anything it would be in circles.
‘All right,’ I say, standing up, wincing but holding in the swears when I put pressure on my foot. It still really bloody hurts, but it’s okay, I’m okay, the bandage has helped. I can do this.
With my things packed up and my wet sock and shoe back on, I continue my walk. I’m now determined to make it to the top, one: to show my ankle who’s boss, but two: because I truly think it’s the right decision at the moment. It would take too long to walk back down, and it’s going to be slippery and difficult whichever way I go.
I am not going back. I am only going forward. I can do this.
I’ve never been so pleased to see a crowded, steamy dining hall. The room is filled with people in muted-colour fleeces and mud-flecked headbands sitting pressed together on wooden benches, trays full of hot food slotted in front of them. I limped into the Karasawa Hyutte mountain hut shortly before dark, cold, tired, in pain, soaked through, but now I’m beyond happy. I made it! I flippin’ made it.
I check in and am shown to my bed, a futon among the wooden beams, numbered in a manner similar to the capsule beds in Kyoto. I’d have some futon neighbours tonight but that was absolutely fine with me. The more people the better, for a change!
Dinner is an array of warming dishes that taste like heaven, and when I accept a miso soup refill the pair of women opposite me get chatting.
‘Are you hiking on your own?’ one of them asks me and I’m surprised to hear a British accent.
‘Yes, I am, all on my own but only for one night. Luckily, since I bust my ankle up on day one.’
‘Oh, you poor bugger,’ she says and sticks her head under the table to try and have a look.
Her friend pipes up, ‘That rain can be such a bugger, can’t it, Noush?’
‘Noush’ brings her head back up. ‘A right bugger,’ she confirms. ‘I’m Noush, this is Tils. Anoushka and Tilly. We’ve come to Japan together because our old bugger husbands didn’t want to do another hiking holiday.’
‘Stupid old buggers,’ says Tils.
‘What brings you here?’ asks Noush, and the two of them look at me, awaiting an answer.
‘Well,’ I reply. ‘I called off my wedding, came on honeymoon on my own, and left that stupid old bugger of mine in England.’
Noush and Tils are great company but we’re all pretty shattered, so everybody in the whole hut seems to drift off to their futons not long after the food is cleared away.
‘Lights off at nine o’clock,’ Noush advises me with the wisdom of someone who’s been here before, or quizzed the reception staff on her way in. ‘Drying room over there.’
I change into my PJs, a job while hobbling about, and am hanging my damp hiking clothes and socks out in the drying room, balanced on one leg, when she reappears again.
‘Right, missy, hold on to my arm and up in to bed with you,’ she instructs. ‘That ankle needs to stay elevated and you aren’t to let it touch the floor again tonight.’
‘Oh but—’
‘You have a she-wee with you?’
‘No …’ Who knew I’d one day feel she-wee shamed?
‘You can borrow Tils’ for the night.’ Noush marches away and returns, having thankfully forgotten the she-wee but holding a cup of tea for me.
‘For me?’ I ask. ‘You didn’t have to do that!’
‘Oh don’t be a silly bugger, it’s free.’ She gives me a smile and a wave and disappears between the beams to an unknown futon of her own. And I drop instantly into a deep sleep, the tea going cold beside me.
Come morning, my bladder is practically screaming and my whole body aches. I’m not sure if that’s from my inexperience sleeping on a futon, the fall, or the act of waking up with a jolt of pain every time I rolled over or knocked my ankle against one of the beams. Either way, it was a quiet and comfortable sleep if it wasn’t for my own decrepit body and I’d give the mountain hut with its free tea and hot food a five-star TripAdvisor review.
My ankle doesn’t feel any better today, but it doesn’t feel any worse, so I think I’m going to just grin and bear it and make the climb down and walk back to Kamikochi. I’ll leave early today, after a massive wee, and then I can take it slow without any worry.
After weeing and after slapping on my fleece and grabbing my woolly socks from the drying room, plus a mug of tea on route, I hobble outside and am wowed.
Directly in front of the hut is a sea of colourful tents pitched among the grass and stones. Mountain peaks sweep upwards all around us, craggy like meringue but mottled grey and green in the spring weather, with just white tips remaining right up near the blue dawn sky. Sunlight is coming up and spilling over into the basin and I drink it all in.
I feel more attune to the colours and the sounds and the feel of the chilly shade on my skin since my forest bathing experience yesterday. I guess I’ve learnt something about myself on this part of the trip:
Even if it rains and pours and I fall, I can get back up again.
I enjoy, really enjoy, being in the big outdoors.
I can do this.
My journey back down towards Kamikochi is slow, the ground still wet and churned from yesterday in some places, so I end up shuffling on my bottom, tears falling when my ankle hits anything solid and more than once I just have to stop and put my head in my arms and cry it out for a while before picking myself up and carrying on.
But by the time I’m back on flat ground, taking in the last half hour of bends in the river before I know we’re going to hit the Kappa Bridge, the joy is back and my steps, even on my bad ankle, are lighter.
I did it. And I could do it again.
That night I collapse onto my camping mat in my pyjamas, extra socks and a clean jumper, and leave all my muddy clothes in a heap outside the tent ready to sort and re-pack tomorrow. My body aches, my skin feels tinged by the sun, my hair is a mess and I do not smell good, but I can’t stop smiling.
Chapter 16
A few days to rest
Moments to learn to let the
Sunset soak your soul
If you ever find yourself with an ankle injury in rural Japan and undefined plans for a few days, may I suggest a shukubo monastery stay? Well, I am suggesting it. I’m on my way there now, my train edging further away from the Alps, where I’ll be spending three nights at a Buddhist temple. A little last chance to spend some quality time with me, searching my soul and saying goodbye to the past, before my final destination of Mount Fuji.
I flex my ankle, just a little, where it’s propped up on the seat opposite on top of my coat. It’s still pretty painful, but it is just a sprain so I’m glad I didn’t start hollering for mountain rescue. And of course it still smarts after my six-hour hike back down the mountain yesterday followed by another, final, night of camping. But it’s okay. It’s my battle scar.
The shukubo I’m heading to is between the Alps and Mount Fuji, not far from a National Park. It isn’t the same one Ariel Cortez visited all those years ago for her article, but she sparked the idea in me when I was plotting out the next sections of my journey, back in Nagano and I was flitting between map print-outs, holiday brochures, magazines and web pages like a homicide cop on a TV show. All I needed was some red string to lace it all together. And a homicide, I guess.
It’s quite a popular thing to do now, if you’re into adventure travel. Not homicide, shukubo stays. This one is, like many, run by monks and they have some English-language guided meditations and cla
sses that I can take while I’m there, though I’d be really happy to just try and get the gist from the Japanese ones. I’ll have my own room, the weather will be rainy, which sounds fine to me, because meditating with the rain outside sounds like being able to step right inside my Calm app, and it’s going to be a real adventure. An adventure worthy of a real, paid job at a magazine? I hope so.
My phone rings and I quickly answer it without looking, to avoid disturbing the peaceful train ride, and I hear a sigh on the other end, followed by, ‘Charlie?’
I gasp. ‘Matt?’
He sighs again. The line is crackly and I can’t tell if he has a bad connection or is shuffling around, but it must be about three or four in the morning in the UK. ‘I jusht wanted … I just want to …’
‘Are you drunk?’ I hiss. ‘Where are you?’
‘In bed. But you aren’t here. Where are you?’
I shake my head. I’m not dealing with this. I don’t know what’s going on but if he’s in his own bed he’s not in any danger, so I’m outta here. ‘Matt, I have to go, I’m on a train.’
He just breathes down the phone at me.
‘Bye then,’ I say.
More breathing. Pretty sure he’s gone to sleep now.
I hang up the phone and shake my head. Shouldn’t I be the one making calls like this, begging him to come back to me and leave his new girlfriend? Telling him I miss having him here with me in Japan? Right now, I wouldn’t do either.
The street is empty, and the train has pulled away. I stand in the centre of the road, dense greenery and squat palms lining either side creating a long jade tunnel. The only sound is the rain pattering heavily upon all the leaves, and my own breathing as I look up and down, up and down.
I thought the temple was going to be here, right by the station. Did I get off at the right place?
I hold my coat over my phone and peer at the booking confirmation. ‘Steps from the train station’, it says, and I’m checking every Japanese character as well as the English translation – this is the right station.
Of course, I can’t find any mobile signal to call them or look it up on Google Maps, so I guess I’m going on a temple treasure hunt.
I go left, because why not? And follow the road as it curves until the train station is out of sight. I’m still walking pretty slow on this smarting foot, but it’s all flat so I’m getting away with not a lot of flexing. Plus the rain is pummelling my face and making my nose run, so my ankle is the least of my grumbles right now.
‘Steps from the train station, as if,’ I mutter, feeling less zen with every bend in the road that reveals nothing. No wait – there’s a building! I see a flat roof poking out above the trees, just around this left turn, sonofabitch it’s the train station. I’ve circled the damned train station. I blame the rain in my eyes for not spotting the track I must have taken a bridge over … twice.
Just as I’m getting to my starting point again, and beginning to have just a teeny tiny sense of impending doom, something catches my eye on the other side of the path. It’s an opening in the hedgerow, a narrow, discreet gap with a line of steps – yep – leading up away from the road.
I poke my head through and walk up, just a little, and sure enough, there is my temple lodging, hidden from the road but very much where it was supposed to be.
I walk up the steps, which are like stepping stones up a hill, into this secret garden, until I reach a modest red torii archway standing before a small, matching bride, curved over a dip in the hill before the temple. The rain on the leaves is still the only sound I hear, but hopefully someone’s home …
Bowing first, I enter through the torii and walk the bridge, looking down at the bed of green foliage beneath me. It may be grey and drizzly here today but the emeralds and limes of the vegetation shine bright.
I reach the entrance, a small temple atop a small hill, but with paths that wind in intriguing directions off around the side of the building. Rain runs off the roof and drips onto the tarmac, and the red entranceway welcomes me to step onto the wooden decking and under the cover. To my left is a rack of cubby holes, filled with shoes paired neatly, at least fifteen pairs, with several more gaps. I see ballet flats, flip-flops, walking shoes, and so I add my own trainers to the mix, and walk in just my socks to the door.
Do you knock at a temple door? I’m not sure whether this should be treated more like a house or a hotel, but while I’m still weighing this up, the door opens and a monk, short and with a shaved head, wearing the same black robes as those in the Kiyomizu-dera Temple back in Kyoto. He smiles at me, and we bow, and then he points to some black sliders by the door that I hope he said I can use, and he wasn’t just showing off his nice footwear collection to me, because they’re now on my feet.
As he leads me through the door he stops and points towards my ankle and says ‘Oh!’ in a concerned manner.
‘Yes, I was walking, aruku, near Kamikochi, and …’ I use my fingers as legs again and mime falling over.
He nods with understanding and leads me towards a little reception desk where he asks me to fill out a form and then gives me a map of the temple. He moves his fingers along the little pathways in the map and says to me, ‘You go anywhere, night and day, it is yours now.’
I don’t think he means I’ve accidentally bought the temple or anything, but I did read on the website that visitor access restrictions are lifted for overnight guests and that we should explore the grounds and the few buildings all we want as if it were just as much ours, as long as we respect the quiet and observe the timings for prayer and meditation.
As he leads me to my room, I spot other people, visitors, dotted about the temple grounds, taking their time and enjoying the peace and quiet. My room is simple and small (but not as small as my tent was!) and it has tatami flooring and sliding doors painted with delicate murals of cherry blossoms and willow trees. After he points out the shared bathroom facilities at the end of the corridor, he turns the map over in my hand, where there’s a schedule listed in English for the next seven days, not that I’ll be here quite that long, unless I decide my life’s purpose is to take up Buddhism and not go home at all.
Gah! I can’t believe I’ll be flying home in seven days’ time!
‘Please, do here what makes you happy,’ he says and then he leaves me to it, departing with a bow, and I make myself at home in my little room, sitting on the floor and stretching my leg out in front of me, and looking at my schedule.
Tonight at 6.30pm we have ‘Nissokan, sunset’, so I’ll need to look into what that is. Morning prayers are at 6am, and I think it’s expected that guests do join in with those. Tomorrow there’s a free ikebana class which I think is to do with flower arrangements if I’m remembering that correctly. That could be fun. Maybe I’ll find that all along I’m meant to be a florist, it could be an undiscovered talent.
It looks like dinner will be in my room at five thirty, so since I have a couple of hours I think I’ll warm up from my walk in the drizzle and soothe my achy foot by relaxing in the bath. The shared bath.
I gather my washbag and change into a robe that’s been left for me, and shuffle my way down the corridor to the women’s washroom. The door opens into a pretty tiled room with cubby holes and loos on one side and a large bath, similar to the size of a hot-tub, and some showers, on the other side. There’s instructions on the wall which I’m peering at and memorising as I take my robe off when somebody says, ‘Hello, would you like any help?’
My robe drops and I let out a whisper of a shriek as I whip around to face a woman already submerged in the bath. My bazoongas face hers and although I’m all British and mortified she doesn’t even flicker beyond moving a stray lock of glossy black hair from her face that’s fallen down from its bun.
‘Sorry, sumimasen, I’ve not done one of these before. Nihon jin desu ka?’ There is literally no reason I needed to ask if she was Japanese – what difference was it going to make to me and my nakedness right now? – but f
or some reason it’s like I wanted to add to my embarrassment by throwing out a phrase I’d learnt in an attempt to prove I wasn’t just a bumbling tourist in the buff.
‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘But I speak a little English. You use showers and wash and then in bath. Sitting down.’ She points to the little wooden stool, clearly wary that I might try and crouch under that shower attachment that isn’t far off the ground.
Yes, it’s coming back to me now, I did read up on this way of using public baths and it’s similar to how the Japanese sometimes wash in their homes, except that you’re sharing with other women. It’s perfectly normal, at least for her, I’m still blushing and struggling to wash my lady bits with my washcloth without drawing too much attention to myself.
I take my wet bandage off my ankle and leave it in my cubby hole, and then head over to the bath to join my new friend for a soak. Chin up, I tell myself. No need to be shy now I suppose.
And it does feel amazing, the warm water, the steam caressing my pores. I move my ankle in small circles under the surface and it feels heavenly.
A while later my friend leaves with an elegance I don’t think I’ll ever possess, and I wallow for a little bit longer before heading out as well and back to my room, where dinner will be brought in a while. I can’t wait! I love Japanese food. But first, since I have a smidgen of phone signal, I’ll make a short IGTV video.
‘Hi adventurers,’ I start, having set the camera up at the far side of the room while I sit in front of my painted doors, and I’ll intertwine a little footage I took of the outside of the temple when I was first arriving to this episode. ‘I’ve arrived at my shukubo, my Buddhist temple. It’s very peaceful here, a great place to reflect on my journey through Japan and make some decisions about what the future has in store for me. I’ll probably switch off while I’m here but I’ll tell you all about it afterwards before I get to Mount Fuji.’ I look away for a moment towards the window, where the rain still pitter-patters but a stream of sunlight is managing to break through the late afternoon clouds and it hits my face. ‘Yep, I’m going to stay a few nights.’ I smile at the camera, upload it to Instagram, and switch off.
