Interlude: The Culture of Nature in Upland Japan.

If you've followed a link to 'Red Sky, Eagles & Ember Geese', please just scroll to halfway down... 

In much the same way as spring last year, this month has taken me away from the mountains & coast of the British Isles. That's because I’ve been taking part in the third meeting of the ‘Intercontinental Academy’ – an experiment set up by Institutes of Advanced Studies from 34 universities round the world. The first meeting took those involved to Brazil, where I managed some wandering through hills & forests…

 

The second took us to Munich, and this month we were working in Nagoya, central Japan.

The project concerns the idea of time - something conceptualised very differently by each academic discipline, with the result that when biologists, physicists, historians or philosophers mention the concept they’re rarely talking about the same thing. The purpose of this Intercontinental Academy is to bring together 15 people from different disciplines & cultures to try to figure out ways in which those differences might be bridged: to get the tiniest bit closer to ways of conceptualising time that work across disciplinary boundaries. The web resource we’re setting up should go live around a year from now. 

At the same time, I had my own project on mountains/coast/culture to muse on, and Japan seemed like the perfect place to do this. Getting out of the city was difficult at first: free days were scarce as we spent all daylight hours in venerable corridors of learning, whether in Nagoya or Tokyo…

 …and nights on streets of Sake & Shochu...

...where (with two wonderful members of the team - Nori & Kazuhisa - to show us the city) we felt very well looked after:

 

So, outdoors-wise, I made do at first with glimpses of Fuji across industrial landscapes & a brief foray into an eerily-quiet ancient forest:

But I soon found a couple of days to take myself off & trek some of the most history-rich hills in the world. Thinking through the place of mountains in culture (and of culture amongst mountains) was the ideal task for long days walking wooded ridges, where the tree cover was punctuated only by mountain-top temples, some dating back to the eighth century. 

Given that most transport links into Japan’s mountains run only from April to October, I’d decided not to overindulge ambition & head for big Alpine trips: I brought my winter boots & crampons just in case, but was fully aware I probably wouldn't test them against Japan's 3,500m peaks. Anyway, besides Fuji (strictly off-limits before April ‘golden week’), it’s the 1,000-2,000m forested peaks that are most richly layered in history & cuture.

At the first opportunity, I wandered up from Kyoto, following the Otowa river into the hills South of Mount Hiei…

…then, after a mile or two's gentle descent, took ridges that would lead to the tiny, sun-dappled trails scaling the holy mountain itself:

 

The day was phenomenally hazy, but in such thick forest, distant views were rare anyway:

Ocassionally, passerines could be found feeding from Japanese camellias, although they stayed high in the canopy. 

At about 700m, the mixed woodland was replaced with silent & majestic Cyprus trees, creating an atmosphere of solemnity that prepares the walker for arrival at one of Japan’s most significant temple complexes: Enryakuji.

This complex was begun at the end of the eight century by Saicho, founder of Tendai Buddhism, as a temple to guard the Heian-kyo capital of Japan against ‘negative influences’ thought to threaten from the North East. Over subsequent centuries it produced many monks who founded Buddhist sects, including names now legendary in Japan such as Honen, Eisai, Shinran, Dogen & Nichiren. My first stop amongst the temples was obviously the ambrosial refreshment dragon, with its long-handled cups for drinking ever-flowing water:

The interiors of the temples were among the most beautiful spectacles I’ve ever seen, although, with no cameras permitted inside, it’s impossible to convey that. Here’s the outside of the grandest temple of all, Kompon Chu Do. 

After entering, the visitor walks into a dark, incense-filled gallery. Stepping to the front of this, there are mats which can be knelt on to look through apertures into a dark sanctuary – exceptionally deep & high-ceilinged – where gold Buddhas, tall-stemmed golden flowers, & wooden votive objects (some huge) make a three-dimensional panorama. It’s difficult at first to catch your bearings – to work out the scale of what you’re peering into in the darkness. Is it the depth of a football field? Or cleverly set up to give that illusion? The apertures must be about half way up the sanctuary’s wall, giving the impression of extensive space both below & above. It’s profoundly atmospheric & like nothing I’ve seen elsewhere.

Walking higher, past centres of learning with wonderful tiger & four-tusked-elephant guardians…

…there are temples still in daily use, with monks chanting; after they’d finished, I was permitted a photograph. This small temple is all light & clarity in contrast to Kompon Chu Do’s rich mystic darkness.

A few days earlier I’d met a Plato scholar from Kyoto, Professor Kanayama, who'd very kindly provided me with extensive reading material on these temples & the monks who work them. So I found myself a spot among the cyprus trees, looking down onto temple roofs & across Kyoto bay...

...to while away the afternoon reading what he gave me. 

Much of the material was at odds with the complex’s air of exquisite calm, but all was revealing of the meanings of mountains in the religious life of Japan. I read about the very particular route to enlightenment favoured by the culture of Mount Hiei. There’s a single ordeal through which a monk must pass to earn the title Diagyoman Ajari (Saintly Master of the Highest Practice). This was gradually developed from the ascetic practices of Soo, a 9th century monk at the site, and until the 19th century, those who completed the ritual were the only people permitted to keep their own footwear - the straw sandal - in the Imperial Palace. The purpose of the seven-year ordeal, called the kaihogyo, is to entirely empty body & mind, creating a heightened degree of awareness of self & world, and becoming ever more like the deity Fudo Myoo to whom the ritual is dedicated. This emptying includes ‘1,000 days of constant movement’. Early sections of the process simply involve a daily 30km walk along a prescribed Mt Hiei route for spells of a hundred days. The purpose of these walks is to visit & perform rituals at 260 shrines scattered along the wooded ridges I’d just walked fragments of. From the beginning, monks carry a dagger & a rope: failing to complete any stage of the process is supposed to result in suicide by knife or hanging (I've not found reference to anyone actually doing this).

The route soon becomes more challenging. It is gradually extended: to 36km then to 78km a day.  In the fifth year, the monk consummates the emptying by going nine days without food, water or sleep, during which 100,000 incense sticks must be burned. Since under normal circumstances humans can survive around a week without water, this is calculated to bring the participant to the edge of death, completing the ritual of annihilation & rebirth. This is a symbolic turning point in the ritual. Until now, the monk has focused inwards - on self discovery - but from this point onwards the focus is turned to the world & to others. In the sixth year of kaihogyo, the 78km route (now run rather than walked) takes in temples in Kyoto. This makes the ritual a public event...

...and city crowds turn out to watch the runner pass. The monk begins to offer blessings to those who ask, taking on the role of spiritual guide for which the kaihogyo has prepared him. 

At Enryakuji, the mountains are therefore both a barrier that needs protecting, and a metaphysical opportunity: their very hostility makes them a tool for achieving sanctity. Chastened, I began the long walk down. Fifteen hours after I’d set out, I was back at my hotel spectacularly exhausted (no marathon monk, it seems).

At the next opportunity I took myself off to a very different manifestation of Japan’s culture of nature. This is the Kiso valley which runs along the edge of the Japanese Alps, the most rural & picturesque part of the route (called the Naksendo) along which nobles with vast retinues used to travel to renew loyalties to the Shogun in Edo (old Tokyo):

The stretch I’d arrived at is also among the most popular walking routes in Japan, so I was determined to leave the track & get up above the valley. Several of the old stopping points – post towns such as Magome & Tsumago – have been preserved in their historic form, with numerous water wheels, steep, narrow streets inaccessible by vehicle, and ryokans (inns) built of cherry & cypress wood. 

(The wonderful things done with the slightest trickle of water here reminded me of Roger Deakin's gloriously silly comparison between Japan & the Bury St Edmonds Tesco in Waterlog - it's at the end of chapter 5 if you want to look it up). These are villages made for horses, and sure enough, the pack horse is the symbol of this region, with its own shrines & monuments...

...although the Kiso river trout seems to come a close second:

I stayed in a small Magome ryokan where, Japanese-style, my two rooms contained no chairs or bed, just straw mats & cushions for sleeping & sitting on. The weather had warmed dramatically over the previous few days, and new blossom was beginning to appear:

This lines my route from post town to post town, which past through diverse kinds of forest – plum, cherry, magnolia, cypress, pine, laurel & bamboo. So far, the trip had been remarkably birdless - spring forests strangely silent - but once out in the countryside, wherever there was blossom there were passerines. These included enaga – Japanese long-tailed tits – which, with their wide elegant tails, have decidedly more ‘flounce’ than their European counterparts:

I wandered up to the highest point of the valley at 801m & from here broke from the trail, heading up rather than down. I had only two concerns in doing this: snakes (I’d already spotted a reptilian face staring at me from behind a cartwheel)…

…and bears. The morning’s route had been lined with bells…

…and with warning signs.

But I’d chosen not to believe in the bears - to consider the warnings ‘historical’. So I wandered through thick & pathless forest, with the highest of bird-filled canopies, occasionally coming eye to eye with shy birds like this yamagara…

…or this stumpy little Japanese tree creeper. 

One exciting moment was the brief appearance, right next to me, of a Japanese pygmy woodpecker, but as soon as I moved it was gone - completely evading photography. Here's one from Japanese art instead:

 A little later, I did get to sit & watch a brown shrike hunt. Eccentric as it may sound, I'm an ENORMOUS fan of shrikes, after a close encounter with an unbelievably handsome great grey one many years ago, but this Japanese shrike was actually only the second I've ever seen:

The foliage was so thick that views were few & far between, glimpses of hillside appearing only at points where valleys fell away below; but it was nice to be in places without any obvious signs of humans.

Once I’d crossed about two miles of hillside in this way, I began to come across some disturbing evidence of large mammals. Something seemed to be marking territory with hefty deposits of prominently-positioned dung… 

…and substantial animal tracks through the undergrowth had begun to appear. The ground cover here was dry & brittle, making any movement noisy, and several times, something big clattered through this material nearby. Suddenly, I believed in bears. I headed on for another mile, now keeping a careful eye on nearby things that might be hit with a stick should I need to make a bear-frightening racket. But not long after, I turned round, uneaten, to make my way towards Tsumago.

A little later I stopped at a house in a butterfly-filled glade...

...where a wonderful individual called Suzuki serves free tea & pickled turnips for passers-by. He taught me the Japanese names for the birds I’d photographed while we drank the tea made over his fire pit:

Then I wandered on down to Tsumago itself, along the clear, blue-green & gradually- widening river…

…with kites flying overhead:

I arrived in time for a fish, caught from this river, at Fujioto ryokan:

Laden with red-bean dumplings to eat on the hoof, I walked the 8 kilometres back to Magome rather faster than the outward journey. Once nearly there, I sat down under tall bamboos which lean across a small, fast stream & did a little writing – beginning a paper for an event on walking & culture, called 'Traversing the Field', in Dundee at the end of April. Although they rarely emerged from their thick cover, this bamboo was full of noisy buntings:

I arrived in Magome at sunset to find a silent village...

...nothing here is open longer than 9-5. If you’re visiting, it’s worth choosing the ryokan you stay in well, since you’ll be entirely reliant on it for breakfast (usually at a fixed time of 7.30), dinner (usually at a fixed time of 6) and your evenings – there’s not a bar or even Izakaya (Japanese pub) for many, many miles.

As I waited for the bus back to the city, accompanied by a smart little jobitaki (daurian redstart)...

...I began to ask myself whether I'd got anywhere contemplating time on these wanders. Who knows. But soon I’m off to Chicago to talk about time again (just with historians on this occasion). That's after a brief visit to Dornoch (and the Univesity of the Highlands & Islands) for 'Firths & Fjords: A Coastal History Conference'; then, on 17^th April, Llinos & I head to Lewis, which will provide the next real blog post. Amidst all this, 'home' is beginning to feel almost mythical...