The sun began to set to our left, casting long shadows on tractors in paddy fields, and occasional conspicuous temples and graves, surrounded by the residents who were next.
I had always been a great admirer of Matsuo Bashō, the most famous haiku poet of Edo Japan. Like me, for a time, Bashō renounced his stable social position to wander, heading far into the wilderness to gain inspiration. His firsthand experience of the world he encountered allowed him to capture the feeling of any scene in a few simple elements, in ways I could only dream of.
One of his Bashō’s first stops, in his Narrow Road to the Deep North, was Nikkō. Still fresh on his journey, the poet inked a celebratory haiku.
‘How holy a place ...
Green leaves, young leaves,
and through them Nikkō.’
He went on to describe his lodgings, and host.
‘On the last night of the third month, we found lodgings at the
foot of Mount Nikkō. The innkeeper introduced himself as
Gozaemon the Buddha. ‘I’m known as that because I put honesty
first and foremost in everything I do. You can sleep here safe
tonight with your minds at ease.’ We wondered what kind of
Buddha it was that had taken on human form in this troubled,
filthy world to help two beggar pilgrims. I observed him
carefully, and saw that, however ignorant or clumsy he might
have seemed, he was indeed a man of stubborn honesty. He was
a man close to the Confucian ideal of Perfection: strong, simple,
straightforward. I found his purity of heart most admirable.’
As I would, for ours. Sizuo Ohfusa was a sweet and gentle man who arrived in less than ten minutes after we had followed the email instruction from his wife, Keiko. Phone to come to the station for pick you up. Car number 26-28.
Incredibly quiet and polite, Sizuo-san loaded our Ospreys into his van, and drove us across the other side of the Daiya River, to Rindou No Ie, his small very clean minshuku in the hills near a forested park. We were welcomed by Peaches the Cat, an alcove with fans, blue and white porcelain chargers, an umbrella stand, dog statue, yellow forsythia ikebana, and Sizuo’s tour of the inn. Our room was upstairs in the back, with futons rolled out on tatami mats, a hot water thermos, and a bird’s eye view of the flowering cherry tree in the garden. Sizuo was proud of the blossoms.
‘If the wind, at least,
Does not blow clean
My garden cherries,
Fall they may, but while Spring
Lasts, I would gaze upon them.’
Izumi Shikibu
The toilet across the hall had a sink in the top, filled with a plastic bouquet of flowers. The seat popped up whenever I opened the door. There are some ghost stories in Japan where- when you are sitting in the bathroom in the traditional style of the Japanese toilet - a hand is actually starting to grab you from beneath. It's a very scary story.’
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