Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (2)

 

We go with ease over Numajiri, but the autumn wind here makes me ill, just like in the famous poem:

​When the autumn wind blows

Through the reeds of Numajiri Pond in Suruga,

A bitter chill pierces

Through my thin traveler’s robes.

Soon we are in Totomi Province. I have no memory of how we cross the mountain pass of Sayo-no-Nakayama because I almost lose consciousness from the severe pain, thus missing the sight of the very place where Ki Tomonori (850?–904) composed a famous tanka poem:

Even as I walk beneath the moon,

Crossing the pass of Sayo-no-Nakayama,

My thoughts of you are laid bare,

Reflected in its clear and naked light.

I suffer greatly. When we arrive at the bank of the Tenryu River, we have a temporary dwelling built and stay there for several days, during which I finally recover. As winter deepens, however, the piercing wind from the river blows so hard that it becomes intolerable. We cross the river and arrive at Hamana Bridge.

When we travel down to Kazusa Province years ago, there used to be a log bridge here, but this time, we cannot find even a trace of it. Instead, we cross the water in a boat. The bridge was originally laid across the river flowing from the lake, where the waves of the outer sea are now very rough and high. The sandy shore of the inlet is not particularly quaint, yet we catch glimpses of the white-capped waves through the thick pine trees stretching between us and the open sea. The waves, rising very rough and high in the distance, shine like brilliant jewels, appearing from our vantage point as if they strike across the very tips of the pine branches. This striking sight reminds me of the tanka poem that Kiyohara Motosuke (908–990) composed:

Just as the waves of the outer sea

Never strike above the high pine branches,

So our sacred vow of love

Shall never crumble or break apart.

We head for Kyoto and cross over Inohana Hill, which is an unspeakably weary ascent. Then, we come to Takashi Shore in Mikawa Province. Although the shore reminds me of a tanka poem, its romantic sentiment does not quite resonate with my young heart:

This is the night my lover surely comes;

On Takashi Shore, the surging billows rise—

Just as the layered clouds gather in clusters,

Drifting across the distant evening skies.

We pass Yatsuhashi, literally Eight Bridges, a place famously sung of old:

Yearning for my wife, as familiar as a well-worn robe,

Tsutsu-ura-ura—through endless lands I have traveled so far.

Haven of purple irises, the eight-plank bridge greets my eyes,

Shining with memories of home that weigh heavily on my heart.

I have expected to see a long zigzag bridge composed of eight shorter ones. It is, however, only a name, with no bridge and no pretty sight.

In the mountains of Futamura (Twin-Clustered), we pitch our camp under a big persimmon tree. The fruits keep falling down throughout the night over our hut and people pick them up, with someone composing:

My absent mind drifts high above,

Fading with a deepening grief,

As I gaze upon the Twin-Clustered Hills,

And feel the sorrow of this transient journey.

We pass Mount Miyaji, where we see red leaves still, although it is the end of November. Miyaji literally means Palace Approach.

Even the furious mountain winds

Must have spared the path to the shrine,

Leaving the crimson autumn leaves

To cling to their branches in a line.

The Shikasuga Ferry Port is between Mikawa and Owari. Shikasuga literally means However. The place name reminds me of the tanka poem Nakatsukasa (912–991) once composed:

I know if I go, joy will be mine,

Yet if I stay back, in sorrow I’ll pine;

Caught in between, my faint heart must sway,

Filled with "however" on this troubled way.

It is amusing to think whether I should cross or not.

We pass the Narumi Shore in Owari Province. The scene reminds me a tanka poem:

Upon the ebbing tide of Narumi Bay,

All human footprints have vanished away,

Leaving only the cries of the lonely cranes,

Echoing with a sorrow that softly remains.

The evening tides are coming in, and we are afraid we cannot cross when they come higher. So, in a panic, we run as fast as we can with no time for me to indulge in traveler’s sentiment.

At the border of Mino, we cross a river at Sunomata and arrive at Nogami. There, singers come and sing all night. They remind me of the singers in Ashigara, and I miss them nostalgically.

Snow falls, and in the storm, we pass the Fuha Checkpoint and cross Mount Atsumi, having no heart to look at the sights. In Omi Province, we stay four or five days in the house of the Okinaga family, who are said to be the descendants of the legendary Empress Okinagatarashi. At the foot of Mount Mitsusaka, light rain falls night and day mixed with hail. It is very melancholy.

We leave there and pass by places like Inugami, Kanzaki, Yasu, and Kurumoto, without receiving any impressions. The lake stretches far and wide, and we catch occasional glimpses of Nade-shima and Chikubu-shima Islands. The scenery is very pretty. We experience great difficulty at the bridge of Seta, for it has fallen in.

To arrive at Kyoto after dark, we leave Awazu in the afternoon. When we are near the Osaka Checkpoint, I see the roughly hewn face of an eighteen-meter-tall Buddhist statue, which towers over temporarily built board fences. Serene and indifferent to its surroundings, it stands unregarded in this deserted place; but I pass by, giving a long glance at it. Among so many provinces through which I have traveled, none held such a striking and formidable presence as the Kiyomi Checkpoint in Suruga and the Osaka Checkpoint. It is dark when we arrive at our residence to the west of the mansion of Princess Nagako (997–1049).