Trees In the Town

 

Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (3)

 

Our garden is very wide and wild with great, fearful trees not inferior to those in the mountains I have traveled over. The garden does not seem to be one in the city. I cannot feel at home, or keep a settled mind. Even so, I tease my mother into giving me books of stories and tales after which I have been yearning for so many years. Mother sends a messenger with a letter to Emon Myobu (dates unknown, active 11th century), one of our relatives who serves Princess Nagako. She takes interest in my strange passion and willingly sends me some excellent manuscripts in the lid of a writing-box, saying that these copies have been given to her by the Princess. My joy knows no bounds and I read them day and night. I soon begin to wish for more, but, as I am an utter stranger to Kyoto, who will get them for me?

My stepmother used to be a waiting-lady at the Imperial Court, but she chose to go to Kazusa Province with my father. She seems to have something disappointing in life with him. She regrets her marriage, and now she is to leave our home. She takes her own child, who is five years old, and her own servants. She says to me, "The time will never come when I shall forget your sympathetic heart." Pointing to a huge plum tree which grows close to an eave, she says, "When it is in flower, I shall come back," and she leaves. I feel love and pity for her in my mind. As I secretly weep, the year, too, goes by.

"When the plum tree blooms I shall come back," promised she. I ponder over these words and wonder whether she will come. I wait and wait, keeping an eye on the tree. It is all in flower, and yet no tidings from her. I become very anxious and, at last, snap a branch and send it to her with my tanka poem:

Should I still wait, as you once bid me do

And sware on the plum tree?

The plum was withered by the bitter frost,

But has not been left forgotten by the spring.

She writes back affectionate words with a tanka poem:

Still keep your faith and wait for me, my dear;

For people say the high-grown blossom's scent

Will draw a guest unpromised to your door—

An unexpected visitor may come.

During the spring of 1022, the world is troubled by a spreading epidemic. My wet nurse, who filled my heart with pity on that moonlight night at Matsusato Ferry, dies on March 1st. I lament hopelessly, and even forget my passion for romances.

I pass day after day weeping bitterly. When I look out of the window, the evening sun shines brilliantly, and the cherry blossoms have all fallen and scattered.

The cherry blossoms fall,

Yet they will return next spring;

But my beloved nurse,

Gone forever, leaves me in longing.

I hear that one of the daughters of Fujiwara Yukinari (972–1028), a woman married to Fujiwara Nagaie (1005–1064), also passes away. I sympathize deeply with the sorrow of her husband, feeling it as my own.

I take out the examples of her beautiful handwriting given to me when I first arrived in Kyoto to practice my calligraphy. Written within are several poems:

Had I not awakened

Deep in the quiet of night,

I would have heard only from others

The song of the summer cuckoo.

That tanka poem is composed by Mibu Tadami. As I read the other poems, I find this anonymous tanka indescribably ominous:

When you see the smoke

Rising from Toribeyama’s pyre,

Look closely at the shifting sky—

For I shall be gone like a fleeting breath.

The more I gaze upon her beautiful handwriting, the more my tears flow.

I brood so much that my real mother, Fujiwara Chishi (?-1024), troubles herself to console me. She searches for romances and gives them to me, and I become consoled unconsciously. I read a few volumes about Murasaki no Ue in The Tale of Genji and long for the rest, but as I cannot be sociable and my family is still a stranger in Kyoto, I have no way of finding them. I am all impatient and yearning, and in my mind, I am always praying, “Let me read all the volumes of The Tale of Genji from the very first one.”

When my parents and I shut ourselves up in Koryu-ji Temple in Uzumasa, all I pray for is nothing but The Tale of Genji. I think I can read them all as soon as I leave the temple, but I cannot. I am bitterly frustrated and inconsolable. One day, I visit my aunt, the daughter of Fujiwara Michitaka (953–995), who has recently come up from the country. She says lovingly and amazedly, “You have grown up beautifully.” On my return, she says: "What shall I give you? Something practical will not do. I will give you what you like best." And she gives me The Tale of Genji, more than 50 volumes of it, in a case, as well as The Tale of Ise, Tohogimi, Serikawa, Shirara, and Asauzu. How happy I am when I come home carrying these books in a bag! Until then, I have only read The Tale of Genji partially, and am dissatisfied because I cannot understand the whole story.

Now, I can be absorbed in these stories, taking them out one by one, shutting myself in my room. To be an Empress will be nothing compared to this!

All day and all night, as late as I can keep my eyes open, I do nothing but read the books, setting a lamp close beside me.

Soon I learn by heart all the names in the books, and I think that is a great thing.

Once, I dream of a holy priest in a yellow Buddhist sash who comes to me and says, "Learn the 5th volume of the Lotus Sutra at once." The volume contains Chapter 12: “Devadatta,” in which Buddha teaches that women can become enlightened.

I do not tell anyone about the dream, and I have no intention of doing so. I continue to bathe in the romances. I think to myself, although I am still ugly and undeveloped, the time will come when I shall be very beautiful, with long, long hair. I should be, like Lady Yugao in The Tale of Genji, loved by the Shining Prince Minamoto no Genji, or, like Lady Ukifune, be a tragic heroine.

How unreliable, how foolish my mind is—indulging in such empty fancies.

Around the first day of the fifth month, the white petals of the tachibana orange tree near the edge of the eaves cover the ground:

If the fragrance of the tachibana blossoms did not rise,

I would surely believe

That a fresh blanket of snow

Had fallen out of season.

In the garden, trees grow as thick as in the deep forest of Ashigara, and, in the tenth month, its autumn foliage is more beautiful than that of the surrounding mountains. A visitor remarks, "On my way here, I passed a place where the red leaves were exceptionally beautiful." I improvise a response:

Nowhere can be more steeped in autumn

Than this secluded dwelling of mine,

Where resides an autumnal person

Who grows weary of this fleeting world.

I still live in the world of romances from morning to night, and for as long as I am awake.

I see another dream: a man says that he is to make a brook in the garden of the Rokkaku-do Hall to entertain Princess Teishi (1013–1094). I ask the reason, and the man replies, "Pray to the Sun Goddess Amaterasu." And yet, I don't tell anyone about the dream or even think of it again. Seriously, how shallow can I be!

Every spring, I enjoy the garden of my next-door neighbor, Imperial Princess Nagako (1029–1077):

Anxiously waiting for the cherry blossoms to bloom,

Grievously lamenting as they begin to fall,

Year after year, I gaze upon the flowers in her garden

As though they were purely my own.

Around March 30th, 1023, I move to a certain person's house to avoid the evil influence of the earth god. There, I see delightful cherry blossoms still on the tree, and the day after my return, I send this poem:

Without tiring, I gazed at the blossoms at home,

Yet as Spring closed and they began to fade,

By chance, I found them blooming there in your garden,

And my heart is drawn to their lingering shade.

Whenever the flowers come and go, I can think of nothing but those days when my wet nurse died. Her death alone is sad enough, but my sadness grows deeper when I study the handwriting of the noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028). It is in May, as far as I can tell, that I am up late reading a romance, and I hear a cat out of nowhere meowing with a long-drawn-out, melting cry. I turn, wondering, and see a most exquisite, adorable cat—oh, look at those perfect little paws! "Where does it come from?" I ask. "Sh," says my sister, "do not tell anybody. It is an absolute darling of a cat, and we will keep it all to ourselves."

The cat takes to us, comes to us, and lies beside us. Someone might be looking for her, so we keep her secretly. She keeps herself aloof from the vulgar servants, always sitting quietly right before us. She turns her face away from unclean food, never eating a single bite. She clings to us and is cherished by us with utmost love.

Once my sister is ill, and our family is rather upset. The cat is kept around the servants' rooms and is never called. She cries loudly and scoldingly, yet I think it better to keep her away. My sister, suddenly awakening, says to me, "Where is the cat kept? Bring her here." I ask why, and my sister answers, "In my dream, the cat comes to my side and says, 'I am the altered form of the late noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari. We have a slight fate. Your sister has been thinking of me affectionately, so I am here for a while, but now I am among the servants. O, how dreary I am!' So saying, she weeps bitterly. She appears to be a noble and beautiful person, and then I awake to hear the cat crying! How pitiful!"

The story moves me deeply, and after this, I never send the cat away to the servants’ rooms, but wait on her lovingly. Once, when I am am sitting alone, she comes and sits before me, and I, stroking her head, address her, "You are the daughter of Lord Yukinari? I wish to let your father know of it." The cat watches my face and mews, lengthening her voice. Maybe it’s just me, but she doesn’t look like a common cat at all—those elegant paws and manners are far too noble. She seems to understand my words, and that makes her even more heart-meltingly adorable.

I hear that there’s supposedly this translation, or like, a lighter rewritten version of Chang Hen Ge (The Song of Everlasting Regret) floating around. I long to borrow it, but I’m too self-conscious to just come out and say so.

On July 7th, I find a connection and send my words:

Upon this day of the Star Festival's grace,

Hoping to glimpse that fabled, wondrous lore,

I row my boat into the Heavenly River,

To seek the book I long for more and more.

The answer is:

Allured by the sweet music of your verse,

I stand along the Milky Way so bright,

Forgetting all the rules of common sense,

To guide your vessel through the starry night.

On the thirteenth night of the month, the moon shines with immense brilliance, chasing away the darkness from every corner of the world. Around midnight, while everyone else is asleep, my sister and I sit together on the veranda. Gazing thoughtfully into the sky, my sister suddenly says, "If I were to fly away right now, with no destination in mind, what would you think?" Seeing that her words shock me, she masterfully talks her way out of it and offers me a gentle smile.

Then, the sound of a carriage accompanied by a runner stops near our house. A high-ranking gentleman in the carriage calls out, "Ogi-no-ha! Ogi-no-ha!" twice, but no woman named after the reed leaves offers a reply. The gentleman cries out in vain until he grows weary. He plays his flute with clear and exquisite beauty, and at last, drives away. Intrigued by this, I compose:

The melody of the flute

Echoes like the autumn wind;

Why does the reed leaf make no reply

When the grass is in her prime?

My sister replies to me:

The notes of the flute

Blow chillingly like the autumn wind;

It leaves without waiting

For the reply of the reed leaf.

We sit side by side, looking up into the vast firmament, and only retire to bed after daybreak.

At midnight in the fourth month of 1024, a fire broke out, and the cat, which we had treated with the same devotion as the noble daughter of Yukinari Fujiwara, was burned to death. The cat used to come mewing whenever I called out, "Princess," as if she completely understood my words. My father remarked that he would relate this matter to Yukinari, as it was such a strange and deeply moving story. I feel an overwhelming, endless sorrow for her.

Our old garden is spacious and remains as wild as the deep mountains. In the seasons of blossoms and crimson leaves, its beauty is never inferior to that of the surrounding peaks. Our new temporary shelter, however, is far narrower than our former home. As I am still deeply attached to the old place, I feel a profound sadness, for here we have only a tiny garden with no trees at all. In the house opposite ours, white and red plum blossoms cover the grounds. Their fragrance drifts upon the wind, filling my heart with longing for our old home:

The fragrance from the neighbor’s garden

Gently touches my sorrowful heart,

Bringing back memories of the plum trees

Blooming under the eaves of my old home.

On the first day of the fifth month, my sister died after giving birth to a child. From my childhood, even the deaths of strangers touch my heart deeply. Compared to the deaths of strangers, the sorrow of my sister’s death is beyond description. I lament, filled with speechless pity and sorrow.

While our mother and others are with the deceased, I lie with the memory-awakening child and baby on either side of me. The moonlight finds its way through the cracks in the roof of our temporary dwelling and illuminates the face of the baby. The sight gives my heart so deep a pang that I cover the baby’s face with my sleeve and draw the other child closer to my side. Thinking of their mother, I sorrow terribly.

After the memorial service on the forty-ninth day, one of my relatives sends me a romance entitled The Prince Yearning after the Corpse, with the following note: "Your late sister asked me to find her this romance. I looked for the story but couldn’t find it at that time. Now, to add to my sorrow, someone has just sent it to me."

I answer:

How strange that she yearned for this tale,

A story of a prince seeking his dead love;

Now my sister herself lies deep

Beneath the green and silent moss.

My sister's wet nurse says that, since she has lost her, she has no reason to stay. She goes back to her own home, weeping.

I write to her:

Thus you return to your old home,

Leaving me behind in my despair;

The only thing that separates us now

Is the cruel death that took her away.

"For remembrance of her, I would like you to stay here. The water in the inkstone seems to freeze up, and I cannot write any more," I add, sending another poem:

How can I keep her memory alive

When the winter cold freezes the inkstone,

And I can no longer find the words

To write of my beloved sister?

So I write, and the wet nurse answers:

Like a lonely plover flying away,

Leaving no footprints upon the shore,

I fade into the background now,

My bond of milk broken forever.

As the deceased was cremated in the open air, the wet nurse visits her cremation site and returns sobbing. I wonder:

She has risen as smoke into the sky;

Without that fading trail to guide her,

How did the weeping wet nurse find

The lonely ground where she burned?

My stepmother hears of this and composes:

She must have wandered here and there,

Searching blindly through the fields;

In the end, it was her own falling tears

That showed her where the ashes lay.

The person who sent The Prince Yearning after the Corpse composes:

She must have wandered, seeking in vain,

Through the unfamiliar, rustling bamboo plains,

Weeping and weeping without end,

Lost in her boundless sorrow.

Reading these poems, my brother, who escorted the dead that night, composes a poem:

I watched her burn until the smoke died away;

How then did the nurse trace her steps

Through the mournful bamboo fields

To find the place of funeral fire?

It has been snowing heavily for many days, and I think of my wet nurse who lives on Mount Yoshino as a nun. I write to her:

Deep snow blankets the peaks,

No traveler treads the mountain track;

To your secluded cell in Yoshino,

No visitor will find a way today.

Sei Shonagon (966-1017) once writes, "Most depressing is the household of some hopeful candidate who fails to receive a post during the period of official appointments."

The following year, in the first month, when the appointments of provincial governors are announced, my father stays up through the night, looking forward to his post, only to face disappointment in the morning. A person who shares our anxiety writes to me, "I anxiously waited for the happy news until dawn:"

Waiting solely for the dawn

To bring the joyful news of success,

The night stretched endlessly on—

A hundred times longer than a long autumn night.

I write back:

Why did we fix our hopes

Upon the breaking of the dawn?

The morning temple bell tolls only

To break the illusions of our hearts.

Trees In the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #2 Choden-ji Temple

 

     The exact origins of Choden-ji Temple, the second station of the Kako County 33 Kannon Pilgrimage, remain shrouded in mystery. It is said that a figure named Nagata Kusuhi once enshrined Sentai Jizo (A Thousand Ksitigarbha Statues) here, though the date and the administrative state of Kako County at that time are unknown. The name "Kusuhi" itself carries an ancient, pre-medieval resonance.

     The name "Nagata" likely originated from the phonetical Manyogana characters (such as 奈賀多) in antiquity. It is highly probable that the local place-name "Nagata" came first, and a local ruling family—perhaps minor officials of the Kako district government—adopted it as their clan name. Around the 8th century, as the imperial court encouraged the use of auspicious two-character kanji for place-names, the characters 長田 (meaning "long rice fields") were assigned to the area.

     Therefore, the village was not named after the temple; rather, the place-name "Nagata" (長田) almost certainly preceded the temple. When the temple was later founded in Nagata Village, it adopted the same kanji characters (長田) but was read in the elegant, Sino-Japanese phonetic style as "Choden-ji." Although the village itself first explicitly appears in the Keicho Zue (the Keicho Era Map) of 1611, its linguistic and administrative roots reach back to the ancient ritsuryo period.

     While "Sentai Jizo" literally translates to "a thousand," the term often refers to any large assembly of Jizo statues rather than an exact count—a famous example being the one at Daitoku-ji Temple in Kyoto.

     Tradition holds that the temple was built on the former site of the Onoe Fortified Residence (Onoe-gamae), the ancestral seat of the Onoe family. However, historical records differ regarding the identity of its lord:

     According to the Harima Kagami (1762): The lord of Nagata Manor was Onoe Tanba-no-kami, a retainer of the Bessho clan. He is remembered as a heroic figure during the Siege of Miki (1578), though it remains ambiguous whether he fought for the Bessho or the invading Oda forces.

     According to the Record of the Exchange of Castles in Harima: The residence was held by Kako Eisai, said to be the youngest grandson of Akamatsu Ujinori (1330–1386). The name "Eisai" suggests he may have been a monk-warrior or held a Buddhist title.

     According to the Nihon Jokaku Taikei (Compendium of Japanese Castles): During the Kakitsu era (1441–1444), the lord was Murakami Hyozaemon, a retainer of the Yamana clan. This aligns with the aftermath of the Kakitsu Rebellion (1441), when the Akamatsu clan was temporarily ousted and the Yamana took control of Harima Province.

     Other records mention Kako Yukimune (?-1542) as a possible lord. This overlapping of names and lineages reflects the turbulent and complex history of the Kako region after the Southern and Northern Courts Period (1336-1392) and throughout the Warring States Period (1467-1568).

Address: Nagata-502 Onoecho, Kakogawa, Hyogo 675-0024

Phone: 079-421-7227

Daitoku-ji Temple

Address: 53 Murasakino Daitokujicho, Kita Ward, Kyoto, 603-8231

Phone: 075-491-0019

Trees In the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #1 Shirahata-Kannon-ji Temple

 

     In 917, when Uji Tomonari, who became the head Shinto priest of Aso Shrine, visited this area, he followed a divine message from Avalokitesvara and built a temple, enshrining a statue of Arya Avalokitesvara, who is the human-figure prototype of the other 6 metamorphoses, supported by local people.

     The temple's official name is just Kannon-ji.  When the locals used the white cloth, as instructed by Kannon (Avalokitesvara), as their boat's emblem, they were spared from the misfortunes of rough seas and winds.

     Since then, all the people of Takasago have used white cloth as their boat emblem, and the temple is called "Shirahata Kannon-ji" (White Flag Kannon Temple).

     At first, it belonged to Tiantai Sect with Kakurin-ji Temple as its head temple.  Some time between 1688 and 1704, it was converted to Caodong Chan Sect.

     Tomonari was the 20th head of the family, which is believed to have succeeded Aso Kuninomiyatsuko, the ancient ruler of the Aso area.

     Tomonari is a character in the Noh play "Takasago," created by Zeami (1363-1443).  During the reign (897-930) of Emperor Daigo (885-930), who compiled the "Kokin Wakashu" (Collection of Ancient and Modern Poems), Tomonari encountered an elderly couple, the gods of waka poetry, at Takasago Bay in Kako County, Harima Province, on his way to Kyoto.  The old man was the spirit of the Takasago pine tree, and the old woman was the spirit of the Sumiyoshi pine tree on the different shore.

     Tomonari asks, "Why are the Takasago pine and the Sumiyoshi pine, though far apart, called the Aioi Matsu (Twin Pine)?"  The two spirits explain the meaning of the "Aioi Matsu" (Twin Pine), celebrating the prosperity of the world, the peace and security of the land, and praising the current emperor's reign, where the art of poetry flourishes as it did in the time of the "Manyoshu" (Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves).  Tomonari receives a pine cone from Takasago, cultivates it in the grounds of Aso Shrine, and calls it the "Takasago Pine."

Address: Ikeda-399 Onoecho, Kakogawa, Hyogo 675-0023

Phone: 079-422-4906

Aso Shrine

Address: 3083-1 Ichinomiyamachi Miyaji, Aso, Kumamoto 869-2612

Phone: 0967-22-0064

Kakurin-ji Temple

Address: Kitazaike-424 Kakogawacho, Kakogawa, Hyogo 675-0031

Phone: 079-454-7053

Trees In the Town

 

Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage

  

     The origins of the Kako County Saigoku 33 Kannon Pilgrimage (est. 1922) are shrouded in mystery, with no record of its founders. However, its simultaneous creation alongside the local Bando and Chichibu routes suggests a deliberate, coordinated effort. This raises a compelling question: why did the organizers limit the Kako-Chichibu route to 33 temples, deviating from the 34 temples of the original Chichibu pilgrimage that traditionally make up the '100 Kannon' total?

     The expansion of the Kannon pilgrimages was deeply intertwined with political rivalry. After Emperor Go-Shirakawa (1127–1192) established the Rakuyo 33 Kannon Pilgrimage as the first 'copy' of the Saigoku route, his political rival, Minamoto Yoritomo (1147–1199)—the first Kamakura Shogun—planned a second copy. This vision was realized as the Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage by the third Shogun, Minamoto Sanetomo (1192–1219), whose life was tragically cut short by assassination.

     Roughly two decades later, on March 18, 1234, the Chichibu 34 Kannon Pilgrimage was established, completing the lineage of the three great Kannon circuits.

     While the Chichibu route eventually expanded to 34 temples in the 16th century to complete the '100 Kannon' total, its origins—and its various local copies—continue to spark historical debate.

     This discrepancy raises an intriguing possibility: amid the sweeping tides of Taisho Democracy, were the organizers driven by a sense of 'Reactionism' or 'Fundamentalism'? Perhaps they sought a return to the original symbolism of the number 33, rejecting the later adjustments made for the sake of a '100 Kannon' total. As I visit each of the 99 temples across these three circuits, the true intentions of those 1922 organizers may finally come to light.

Trees In the Town

 

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).