Day 15, June 17th: Woke at four—the sun was already blazing. Four o’clock in the morning! I thought I was in Alaska. Daylight savings anyone? Surely someone in the government liked the odd lie-in in the summer. Sunrise at three o’clock is great if you’re a butterfly. Two more hours of daylight in the summer evenings might just keep the suicide rate down.
Poking my head out into the moist, cold morning air gave me goose bumps and a wry smile. I grew up by the sea and never appreciated where I was, what I had, and what the rest of the world offered.
I thought everyone lived by the sea.
Early Morning, OkumatushimaI got dressed, walked up to the ocean, and gazed out for what felt like an hour. Went back to set up the camera in the beautiful dawn light. Silhouettes of people playing against the blinding white horizon struck me when I looked up to the shore.
Packed up the tent and went back to Matsushima. Took a walk up some steps and into an area of extraterrestrial forest: shrines and gravestones, alien trees and plants. If it’s all going to be like this—photogenic and easy on the legs—then it’ll surely be a breeze. I remember having the same optimism in Nikko.
Mooched around for an hour, before leaving for Ishinomaki. Stopped and started the whole time: an hour at a restaurant, an hour outside a convenience store, half an hour sitting on a wall somewhere…
Arrived at the city’s welcome sign around two o’clock.
Ishinomaki is the place Japan left behind. In this town, the economic miracle amounted to producing a shiny penny from behind a kid’s ear: tan-stained signs of blue chip stock companies and faded posters of yesteryear celebrities. Its main industries were fishing, scrap metal, and getting by. The overpowering smell of old, wrecked fishing boats added to this joyless atmosphere. This was a place that really needed a good night out.
Chose to head to Oshika town before dark. With the sun setting, I found myself on a sudden incline. Still with the image of Ishinomaki branded onto my brain, I pushed on through the dark. The full beams of a car’s headlights came from nowhere and caught me riding right up the middle of the road. I swerved, stopped, and put on the head torch.
An hour into this tedious evening, I started welling up. The road just kept going up with the teasing glimmer of the lights below chafing my optimism. Occasionally I was gifted with some freewheeling into microscopic fishing villages, but they all began to look exactly the same – and they all had nowhere to stay. This mind-bending experience went on for hours. I was miles from anywhere. I was going on a scowl-a-minute tour of this peninsula, for the sheer balls of it.
Where on earth am I? What am I doing on this pitch-dark road? Will the next village be the same? What is everyone else doing right now? In the morning, I was bursting with largesse at the whole project—but as I have come to realize in my life—nights like this are very important. We just don’t think so at the time.
Then up ahead—a red glow from a Hot Spar—a neon oasis in the middle of nowhere. I felt I’d won the lottery. Pulled in, bought a can of beer and sat down outside. It was still only eight thirty. I hunched over my beer with a face like a sixty-year old smack addict. Cars pulled in. Everybody locked the doors. This is not Moss Side by any stretch of the imagination. I sat there, quietly fascinated by this behaviour. This was the last thing I wanted to see. Would’ve taken me two days to hotwire a car, possibly two hours just to consider standing up.
After finishing off my drink and half a dozen Marlboros, I backtracked to look for a ryokan. These are lovely places if you’ve booked in advance and the owner didn’t know what the hell he was thinking when accepting the reservation. If you rock up to one of these snobby establishments unannounced, it’s a different story. It’s hard to love Japan at times. It really is.
Went in with a polite, quiet “sumimasen” so as not to wake everyone up at nine o’clock. This guy comes out, obviously been sleeping.
“Heya wa arimasu ka (do you have a room?)”
He sucked his teeth. I hate that.
“Yoyaku wa arimasu ka (do you have a reservation?)” Then he sniffed. I hate that even more. I sarcastically looked at my chest, then back at him and smiled with a ‘you twat’ look in my eyes.
“Gomenasai, yoyaku dake (reservation only),” he said, amazingly leaving out, “and the door is behind you”.
He sniffed and adjusted his glasses.
“Demo, samui desho (but it’s cold),” I feebly mentioned.
He just pointed over my shoulder. I shook my head leaving him and his three guests to get back to sleep. I thought about feigning a heart attack in the lobby, but didn’t want to put them out. Sighed and shuffled off to another hotel with another ‘inviting’ glow.
The lady should win an award for her fake sympathy. I had to have arrived there by five o’clock. These are the rules and somewhere in that place they are probably etched in stone.
Where next? How about the roller disco at the local social club with an all-you-can-eat buffet, or even the Annual Playmate’s Wine and Knickers Shagathon right next door. This stop-off to somewhere far less exciting was screwing me in other ways.
No choice but to get to Oshika town. Five miles and an hour later, I arrived. Stopped at the convenience store, bought a few cans of beer, some cigarettes and sat down outside. A fisherman sat next to me and handed me an onigiri from his bag. We grunted at each other for a while. He left after wolfing down his supper.
Another guy came out of the store and saw me sitting there.
“Hai. Daijobu.” I replied with all the conviction of an England penalty-taker.
He knew I was a bit upset: the incomprehensible muttering, the three empty beer cans and the immovable stare at the building across the street. He got out his phone and called a guesthouse.
“Aaah, gomenasai,” he said after hanging up.
Another one.
“Aaah, gomenasai.”
Another one.
“Aaah, gomenasai.”
“Daijobu. Daijobu. Arigato gozaimasu.”
“Ja, ki o tsukete.”
“Hai, anata mo (you too). Arigato.”
We shook hands, he got into his van and I got into my beer and cigarettes. Twenty minutes later the lights went out and down came the shutters. I had to find somewhere to sleep. There was nothing here: this unlit shop, these unlit houses, and the unlit port.
Left twenty minutes later and found myself on yet another steep hill with no lights. I took the occasional side street, looking for anywhere to lie down for the night. Cycled past a couple of houses and found some stairs leading to a temple. The light from a street lamp showed me the way. Walked up the concrete steps to the sound of metal cleats scratching the surface. Couldn’t see a thing. I shone a small torch at the surroundings to no effect. Would love to say I woke up next to a rotting carcass – it would make a killer story.
“Screw it,” I calmly said to myself and pushed Babe somewhere else.
The fear of being in a road accident convinced me to go back into town. Ten thirty and the whole town was in bed. Scouted out the dock, then back to the store. I found a patch of undergrowth next to a house. A neighbour’s dog heard me creeping through the thick dry grass and barked forever, waking up other dogs in the neighbourhood. I was the town leper. Never had a feeling like it. Got out the sleeping bag, nestled in to the weeds and started counting stars.
The noisy mutts eventually barked themselves to sleep.
Packed up the tent and went back to Matsushima. Took a walk up some steps and into an area of extraterrestrial forest: shrines and gravestones, alien trees and plants. If it’s all going to be like this—photogenic and easy on the legs—then it’ll surely be a breeze. I remember having the same optimism in Nikko.
Mooched around for an hour, before leaving for Ishinomaki. Stopped and started the whole time: an hour at a restaurant, an hour outside a convenience store, half an hour sitting on a wall somewhere…
Arrived at the city’s welcome sign around two o’clock.
Ishinomaki is the place Japan left behind. In this town, the economic miracle amounted to producing a shiny penny from behind a kid’s ear: tan-stained signs of blue chip stock companies and faded posters of yesteryear celebrities. Its main industries were fishing, scrap metal, and getting by. The overpowering smell of old, wrecked fishing boats added to this joyless atmosphere. This was a place that really needed a good night out.
Chose to head to Oshika town before dark. With the sun setting, I found myself on a sudden incline. Still with the image of Ishinomaki branded onto my brain, I pushed on through the dark. The full beams of a car’s headlights came from nowhere and caught me riding right up the middle of the road. I swerved, stopped, and put on the head torch.
An hour into this tedious evening, I started welling up. The road just kept going up with the teasing glimmer of the lights below chafing my optimism. Occasionally I was gifted with some freewheeling into microscopic fishing villages, but they all began to look exactly the same – and they all had nowhere to stay. This mind-bending experience went on for hours. I was miles from anywhere. I was going on a scowl-a-minute tour of this peninsula, for the sheer balls of it.
Where on earth am I? What am I doing on this pitch-dark road? Will the next village be the same? What is everyone else doing right now? In the morning, I was bursting with largesse at the whole project—but as I have come to realize in my life—nights like this are very important. We just don’t think so at the time.
Then up ahead—a red glow from a Hot Spar—a neon oasis in the middle of nowhere. I felt I’d won the lottery. Pulled in, bought a can of beer and sat down outside. It was still only eight thirty. I hunched over my beer with a face like a sixty-year old smack addict. Cars pulled in. Everybody locked the doors. This is not Moss Side by any stretch of the imagination. I sat there, quietly fascinated by this behaviour. This was the last thing I wanted to see. Would’ve taken me two days to hotwire a car, possibly two hours just to consider standing up.
After finishing off my drink and half a dozen Marlboros, I backtracked to look for a ryokan. These are lovely places if you’ve booked in advance and the owner didn’t know what the hell he was thinking when accepting the reservation. If you rock up to one of these snobby establishments unannounced, it’s a different story. It’s hard to love Japan at times. It really is.
Went in with a polite, quiet “sumimasen” so as not to wake everyone up at nine o’clock. This guy comes out, obviously been sleeping.
“Heya wa arimasu ka (do you have a room?)”
He sucked his teeth. I hate that.
“Yoyaku wa arimasu ka (do you have a reservation?)” Then he sniffed. I hate that even more. I sarcastically looked at my chest, then back at him and smiled with a ‘you twat’ look in my eyes.
“Gomenasai, yoyaku dake (reservation only),” he said, amazingly leaving out, “and the door is behind you”.
He sniffed and adjusted his glasses.
“Demo, samui desho (but it’s cold),” I feebly mentioned.
He just pointed over my shoulder. I shook my head leaving him and his three guests to get back to sleep. I thought about feigning a heart attack in the lobby, but didn’t want to put them out. Sighed and shuffled off to another hotel with another ‘inviting’ glow.
The lady should win an award for her fake sympathy. I had to have arrived there by five o’clock. These are the rules and somewhere in that place they are probably etched in stone.
Where next? How about the roller disco at the local social club with an all-you-can-eat buffet, or even the Annual Playmate’s Wine and Knickers Shagathon right next door. This stop-off to somewhere far less exciting was screwing me in other ways.
No choice but to get to Oshika town. Five miles and an hour later, I arrived. Stopped at the convenience store, bought a few cans of beer, some cigarettes and sat down outside. A fisherman sat next to me and handed me an onigiri from his bag. We grunted at each other for a while. He left after wolfing down his supper.
Another guy came out of the store and saw me sitting there.
“Hai. Daijobu.” I replied with all the conviction of an England penalty-taker.
He knew I was a bit upset: the incomprehensible muttering, the three empty beer cans and the immovable stare at the building across the street. He got out his phone and called a guesthouse.
“Aaah, gomenasai,” he said after hanging up.
Another one.
“Aaah, gomenasai.”
Another one.
“Aaah, gomenasai.”
“Daijobu. Daijobu. Arigato gozaimasu.”
“Ja, ki o tsukete.”
“Hai, anata mo (you too). Arigato.”
We shook hands, he got into his van and I got into my beer and cigarettes. Twenty minutes later the lights went out and down came the shutters. I had to find somewhere to sleep. There was nothing here: this unlit shop, these unlit houses, and the unlit port.
Left twenty minutes later and found myself on yet another steep hill with no lights. I took the occasional side street, looking for anywhere to lie down for the night. Cycled past a couple of houses and found some stairs leading to a temple. The light from a street lamp showed me the way. Walked up the concrete steps to the sound of metal cleats scratching the surface. Couldn’t see a thing. I shone a small torch at the surroundings to no effect. Would love to say I woke up next to a rotting carcass – it would make a killer story.
“Screw it,” I calmly said to myself and pushed Babe somewhere else.
The fear of being in a road accident convinced me to go back into town. Ten thirty and the whole town was in bed. Scouted out the dock, then back to the store. I found a patch of undergrowth next to a house. A neighbour’s dog heard me creeping through the thick dry grass and barked forever, waking up other dogs in the neighbourhood. I was the town leper. Never had a feeling like it. Got out the sleeping bag, nestled in to the weeds and started counting stars.
The noisy mutts eventually barked themselves to sleep.
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