Pathway to Japanese Literature

The motorboat was about to leave the pier, and a young crew member was untying the mooring rope.
As I hurriedly bought a ticket and rushed toward the pier, I was called to a halt.
The old woman from the tea shop inside the waiting room where I had just rested—clutching in her palm the silver coins I had left at the edge of the tray—insisted that the payment was short.
There was no way it could be short—I had left about forty or fifty *sen* extra as payment for the tea.

“That can’t be right. Count it again properly.”

I turned back and said.

“It’s not enough—not nearly enough! Look here…”

She called over the old man who had been cleaning there and began tallying—so much for the sake, so much for the side dishes, this money amounting to this—.
I left that behind and tried to board the boat.

The old man and the old woman came chasing after.
A man also emerged from the ticket office.
Two or three faces peered out from the boat’s windows.
Reluctantly, I stopped.
Then I counted the four or five silver coins in the old woman’s palm.
There was no way it could be short.

“Isn’t this enough? I’ve given you forty sen extra!”

“Such nonsense…”

The old woman’s voice grew shriller.
And she began counting on her fingers—so much for the sake, so much for the side dishes.
I also counted that.
And thinking “Oh dear,” I counted once or twice more, only to find that it was indeed my mistake.
Excluding the tea fee, the amount was short by exactly fifty sen.
I took off my hat.
And I placed two fifty-sen silver coins onto the old woman’s palm.
As I placed them there, I was startled to see genuine hostility welling up from the depths of the old woman’s eyes.
Sweat welled up from my body.

The boat moved forward, rocking unexpectedly as it went.
On the benches inside sat about ten men and women.

"Mistakes do happen…"

The bare-chested old man sitting before me spoke.
He had called out to me two or three times while I drank sake at the tea shop.

"Ah, well…"

I wiped my brow once more.
Today marked yet another blunder of mine.
Though I’d purchased a ticket to Washizu, I’d disembarked at Shinai Town Station—one stop too early.
The sight of Lake Hamana had stirred strange restlessness in me, a nagging fear that perhaps the steamer might depart from Shinai Town instead.
Yet as my hazy memory suggested, Washizu remained the true departure point.
I hailed a passing automobile and reached Washizu’s steamer dock.
But that boat had already left.
An hour and a half remained until noon’s scheduled departure.
So I drank sake.
Having finished breakfast at five, I found myself ravenous—the tea shop’s meager side dishes proved insufficient.
The old woman phoned some nearby inn or restaurant to have extra dishes delivered.
Thus began the miscalculations that bred this error.

The poison of years of alcohol had finally begun to manifest in my body.
Especially since around New Year's—said to be a year of great calamity—it had begun appearing markedly here and there throughout my limbs.
For these past six months, I had shut myself in my room without even making any proper outings.
During the season of blossoms, during the season of young leaves, I had refrained from venturing out on the journeys I used to make without fail every year, enduring it all.
This feeling had grown increasingly oppressive in my mind since entering this rainy season.
This small journey—a tour around Lake Hamana bound for Mikawa—had been planned when I myself thought it might be good to venture out somewhere for respite, and when my family also suggested it.
And these were the failures that had been piling up since the very first day.

To circle the entire lake required chartering a separate boat.
The boat I boarded traveled from Washizu along the western shore of the lake to Kiga Town.
The bare-chested old man taught me various names of mountains and locales.
It was an oppressive day that could neither be called rainy-season clearing nor rainy-season gloom, with faintly murky waves appearing black.
The row of low hills encircling the lake also looked black.
The boat stopped two or three times at simple docks resembling washing areas before arriving at Tateyamadera after about an hour.
While tucking up my hem and preparing to disembark, I said to this old man who seemed every bit the sake lover.

“Old man, won’t you get off with me? Let me treat you to a drink while we wait for the next boat.”

The old man refused with exaggerated vehemence.

“Not a chance! I’m getting off here at Kiga—from there I still gotta haul my load five *ri* on foot.”

Tateyamadera was said to be an old temple with historical pedigree, but it had fallen into severe decline; these days, it had become known simply as a new tourist destination. The entire small peninsula—nearly indistinguishable from an island—formed a rounded hillock, with young pines growing thickly from water's edge to crest. When I crossed over the hill from beside the temple and emerged on the far side, there stood a small cliff overlooking the broad expanse of lake. Sitting down and removing my hat, I felt a vigorous wind blow through. And at last—

"Well, well."

I found myself thinking.

On the lake floated several fishing boats, and a single so-called pleasure boat with shamisen and drums playing could be seen.
Whether due to the wind or the sunlight, the entire lake surface appeared faintly white and glowing.
The pines on the hill were all red pines.
And here and there in the undergrowth, gardenias were blooming.
As much as one would expect during the season of blossoms, there were also many azalea trees.
The small paths set up here and there on the hill were still brand new, and newspapers lay scattered about.
What I found regrettable was that numerous old evergreen oaks growing among the young pines had been cut down—each seemingly large enough to require one or two arm spans to encircle.
They had likely been cut down to create a mountain covered solely with beautiful young pines.

Perhaps it took twenty minutes; I circled around the hill and emerged at the temple. There were still two hours until the next boat would arrive. Reluctantly, I stopped by Sansuikan—a restaurant and inn before the temple. Thinking that going upstairs would invite complications, I was led through the garden to the back veranda where I sat down and ordered a drink regardless.

A man went out to the livewell at the water's edge in the front garden. He seemed to be preparing some dish for me. Having assumed without question that only a carp or crucian carp would be scooped up from there and idly watching, I was quite surprised. Without thinking, I stood up and went to look at the hand net. A magnificent flatfish was leaping within it.

“Oh ho! There are saltwater fish here, eh?”

The clerk looked at me rather puzzled.

“They bite quite well here. Just this morning, an honorable guest who was departing caught about twenty juvenile mackerel right as he was leaving.”

The front of the inn had become a small inlet surrounded by hills of young pines identical to the one behind it. It was more of a large deep pool or pond than an inlet. On the bluish, brimming water surface, the shadows of pine trees along the shore were clearly reflected. To think they were catching juvenile mackerel from there... I couldn't help finding it strange. They said it was now peak season for catching both juvenile mackerel and kawahagi. Kawahagi—literally meaning "skin-peeler"—was a fish with an odd shape but deliciously firm flesh. It remains one of my favorite foods. In any case, even without puzzling over whether Lake Hamana was freshwater or saltwater, I found it hard to believe these fish inhabited these mountain-shaded waters we had reached after an hour's journey by steamship.

The boat that had left the inlet before Tateyamadera passed through a narrow entrance like the mouth of a bag and entered yet another inlet. This place was somewhat larger and was called Hikisa Hosoe. At the innermost part of Hosoe, in Shimokiga, I changed boats. This time, the small motorboat left the inlet and began ascending what was called the Tsuda River, which resembled a canal. On the western bank of the river, in Hirota—which lay open with water lapping at its brim—something that looked like rushes had been planted across the expanse. When I asked a woman on the boat, she informed me that those were ryukyu.

Having arrived in Kiga Town, I found myself at a loss.
As originally planned, I would board the light railway as it was and reach the terminal at Okuyamamura village, pay respects at Hansenbo temple and stay overnight; the next day cross what's called Jinza Pass into Mikawa, visit my bedridden friend in Shinshiro Town, and if weather permitted, climb Mount Hōraiji to listen to the hotoke-sō bird—such was the plan.
However, in Kiga Town lived Mr. Y, a fellow member of our Sōsakusha poetry society.
Given my own physical condition, I had set out this time intending to pass through without meeting anyone along the way—but upon actually entering that person's town, I found myself wanting to see them even briefly.
If only I could meet him even at the entrance and then hurry to the light railway without being late—when I asked a passing schoolgirl, this friend's house was immediately located.

The white hair of my tall friend—who had emerged from the rear upon hearing my name—appeared even more striking than during our last meeting.
This marked my first encounter with his wife.
Though I stubbornly refused their hospitality, I ultimately found myself removing my geta and staying overnight.
While waiting for dinner preparations, I took a brief stroll nearby.
They claimed climbing a certain hill in the park offered fine views, but weariness prevented me.
Even visiting the public bath seemed burdensome.
Though there was no particular cause for fatigue, one might attribute it to travel weariness after so long indoors.
Or perhaps exhaustion from accumulated blunders.

Kiga Town appeared as a quietly weathered town.
In the past, it had served as a key point on some highway, and there were houses that retained checkpoint remains just as they were.
At the edge of town flowed the shallow, clear waters of the Iidani River.
Standing on the bridge and looking down, I could clearly see groups of sweetfish and gudgeon frolicking.
I saw swimming fish for the first time in ages.

This friend had served as an elementary school principal in this vicinity for many years.
He had resigned from that position this April and was now teaching at a newly established practical girls' school in the area.
In a garden that wasn't particularly spacious, things had been planted here and there—so densely that there wasn't a single gap for an ant to crawl through.
What now caught my eye were flowers—poppies, irises, cosmos, zinnias, garden balsams, and others—planted all around, from plum and persimmon trees to pears and cornus varieties.
In between these grew lettuce, cabbage, konjac tubers, and other vegetables too.
And yet, it felt somehow settled.
A strangely harmonious aged serenity permeated the space.

Before this friend who disliked alcohol and spoke little at night, I drank alone and talked alone, all the while thinking, *This is exactly why I thought I shouldn’t meet anyone*.

June 22.

Having skipped school for a day, Mr. Y had decided to spend the day walking with me.
Near the station too spread wide the ryukyu fields I had seen the previous day.
I heard these were rushes imported from Ryukyu—that locals called them ryukyu—and that more people now cultivated these than rice.
They were said to be sent to China as material for tatami surfaces and other uses.

We gazed at Iidani Shrine's deep forest through the train window as we passed.
It was said to enshrine Prince Munenaga.
The prince's poems were those I had cherished reciting in my youth.
Soon we arrived at Okuyama Terminal.

The name of Okuyama Hansenbo was quite well-known.
Without quite knowing why, I had vaguely imagined it would be a bustling area like Narita Fudō, but it turned out to be a quiet temple nestled in the mountains.
The three or four inns lining the temple town also showed a nostalgically weathered look.

Leaving the village of Okuyama, we took to the path toward Jinza Pass.
The path ran along a stream that appeared to be the source of the Iidani River.
The stream was narrow, with a rocky bed; one bank immediately gave way to a mixed forest.
Along the water’s edge where the current pooled and deepened, rock azaleas were blooming everywhere.
As we were about to begin climbing in earnest, when I thought to drink some water and descended to the valley’s edge, four or five large Yamato gudgeon floated quietly in the shadows of the pool there.
In the shadow of rocks where the valley grew increasingly narrow, topmouth gudgeon were playing.
The mountain stream in the remote valleys of my hometown—where I had walked about catching these fish with a three- or four-foot fishing rod in my childhood—came to mind.
The sky was the same as yesterday—a rainy season sky neither clear nor cloudy.

Jinza Pass was situated at the border of Tōtōmi and Mikawa provinces.
When one speaks of a border mountain, it sounds imposing—but this was merely about 1,500 shaku in height, with gentle slopes both up and down, a bright mountain pass.
Particularly on the Tōshū Road side, the groves were deep, making the climb cool.
In the undergrowth of the deep grove, wild strawberry berries were ripening to a golden yellow.
The two men—of respectable age, one with hair more than half white, the other now clearly beginning to show signs of the same—eagerly plucked and ate those small berries.

At around the eighth station along the path came the lively song of Japanese white-eyes.
Looking around, there was a cage hung on a branch of a tree there.
When we looked around, a middle-aged man was squatting in the nearby shade of a tree, watching us with a sharp gaze.
Exchanging greetings as we passed by, we soon reached the mountain pass. As the timing was just right, we took out the prepared rice balls and had lunch.
I had procured a two-gō bottle at Hansenbō, so I first started on that.
Then Mr. Y also took out one bottle and, laughing as if to say *a single one likely wouldn’t suffice…*, held it out.
In the shade of pine trees, late-blooming ferns were sprouting all around, and a cool wind blew up from the direction of Mikawa Road.

The man from earlier came to that spot carrying a cage with Japanese white-eyes.
He paused with a strange expression on his face but ended up sitting right there.
Mr. Y extended the cup he held but refused it outright, declaring his intense dislike for alcohol.
He was a man around thirty with a robust build, sagging eye corners, and thick, fleshy lips.
Seeming talkative, he rambled on by himself for some thirty or forty minutes.
The first of his topics was this: “Just who are you people? Where are you from, what’s your status, and what brings you to a place like this?”
After grilling us thoroughly,

“Hmm, I just can’t figure you out at all,” he conceded.

Then instead, he began talking about himself—how he’d been born here and there, suffered hardships everywhere he went, and now holed up in this place working as some sort of line maintenance laborer.

“Line maintenance laborer…?”

When I pressed him, Mr. Y interjected:

“Right—an electric line maintenance laborer. They’ve installed electric lines around here recently.”

“Ain’t no fun stuck in these mountains ’less I keep me a white-eye or somethin’,” the man said, getting to his feet. He scooped up the empty bottle I’d left rolling on the ground and dropped it into his bowl. “I’ll take this—good for keepin’ vinegar in.”

We too soon left that spot.
Then another mejiro cage was hung on a roadside branch, the birds trilling shrilly, but even when I looked around, their keeper was nowhere to be seen.
“Ah, over there!”
Looking—there he was indeed, climbing up a brand-new utility pole erected in a mixed grove of oak trees and pine saplings a short distance from the road, engaged in some task.

When we descended, we found ourselves where the skirts of several small hills converged into a narrow marsh. To one side flowed a solitary stream, while at the foot of each surrounding hill stood what appeared to be twelve or thirteen thatched houses. The marsh encircled by these dwellings had all been turned into wheat fields, where they were now busily cutting stalks that showed both yellow and black hues. This was Kōyanagi Village.

As we hastened along the village's single road, we came upon a house with its lattice doors thrown completely open by the wayside. Both inside the room and beneath the eaves hung countless Japanese white-eye cages, their tiny occupants chirping incessantly at one another. Within sat a dark-complexioned woman in her thirties—who might once have worked as a barmaid—alone and occupied with her needlework. My friend and I exchanged glances and smiled.

When we had passed through the narrow village, the road began to climb once more.
It was called Yoshikawa Pass.

The mountain was not as steep as Jinza Pass.
Within a thicket of mixed trees and shrubs lay numerous boxwoods.
They appeared to be Japanese holly yet stood densely clustered in places.
It occurred to me Kōyanagi Village must have taken its name from these.
Though I had noticed them at Jinza Pass too，mountain lilies—unfamiliar to my eyes—bloomed here and there.
Their stems were slender beyond measure，their flowers supple with pale peach hues.
Ordinary white lilies too bloomed occasionally.

Perhaps because we had grown weary, this descent seemed endless.
Though conversation arose naturally, it lacked any cheer.
My grievances about work, daily grumbles, health anxieties—and most piercingly, this friend's worries over his own children—were heard with keen intensity.

Soon, we came upon a village bustling with wheat harvesting, rice field hoeing, and mulberry leaf picking.
Hurrying aimlessly along the dusty road, we finally emerged at the bank of the Toyokawa River.
By coincidence, the road led us onto Benten Bridge—the same bridge we had crossed during a stroll when visiting our friend in Shinshiro Town before.
A high bridge, deep pools, and at the end of those pools, rapids of pure white—we sat on the bridge for a while and removed our hats.

Mr. K—the friend from Shinshiro Town who had come worried he might end up sitting by his pillow to talk—was fortunately up.
Moreover, because my visit had been so abrupt, he stood dumbfounded for a moment before hopping about with joy.
However, as always, his voice still wouldn’t come out properly.
He had contracted a tubercular throat illness and had come to my Numazu for recuperation over six or seven years, but a few months prior, he had left there and returned to his hometown.
His sister and father were no less pleased by this sudden visit than their friend.
His sister and father were people whose circumstances seemed to say they had sacrificed everything for this invalid.

Given the suddenness of our visit and the lateness of the hour—and particularly since these were guests from Kiga Town for the first time—it was decided we would dine at a town restaurant. Hearing this, Mr. Y looked startled and said, “No no—I must be returning.” “How could you leave now? And after we’ve gone to all this trouble!” urged the family in unison, but he rose to his feet declaring, “One day I might manage, but two—I simply can’t neglect my school duties that long.” “It’s barely fifteen miles,” he added with a laugh while meeting my gaze, “and by bicycle it’s nothing at all.” Now I finally understood why he had so determinedly pushed his bicycle up that unrideable mountain path earlier. The return route naturally avoided those slopes—there being apparently a better road available. Ringing his bicycle bell, he departed showing us his tall receding figure. “Summer days give two good hours of light yet,” remarked the old father as he watched him go, “but that doesn’t make it an easy ride.”

However, it was decided we would go into town for dinner. Though we tried to stop him, this friend had already sprung to his feet—waving both hands, forcing out his voiceless plea: “Teacher, I beg you—let me go out just this once! Even I want to visit somewhere bright now and then.” Hearing this, I couldn’t refuse him either. His father, sister, the friend, and I deliberately took the back paddy paths through town to reach that distant restaurant we’d visited before.

Shinshiro Town lay amidst mulberry fields, a single long, narrow street stretching out like a sash.

As I licked my cup, I heard something unexpected from the geishas who had come to our table.
The recent sudden popularity of listening to the hotoke-sō at Mount Hōraiji had led local community leaders to invite us—our group had gone last night for promotional purposes, while the remaining group was heading to Mount Hōraiji tonight to hear the hotoke-sō, they said.
“What do you all even do when you hear that bird?” I asked exasperatedly. “Oh no, we just talk it up to each guest and urge them to go,” they replied.
In return, it seemed the hotoke-sō had been crying out frequently of late.
The previous time I had come to listen, I had stayed nine nights at the mountain-top temple and barely managed to hear it on just two nights.
Now, it was said that if one simply went, they could hear it every night.
In a strained voice, my friend said, “The hotoke-sō has really become business-minded, hasn’t it?”

“That’s all thanks to you, Teacher.”

The old father, already quite drunk with his face crimson and his thick white cheek whiskers gleaming, laughed.
The previous time I had come here, I wrote about this bird in Hōraiji Travelogue and published it in the magazine Kaizō.
That had apparently sparked an unexpected response among people in this vicinity who had shown almost no interest until then.
In fact, posters depicting the hotoke-sō had been put up at major stations, and phrases from my article were said to be quoted in large letters.

June 23.

While thinking my presence might be harming this friend's health, I dawdled indecisively until well past noon. All the while, a sake cup and flask had sat by my knees since morning. The sweetfish from Toyokawa River dressed with tade vinegar was more delicious than anything I'd tasted recently.

Though the geishas' stories last night had considerably dampened my enthusiasm for visiting Mount Hōraiji, the prospect of hearing this nightly-crying hotoke-sō ultimately compelled me to go. Alighting at Nagashino Station via the electrified Toyokawa Railway, I found to my astonishment that a Hōraiji-bound bus service now operated there. Along the banks of Kansagawa River running beside our route, rock azaleas bloomed in profusion just as they had yesterday along that nameless stream we'd passed.

I thought of immediately climbing Mount Hōraiji and asking to stay a night or two at the temple, but upon hearing that even there now had about ten guests lodging each night, I was deterred and decided to stay instead at an inn at the foot of the mountain for the time being.
As I had written in my previous travelogue—“This too is a structure worthy of appearing in Hiroshige’s paintings”—this inn had been a timeworn lodging with a wooden-shingle roof, but now it had been rebuilt into an imposing inn with a grand single-pane glass door erected at its entrance.
The second floor we were shown to still had unfinished walls, and it hadn’t even been properly fitted with sliding paper doors.
“Well, at least we managed to lay the tatami mats,” said the innkeeper.

After taking a puff, I went out to an inkstone workshop two or three houses down from the inn and bought two or three inkstones.
Though I had long heard of the high quality of what they call Hōmei-seki stones from this mountain, I had refrained from purchasing them last time for fear they would become cumbersome luggage.
This time, since it was a motorized train, there was no problem.

The fellow guests I had dreaded did not arrive until nightfall.
"It’s strange," murmured the innkeeper’s wife, but I felt a wave of relief.
I was glad that the sake we’d had delivered wasn’t just for evening drinks.
Here too, there were sweetfish from the Toyokawa River.

Outside the inn, visible from the window, fireflies began to appear one by one along the streamside.
By then, the voices of the various birds that had been crying out in the mountains had also quieted.
When I looked up at the eaves, the sky was cloudy yet held moonlight.
The ridgeline of Mount Hōraiji, towering steeply against that sky, gradually appeared increasingly ink-black.

To that place, a familiar cry came reaching.
It was unmistakably that bird.
It was the cry of the *hotoke-sō*.
A deep, reverberating voice—elusive—falling from the moon-laden darkness of the mountain, from the abyss of that darkness.
The more I listened, the more it became a voice that lured my soul away.
To say it was like rolling a jewel would be too bright; to say it was like tearing silk would be too sharp.
Needless to say, it bore no resemblance to the dry timbre implied by “Buddha, Dharma, Sangha,” and compared to the lonely cries of Lesser Cuckoos or Japanese Bush Warblers, it possessed far greater strength and luster.
It was a voice one might even liken to the very soul of the great mountain before my eyes wandering restlessly—a voice utterly beyond description.

“Ah, it’s crying, crying…”

Before I knew it, I had edged over to the window, pressed both hands to my ears, and listened intently while holding my breath.
It continued crying as it moved from place to place.
It would cry once or twice, then change its location.
It did not stay in the same spot even briefly.
At times, it even seemed as if the mountain itself were shifting.

I moved the tray to the edge by the window.
After drinking a cup, I pressed my hands to my ears; after drinking another cup, I closed my eyes.
I drank two or three flasks, but I wasn’t getting drunk at all.

“It sure does cry a lot, doesn’t it?”

The innkeeper’s wife brought a sake flask while laughing.
At last even I grew self-conscious; having settled that matter, I retired to bed.

I lament my inability to transcribe this bird’s cry into written words.
In Dr. Uchida Seinosuke’s *Studies on Birds*, it is written: “According to what Mr. Enomoto, a teacher at Kōyasan Middle School, heard over several years, it is as follows.”

The cry of this bird sounds like *Giyobutsu-kō*, *Giyobutsu-kō*, or *Gubutsu-kuō*, repeated at intervals of slightly less than a second, occasionally adding *Giyobutsu-kuō*, *kō*, or *Giyobutsu*, *Giyobutsu*, *kuō*.
In the case of *Giyobutsu-kuō*, *kō*, a slightly longer interval is placed between the second syllable *kuō* and the third syllable *kō* than between the first and second syllables, with the third syllable *kō* being lower in pitch than the second. In the case of *Giyobutsu*, *Giyobutsu*, *kuō*, there is no variation in length between intervals, and the three syllables are nearly chanted consecutively.
[...]

"...and so on" was written there.
They had done an impressive job researching this.
If I were forced to write it down, it would probably come out like this.
But the difference between the real thing and this is equivalent to that between sparrows and *hotoke-sō*.

I woke to drink the water by my pillow.

It was crying.

Perhaps because the night had deepened, or maybe it had moved closer to the foothills—the cry sounded clearer now than at dusk.

When I got up and leaned against the window, the moon wiped away the clouds and shone.
Moonlight also reached the thickets of the mountain forest.
And then, while in the early evening it had mostly cried in two-syllable patterns—*Giyobutsu-kō*, *Giyobutsu-kō*—after night deepened, it began using a three-syllable pattern: *Giyobutsu*, *Giyobutsu*, *kō*.
This way of crying sounded intensely pressing.

June 24.

In the morning, as I was washing my face in the washroom, a guest—a thin young man—emerged from the adjacent room and seemed to be watching me, when suddenly he said, “Aren’t you Mr. Bokusui?”
“And you are…?” I asked in return, and to my surprise, it turned out to be Mr. T—yet another member of our Sōsaku Society, just like the previous Mr. Y and Mr. K.
This person had not yet been in the society for many years, but his poetry possessed distinctive qualities, making him a deeply memorable individual.
He too had come last night to listen to the *hotoke-sō*.
He was a student at Nagoya’s Hachikō.

We had breakfast together and climbed the mountain. To be honest, while I had heard it well enough last night, my poor hearing made me wish it had been closer still. And so I thought to request lodging for a night or two at the mountain temple. At the temple was the monk I had known from my previous visit.

He too looked rather surprised as he invited me upstairs. Then came reminiscences from four years prior—about how back then, they couldn't fathom what sort of man would drink nothing but sake from morning onward. "Back then we could only offer you pickled plums three times over," he urged, "but now the temple has made proper preparations, so please stay as long as you like." In truth, even those plums had been given begrudgingly at the time. Day after day brought nothing but wheat gluten. The weather stayed foul too, with mists enshrouding the temple daily. Thus I consoled myself by coining the phrase "ascending through gluten enlightenment." That inconspicuous corridor corner had been both my dwelling and drinking spot then. Gazing at that corner now, I fondly recalled those days four years past.

The inside of the temple had been completely cleaned up.
When I casually inquired，it turned out that businessmen from Toyohashi would be coming up tonight to hold a Noh recital at the temple while listening to the *hotoke-sō*.
Exchanging glances with Mr.T，we declined the offer of beer and parted ways.
On the way toward Tōshōgū，I encountered a familiar-looking old man.
He was the temple’s attendant—
the benefactor who had carried drinks up from the foothills for me every day.
I wrapped a silver coin in paper and handed it to him as he looked puzzled，then took my leave.

We returned to the inn, boarded an awaiting automobile, and reached Nagashino; finding it painful to part after such a fortuitous encounter, we resolved to go to Yuya Hot Springs—two or three stations further—to converse at leisure, and boarded the train.
The carriage was rather crowded, but as we neared Yuya Station, all began preparing to alight.
They appeared to be what one might call free-spending visitors from the Nagoya area.
Exchanging wry smiles once more, we rode past that stop and wound up going all the way to Kawai Terminal Station.
There at the lone inn called Futagiya, we deposited our luggage and—having nowhere particular to go—strolled about areas like Hyakken Falls.
Hereabouts the Toyokawa River had dwindled to a mere ravine, shallow enough to cross while still wearing geta.
On the rocky banks, rock azaleas bloomed unchanged while kajika frogs clamored incessantly.

At night, uncharacteristically feeling a traveler's melancholy, I passed the time drinking with this ailing friend I had just met. And in the end, we even called a woman who introduced herself as a geisha and listened to and sang *Ina-bushi*. This must have been something we thought up upon hearing that the main road in front of the inn led to Ina in Shinano.

“Mr. Bokusui, why don’t we go all the way to Ina?”

The young friend who had gotten drunk on four or five cups of sake raised his thin hand and said.

June 25.

Far from clearing my head, I ended up utterly exhausted and returned to Numazu late at night. Striving to quiet down, to quiet down—before I knew it, the result was the opposite; all the while, I keenly felt my perennial failing.

The inkstone was a fine souvenir; it lies quietly on the desk.

O Mount Hōraiji!
I pray you remain forever a tranquil mountain.