Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Title: Shikoku Pilgrimage Diary*

November 1st. Clear weather. A journey of seven ri. Stayed at a lodging called Momijiya.

——The lingering moon’s beauty.

This morning, I must finally depart—a fresh start, a renewal—and take that firm first step of a turning point.

I departed at seven toward Tokushima (reflecting on last night’s hardships).

This area was a waterland—a tributary of the Yoshino River flowed gently; reeds swayed in the wind as far as the eye could see. I walked along the water’s edge, gazing at its surface.

I went to the hamlet called Miyajima and saw Jūrobei's ruins; when I asked for directions, someone gave me false information—likely not out of malice, but showing far too little sympathy for a traveler.

They ferried me across Bekkō River by motorboat; the great river surged with muddy torrents (the crossing was free under municipal operation).

I passed through Tokushima; though I hurried quite a bit, the journey didn't progress much. After sunset, I lodged at an inn by Hatashima (said to be Yoshitsune's landing site).
The inn appeared to be run single-handedly by an old man nearing eighty, but this old fellow was quite a crafty character—a thoroughly unpleasant person! The furnishings were shabby, the meals meager; it all made me feel keenly the loneliness and desolation of travel.
(To put it sarcastically, it was a lodging utterly devoid of even a shred of autumn foliage's charm!)

Today was the second Kōa Hōkō Day; ashamed as I am to admit it, I consumed a little alcohol to distract from my travel weariness.

Four fellow lodgers, two ascetic pilgrims, a mother and child on pilgrimage—somehow it was a cramped, cluttered night where sleep felt like a battle won.

(November 1st)

A traveler's sky adrift—the morning moon persists.

Night swathes the restless rustling of reeds—

Mountains approaching, mountains retreating—autumn leaves of mixed trees

Wind blusters fallen leaves / staggers through walking

Autumn mountains dragging torn tabi

Climbing up and down peaks / as if I'd dropped something—

November 2nd. Clear weather. A journey of eight ri. Hoshikoshi Mountain foothills. Asahiya.

I rose early and departed swiftly; hurried straight on; paid distant respects at Enzanji Temple (the 18th); ascended Tateeji Temple (the 19th).

In the fields, people doing field work were eating their lunches; I ate too—I must restrain my selfishness.

Sucking on a candy, I passed through several villages; at Fukui—the railway terminus—I downed a drink; my fatigue eased; the path turned mountainous; these days, the mixed forests were beautiful; I tried to stay at a pilgrim lodging, but they refused me; walking onward, I found shelter at the foot of a pass—a true mountain village, complete with telephone and radio; the lodging was neither good nor bad; my fellow guest was an old pilgrim; as we talked, we discovered we hailed from the same prefecture—nostalgia washed over me; he was a likable old man.

Tonight again, no bath (last night too); I wiped my body with water but felt a chill.

November 3rd. Clear weather. A journey of eight ri. Mugi. Nagao-ya.

He departed earlier than usual, traveling together with the old fellow pilgrim. The three-ri pass was gentle like flatland but proved a long slope; having someone to talk to kept boredom at bay; he parted ways with the old fellow pilgrim at the entrance to Hiwasa Town ("Old man, please take care of yourself"). He ascended the 23rd temple, Yakushi-ji; the Buddha Hall and priest’s quarters stood sturdy, Maruyama-style; the view from the mountaintop was splendid; he rested beneath the Aioi camphor tree; Hiwasa, the port town, seemed a pleasant place.

Along the way, I dropped my hand towel somewhere and picked up a haiku in its place; bought steamed sweet potatoes and munched on them as I walked; ate meal after meal of nothing but rice—I couldn’t help but be dismayed by my own bottomless stomach.

Along the way, I did some begging; though hurrying, I reached Mugi by evening.
I was glad to find a good lodging; the old man was a good-natured soul, the old woman kind and diligent—people whose nature I warmed to immediately. The bedding was decent, the meals ample; though the room was aged and grubby, I was also glad they let me bathe—washing away three days’ accumulated weariness.

Before dinner, I couldn’t resist having a drink, so I went out to a liquor store several blocks away; the heart of a drinker who loves alcohol can never be understood by anyone but another drinker who loves alcohol. It grew late, and two old woman pilgrims came tumbling in; they talked so much that the fellow lodger, the Fudō old man, started grumbling.

(November 3rd)

A mountain house—secretly longing to soak

Meiji Festival

The mountain school raises its flag on this auspicious day

A crimson-dyed mountain house; holiday flags

With a good companion—mixed trees’ autumn leaves and birds

Holiday flags raised; the village empties out

The often-empty village—persimmons red

Hurrying along the mountain path at dusk

So many grass seeds—where do they come from?

Following footsteps through drizzling rain

Leaves scatter in wind blowing through the tunnel

Drizzling, drenched, wringing out travel clothes as I go

Drizzling, getting drenched—I received deep-red persimmons.

As the drizzle thickened, the sound of waves grew louder.

A large fish basket lay upside down in the drizzle.

Drenched and working together; my companion and I got along well.

Through the misted rain, someone stood gazing at the sea.

November 4th. Rain, wind. A journey of six ri. Kōnoura. Sanpukuya.

He set out in the rain and begged for alms in the rain (today in Mugi Town, he finally begged properly for the first time). The rain began pouring in earnest; the wind started blowing fiercely—he proceeded through Yasaka Yahama, hurrying while glimpsing long coves and winding shores through gaps in the storm. He visited Saba Daishido Hall; the wind blew his sedge hat away and sent his glasses flying—he was at a loss until a passing elementary school student picked them up for him. He thanked them repeatedly. The rain grew heavier; the wind raged fiercer. In Okutomo Town, he had no choice but to seek lodging, but every inn refused him shelter. Resigned, he kept walking like a soaked rat until he could bear it no longer and rested under the eaves of a roadside warehouse. He wrung out his kimono, ate lunch, and couldn’t move for about two hours.

Downpour!
It was exactly that—the gale raged through it, rain sheeting sideways like a bamboo blind; I felt hammered from the heavens, yet found it strangely exhilarating.

I did reach Shishikui Town near dusk, but no inn would take me in. At last coming to Kōnoura, I finally secured lodging—gratitude flooded through me; it was a decent inn that brought relief, though sharing quarters with a prickly patient soured the respite.

The landlady of the inn offered me a plate of sushi, saying it was a share of the festival feast; it was delicious; I also drank two cups tonight.…

Nights spent outdoors—so many kinds.

The gentle sound of waves—a dream’s homeland.

Autumn wind—tonight too, mingled with the starry sky.

The beauty of mountains where one can only sleep on spread-out fallen leaves.

This living flesh its life so sorrowful the moon shines clear.

The other night’s sleeping outdoors.

My life—spring too is good.

When I look up at the vast sky—the moon shines clear.

Detained mail was a joy, a blessing.
I had sent out one bundle of autumn correspondence.
The sound of waves, wind through pines—autumn rain.
Walk on I must—autumn rain keeps falling.

November 5th. Clear weather. A journey of five ri. Sakihama. Kashioya.

The sky had cleared completely; yesterday’s storm seemed like a dream. He rose at four and departed at six.

Today’s path was good, splendid (yesterday’s path as well).

He felt like calling out to the mountains, the sea, the sky.

The sound of waves, the small birds, the water—everything was a blessing.

The Pacific Ocean and the rising sun!

Along the way, I sometimes begged for alms.

Pilgrims were increasing in number day by day; there were fine cemeteries, fine bridges, fine shrines, fine rocks…

I ate my lunch in a place with a truly splendid view—under a pine tree, on scattered pine needles, amidst leopard plant flowers, overlooking the vast sea.

Gorogoro Beach’s round, round pebbles—round, round, polished and polished by the waves.

Though early, I stayed at what you might call an amateur-run inn in Sakihama; the beach was holding a festival, everyone was making a ruckus; tonight too, I downed two cups!
I had a room to myself and monopolized a single lamp; thanks to this, I could organize my diary considerably.

The benefits of begging for alms: yesterday, 4 sen and 4 gō of rice; today, 2 sen and 5 gō of rice; lodging fees everywhere are 30 sen for board and 20 sen for 5 gō of rice—if you have no rice, you must pay 50 sen.

The difficulty of begging for alms—I’ve lost all confidence in it; how painful it is, how utterly disheartening.

(Mugi, Nagao-ya) (Kōnoura, Sanpukuya)

Night: Leafy greens, potatoes; leafy greens.

Salted sardines; simmered fish

Simmered chili peppers; pickled greens

Morning: miso soup; miso soup

×Simmered chili peppers ×Pickled greens

Pickled greens

(Put an X mark in the lunchbox)

(November 5th, to Cape Muroto)

Unrestrained they come surging—white waves

Gorogoro Beach

Water tumbles from the mountains to the sea.

Home Front Landscape

An old man and old woman were burning charcoal.

The journey tattered; the moon rose.

I scratch at my journey-worn body.

Ailing, the traveler always ate garlic.

(Muroto)

Before the sea god, my bento lies meager—

Rough waves where leopard flowers bloom.

The pine leans as savage waves break.

Ivy tangles crimson on the telegraph pole.

Here I stand—the sea’s blue knows no bounds.

Autumn deepens—through thistle flowers I push.

Two or three graves in the shade of a large camphor tree. Fallen leaves warmly chewed; the meal’s light. A day without speaking—the sound of waves. Nights spent outdoors—so many kinds.

That night, alone, he was enveloped by the sound of waves.

He ate and slept; moonlight streamed into the rock cave.

He tried to sleep in the warm dry grass—flies came too.

There was a boat under the bright moonlit sky; he slept inside it.

He ended up spending the night with nowhere to stay.

In a pampas grass field—stripped completely naked—he picked lice off himself.

Must I go so far as to strike at these clinging flies? If there was water, it proved good to drink; good for washing too. The sound of waves lingered after tragedies of old. Facing the Pacific Ocean—wildly they surged in and struck me. The force just before reality itself. Walk, stomping the earth, stomping the earth!

November 6th: Cloudy, intermittent rain, clear. Distance traveled: six ri. Muroto Town. Haraya.

In the morning, a light drizzle fell; I departed at seven. I begged for two hours—received the grace of four sen in coins and over four gō of rice; I thought the begging went passably well. I hurried along the coast toward Cape Muroto. Along the way, strange rocks and crags frequently halted my steps. Shiina Tunnel resembled a framed painting; there, I opened my food pack—I too became part of that framed painting.

I likely reached the tip of Cape Muroto around three o'clock; Cape Muroto was truly a grand sight—a limitless sky, a boundless ocean, mixed forests clinging to slopes, rocks large and small; no matter how long I gazed upon them, I never tired—the longer I looked, the more I grasped their vastness…… Here too lay the Master’s meditation pond and ascetic cave; a grass-cutting old woman had kindly led me all the way to Turtle Pond, but no turtles appeared—thank you for your trouble, granny.

On the mountaintop stood Temple Twenty-Four, Tō-ji; its halls and pagodas were unremarkable, yet it claimed the finest scenery. There, I was unexpectedly bitten by a small dog. Though it was nothing serious, the temple people seemed concerned; I promptly descended the mountain. Taking this incident as a catalyst, I resolved to reflect on myself more intensely and profoundly.

I had intended to stay in Tsuro at the foot of the mountain but couldn’t—whether refused entry or finding no one home—so I walked all the way to Muroto’s main town, where I finally persuaded the innkeeper of the last lodging house to take me in; night had fully fallen by then.

In a corner with no light, I went to bed early in a tipsy mood (having a bath was good).

(November 6th) To “Cape Muroto”

Wave sounds; drizzling cleared.

The rough sea roars; rice plants stand withered.

Hide and appear—rock and wave and rock at play.

Restless sea rumble; parting makes me think of one far away.

Last night was cold; the kitten cried and came back.

The rough sea presses in; orchid bamboo in tangled disarray.

Tō-ji

Piercing through—the deep autumn mountains' sound of waves.

Tosa Coast

Pine after pine, the drizzling comes.

November 7th: Clear autumn day. Distance traveled: four ri. Hane Tomari (Komatsuya).

Woke early; visited Tsu-ji Temple; begged for alms for three hours; around ten o’clock began walking slowly westward—(sixteen sen in coins, eight gō of rice).

On the way: paid distant respects to Sai-ji Temple (“excuse me”); behind Fudō Rock—gazing at the Pacific Ocean while eating lunch a little early—then plucked a few yōju leaves.

Pine groves continued; sea and sky both Japan-clear; autumn—Japan’s autumn. In the fields along the road, pea plants had grown quite tall; beach omoto grasses thrived luxuriantly—reminiscent of southern climes. Today I encountered several fellow pilgrims; a nun wearing rouge and white powder was unusual—somehow reminiscent of a clown performer. In this area, one rarely sees women with light makeup.

In the pine grove of Kira River, I talked awhile with an old pilgrim couple I happened upon—a fact that somehow made me reflect; having walked over three ri, I stayed at an inn on the outskirts of Hane—its name not noted—which, for a budget pilgrim lodging, had new construction and decent treatment; the room, the well area, the bath, and even the toilet were spacious and bright—it made me glad; it was quite a good inn.

Today I lodged early, before three o’clock—I learned my lesson from the previous nights.

I went out to the clear stream and washed my undergarments and loincloth; I cleansed my face, hands, and feet—a sort of purification for the journey. Unable to hold back, I took a drink; though I thought it pricey, since they gave me pickles and let me read a newspaper (first time in days!), it wasn’t so bad after all. Let tomorrow’s wind blow tomorrow—today, I’ll leave it to today’s wind… A good day with good deeds—grateful, grateful.

I wrote late into the night (the virtue of one room, one person, one lamp); it felt as though I relived last night.

For days now, my jika-tabi had been torn, and because of that pain in my left foot troubled me; fortunately finding one of a pair of discarded rubber boots, I tore it apart to use as replacement soles for the tabi—this brought to mind the sayings “What is sought shall be given” and “Necessity mothers invention.”

People from cold regions are gentle; put another way, those from warm regions lack good character—a certain practicing pilgrim remarked that even through ascetic training, one receives more alms in colder places; there seemed some truth to this.

While begging for alms, I noticed—as if anew—the abundance of conscription notices; their types varied, differing by region and season—but seeing three of them lined up, my head bowed of its own accord……

In cheap inns—in budget pilgrim lodgings—in pilgrimage hostels—

□ Each person stakes out a corner and tends to their belongings.

□ Each one’s rice bowl by their pillow (the people’s meals).

□ One room shared by several; one bowl shared by several; one lamp shared by several.

What plagues budget lodgings must be the filthiness of the toilet, the filthiness of the dishes, the filthiness of the bedding, the filthiness of the fleas, and so on.

○ People staying in budget lodgings were mostly completely naked (the majority being so) to avoid lice latching on; in winter, unless one had trained extensively in such practices, it proved quite difficult—though people from places like certain regions of Kyushu with established customs of this sort were exceptions.

(Dinner)                 (Breakfast)

Simmered podded beans and potatoes | Two bowls of miso soup

Simmered pumpkin Pickled daikon radish

Lightly pickled daikon

Plenty of rice and tea—plenty.

Two Dog Episodes

For Shikoku dogs to bark incessantly at pilgrims shows a lack of discernment—such is the hostile nature of canines.

□ Yesterday I was made to reflect when a dog bit me; today I was troubled by one that clung to me—both were similar-looking little brown dogs, though.

“Drizzling—facing a dog”

As I traveled around Shikoku, what struck me was the abundance of vacant houses—those plastered with posters stood shabbily lining the roadside!

Awa's ruin by finery, Tosa's ruin by feasting—so the saying goes.

In Awa, too many eating houses; in Tosa, too many liquor shops!

Tosa—a southern warm country where bean sprouts stretched tall and cucumbers hung plentiful at autumn's end—truly a good land.

This time, traveling around Shikoku, I felt that the roads had improved, and I saw new, beautiful bridges everywhere.

The place where rice can be harvested twice is Aki District—this region; Ioki in particular seemed especially warm and blessed with abundant harvests.

(November 7th)

Grass seeds—so many! From where do these grass seeds come?

Here, lodging—brushing off grass seeds.

A cow, tethered in a flower field, traces its own circle.

Incidents Along the Way

Following dog—you too have no place to stay?

Stones left as they are for a grave—the pine’s fitting grace.

To perish on the road—truly an autumn sky.

My autumn crumbling away, scattering.

A journey of each day, receiving and receiving a handful of rice.

“The Self-Contentment Collection”

November 8th. Clear—cloudy. Six ri of begging for alms. At Ioki Bridge. At Hinodeya.

I woke before five; it was the light of a star-filled sky. Until the family rose, I read and wrote.

After taking my time, I set off past seven; begging for alms here and there; the coastal scenery near Hane wasn't half bad either.

Nahari Log Yard; huge logs were piled up—a splendid sight; I begged for alms in Nahari Town; the town’s lack of vitality meant alms were just as scant; this is the historic site of Naha’s Anchorage from the *Tosa Diary*.

Crossing the Nahari River brought him to Tano Town; a sign indicated the residence of Mr. Hamaguchi Osachi. Then came Yasuda Town; paying distant respects at Kami no Mine left me unable to avoid shame; Oyama Cape—narrow yet splendid scenery—and it was only natural that he thought of Sumita-kun.

Around four o’clock, he conveniently secured lodging in Ioki; his fellow lodger was one pilgrim; the auntie had a good character; they had drawn a bath for him; today, no alcohol; after handing over one shō of rice to the lodging and paying the twelve-sen shortfall, all that remained was nine sen and two gō of rice.

Today’s alms were six gō of rice and six sen in coins; he ate well and slept well; the sound of water all night long. He received rice cakes, mandarins, side dishes, and such from the fellow pilgrim; gratitude upon gratitude.

(November 8th)

Fruits had fallen; one should gather them.

Sooner or later, fellow pilgrims came and went.

(Wild fare)

Autumn warmth—flies and mosquitoes gathered.

The short day darkened—the weight of the pack.

Even the pain in my legs—the sea, the sky—all Japan-clear.

Autumn's end—walking on as a fly's livelihood.

The old man and old woman who didn't get along—the night grew long.

November 9th. Cloudy—rain. Three ri traveled. Washoku Matsubara. Ebisuya.

I woke at 4:30 AM; cloudy but not raining—what a relief! That was the feeling. Wrote in my diary until the old woman rose; took a walk; body and mind calm—a composure unfamiliar in recent days; departed before seven. Crossed two bridges and soon reached Aki Town; spent the morning begging along a rather long street. When I finished begging, rain began; walked over three ri through the rain to Washoku Town; settled at Ebisuya—the recommended lodging on the town’s outskirts amid pine woods. A truly fine inn it was—clean, kind, quiet, and earnest; —the famous Washoku Matsubara pine grove; local specialty: Washoku-gasa sedge hats.

In the evening，I went out barefoot five，even ten blocks；had a drink (What deliciousness！)，and got soaked through—what a trial，what a trial！

After dinner，along with the elderly itinerant peddler sharing my lodgings，I was told by the innkeeper about the ritual at Todoroki Shrine；no matter where or who，boasting about one’s hometown must be said to be a fine topic for travelers.

Today had been a downpour；while he was taking shelter from the rain at a roadside shrine，two country wives also came along；their conversation was interesting；though he couldn’t quite grasp their words—talk of underskirts，talk of old men，talk of sons.

Today’s alms were unusually plentiful: twenty-eight sen in coins and a little over nine gō of rice.

(Dinner) (Breakfast)

Blanched leafy greens; sōmen soup; one shō of rice handed over.

Sōmen; dried sardines; within the rice, five gō reserved for cooked rice.

Plum; ginger; umeboshi; shortage of money.

Thirteen sen.

(November 9th)

I cross a long bridge where the sound of water grows distinct.

I begin begging from the moment I cross the morning bridge.

When morning light drifts, something sings.

To Kōchi

Day by day, the pine grove drew nearer, stretching on.

November 10th. Clear, cold morning. Eight ri traveled. Kōchi Yamanishi.

—It had poured, continuing until dawn, but come morning, the sky cleared crisply, and the stars glistened sharply—I thought I’d been spared; happiness upon happiness (the lodging was good too, nearly flawless).

Departed at seven; the pine grove was pleasant; the thought of the boxed lunch was also delightful. Two and a half ri to Akaoka Town; begged for alms along the way (alms: seven sen in coins and six gō of rice).

In the afternoon, I pressed on single-mindedly toward Kōchi; though I feel remorseful, I must ask forgiveness for offering distant prayers at Temples Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine. The wind picked up but soon calmed, leaving a serene, sunny autumn day. From Gomen onward, the paved road lightened both body and spirit; unexpectedly, a mother and child descending from the train bestowed upon me a ten-sen coin (These ten sen saved me from another night outdoors!).

Though he hurried, he arrived in Kōchi at dusk; first, he went to the post office to collect his mail. He received various items, but none were what he had hoped for; disappointed, he stayed at Yamanishiya beside the temple. The inn lived up to its reputation—good service and many guests; he ate a delicious meal, bathed, and collapsed into sleep; no alcohol.

He handed over eight gō of rice (of which five gō were for cooked rice) and paid a twenty-sen shortfall.

┌Handed over eight gō of rice—five gō for cooked rice┐

└Paid thirteen sen in coins ┘

(Dinner) (Breakfast)

Grilled fish Miso soup: two bowls

Blanched leafy greens Bonito flakes

Takuan pickles two slices of takuan

Sashimi Miso soup: two bowls

Simmered lotus root Simmered leafy greens

Pickles Pickles

When we have money, we don't think about times without it; when we lack money, we think about times with it... That's where it hurts for people like us.

Newlywed couples are easy to spot!
The inn people say so; indeed, that's how it is.

Sunsets varied—
the ocean, the city, the countryside, the mountains.

(November 10th)

The graveyard unfolds a quiet bento.

Vivid umeboshi—rice grains glisten

Begging Chronicle

Oh my, the rice spills from your little hands.

Dazzlingly, as I enter the mountain, the sun too enters.

Kōchi Castle

The castle clear and bright; ivy’s crimson leaves

The bronze statue solemn; not a leaf falls

Observations Along the Tosa Road

The load is heavy, yet people pull, dogs pull.

November 11th. Clear; I stayed.

From seven to twelve, I begged for alms in the city (4 gō of rice, 55 sen in coins).

People varied, the world a varied place—four of us in the same room, all pilgrims; I too was one among them.

I felt emptiness in both body and mind.

Viewed Kōchi Castle; opened my lunch beneath it; picked off lice; returned to the lodging and had a drink; then a bath; shaved my beard—toasty warmth—wild and unkempt—

November 12th. Fine weather; I stayed.

From eight to eleven I begged for alms—forty-seven sen in coins and eight gō of rice.

Kōchi is indeed Shikoku’s metropolis; as part of osettai hospitality, I often receive mandarins, sweets, potatoes… The afternoon clouds over—I’d be in trouble if it rains—I’ll knock one back!

At night, I strolled through the city streets. I surveyed tomorrow’s begging spots. I walked and walked, yet no matter what I looked at, nothing consoled me.

November 13th. Clear; staying.

The clear weather was a blessing; on a pilgrimage journey, good weather is more precious than anything—a faint chill lingered.

From eight to eleven—begging for alms; I loathed every moment of it, but I had to keep going until I’d received enough to eat and lodge—begging until three, barely managing to get thirty-four sen in coins and five gō of rice; I accepted them and returned, had a drink, and finally relaxed……

Another person joined us in the same lodging and room—a young fortune-teller, apparently quite the argumentative type.

All I have left is one sen and one gō of rice!

Dazzling sunlight; rice and only rice.

Dazzling light; lice I can’t rid myself of.

An old tree lies fallen in its own shade.

In a town, there is a day, there is a place.

In high heels, dangling a green onion—"I'm home!" she says.

Today's sun first touches the castle's peak.

Sitting by the roadside—nothing but unfamiliar faces.

Grass that brushes off the journey’s dust—gaunt and withered.

Hurrying along the journey’s path, not knowing why.

November 14th. Clear turning cloudy; staying.

It had grown cold—winter must be nearing, I thought. This gloom had nowhere to go. Why hadn’t I heard from Sumita-kun, old Ryokuhei, or even Musou-san? Resigned—or rather, given up—I poured another drink, then another.…

That day I endured well: seven to eleven, then again twelve to two—begging through the city. I returned with fifty-two sen in coins and eight gō of rice.

Every night, the practice of pilgrim hymns continued fervently; pilgrim hymns might have various schools, but ultimately their essence lay in that moment when they moved one to tears.

Even without money, there was ease!

In all manner of ways.

At budget pilgrim lodgings, most people received four gō of rice (women got three). Some divided it into three meals, while others—and they were not few—finished it in two. Generally, wanderers skipped lunch and made do with two meals a day.

I ate five gō—I was a big eater, but since I always divided it into three meals (as I took a lunchbox when going out), it might have been natural; still, it was undeniable that the rice portions at Shikoku lodgings were more precise and generous compared to those in other regions.

In Kōchi, a few signs that caught my eye——

"Cheap rice"—this was appropriate; "cheap lodgings"—also appropriate (budget pilgrim lodgings are standard, but "simplified lodgings" and "economy lodgings" struck me as rather uninspired); "cheap kan sales"—this gave me pause—kan means coffin.

November 15th. Clear autumn weather; staying.

Waking early, body and mind light; everyone seemed cheerful—how could I not become cheerful myself?

From eight to eleven I begged—why did I loathe it so unbearably? Even lying on the riverbank eating my lunch or gazing at the scenery couldn’t deceive my mood. Forced myself to beg here and there until two o’clock, returned to the lodging, knocked back a drink—five sen in my wallet, just one gō of rice left in the sack—Let’s go, let’s go—tomorrow morning I’ll depart regardless! Fasting would do; sleeping outdoors unavoidable—Cast off attachments—don’t dwell, don’t dwell—flow onward without stagnation—Wasn’t that my path!

This morning, two fellow pilgrims from the same room departed—one heading west, the other east. Farewell; if fate allows, let us meet again.

A new guest—one person—appeared; likely a pilgrim accustomed to sleeping outdoors.

――Like water，like clouds．――

Today’s alms amounted to thirty-three sen and five gō of rice．After eating，lodging，having a drink，and buying tobacco，what remained… To call it disheartening would be disheartening—with this emptiness，from tomorrow I’ll have to lie in fields and sleep on mountains．Three meals a day can hardly be relied upon！

November 16th. Clear turning cloudy; distance eight ri; Ochi Town; slept outdoors.

I woke while it was still dark but didn’t depart until nearly seven; resigning myself, I hurried toward Matsuyama—my extended stay in Kōchi had been fruitless. Farewell, young fortune-teller! Farewell, old fellow pilgrim! Farewell, Kōchi!

I begged at various spots along the way. Arriving at Ino Town by eleven, I continued begging until one o’clock—having rushed through the journey, I felt ashamed for overtaking the old fellow pilgrim and likely inconveniencing him—then received thirty-four sen in coins and six gō of rice. The Niyodogawa Bridge and Tosa paper lingered in my memory.

After night had completely fallen，he entered Ochi Town but was turned away by every inn；mustering some spirit，he crawled into a lumber mill’s warehouse to sleep—was troubled when a dog sniffed him out，couldn’t sleep properly，rats gnawed through his rice bag—fasting and sleeping outdoors are harsh indeed.

November 17th. Cloudy—showers; distance four ri; Kawaguchi Zai Zenkonshuku.

I overslept unintentionally and was apparently spotted by the family as I was about to head out nonchalantly, but they didn’t say a word; I thanked them for their kindness.

From seven to ten, I begged for alms in Ochi Town; a drizzle began, but I kept begging as it fell (sweet potatoes, rice cakes, sweets, persimmons, mandarins—things I could eat as they were this morning were a relief; after all, one can’t chant sutras on an empty stomach!), then steeled myself to go as far as I could.—

The afternoon cleared up; the scenery was pleasant (especially from Teramura Bridge), and he intently observed the mountains and water.

He continued begging in Kawaguchi, then Ino—Ochi—with good results; not on the pilgrimage highway, and with few fellow pilgrims, yet human kindness and faith ran deep; today’s alms were fifty-eight sen in coins and one shō four gō of rice.

Prepared to sleep outdoors, he hurried toward the outskirts of Kawaguchi when someone called out to him from below the riverbank; it was a landlady saying, “Mr. Pilgrim, would you sell us some rice?” Going down there, he found what could barely be called houses—two cottages. She bought one shō from him, and at forty-two sen no less!—then the man weaving bamboo baskets said, “If you’d like, stay here—better than sleeping outside,” and so he was given lodging, a godsend: plank floors, straw mats, a dilapidated dwelling—and how about the couple’s warm hearts!
(The bowls were insufficient in number, and there was only one futon) Six children!
Three cats, several chickens, an old man, a cow.…

From my meager wallet, I bought alcohol for the old man and the husband, sweets for the wife and children, and together we shared a poor yet delicious evening meal.

Exhausted and drunk, I slept soundly; the sound of the rapids didn’t reach my ears.

November 18th. Fine weather; round trip four ri; same as before.

The mountains' goodness, the water's goodness, the people's goodness—guided by the master, I went begging to Ikehawa Town nearly two ri inland; from nine to twelve, it was a good town in many ways (schoolchildren passing by bowed).

The day's alms came to seventy-nine sen in coins and one shō three gō of rice—it felt wasteful (though many houses were empty and few people passed through, perhaps the inner town was good).

The beauty of the valley—I savored to my heart’s content both the mountains and waters I so love. Wild shits, mountain shits—how splendid the view is!
By three o’clock I had returned, cleansed body and mind in the river, and then took a drink.

The second night in this mountain valley—late to brighten and quick to darken—had come; tonight, the sound of the rapids clung to his ears, keeping him awake through the endless night.

Evening moon, then starry sky—how beautiful they were.

“The beauty of the valley”

“Benevolent Lodging”

“Sleeping outdoors”

While begging, though silent—a fragment of my appeal—at a certain house on a certain day: ——

“Madam, rather than washing your feet, cleanse your heart; rather than wiping the stone floor, wipe your heart.”

“Rather than making your face beautiful, first make your heart beautiful.”

(November 16th)(November 17th)(November 18th)

The sasanqua you love—scattering, blooming (To a certain friend).

Sleeping outdoors

My hands, my feet—I sleep warmly.

The length of the night—throughout it, barked at by dogs.

Whether asleep or awake, the night stretches long with the sound of the rapids.

Where there is a bridge, there is a house—ivy’s autumn leaves on the cliff.

The mountain's keenness—there rests the midday moon.

Tightly packed dried sorghum laid out—a bountiful hearthside.

Water rushes over rocks, pools in blueness, performs purification.

The mountain's stillness—my breath turns it rank.

November 19th. Autumn-clear sky; distance seven ri.

At Ōno Daishidō on the outskirts of Ochide, he attended the wake; taking his time, he departed at eight—bidding them all farewell and thanking them for their kindness.…

Today’s path more than yesterday’s—the mountains and waters grew ever more beautiful; the view by Hikiji Bridge was pleasant, Saru Bridge’s banks as well (begged in that town from ten to eleven), Niyodo Gorge.

The autumn sun had sunk low, but I could not lodge in Funato; hurrying across the prefectural border—Ryōgoku Bridge—I found no lodging in Nishinotani either. Reaching Ochide, still no inn would take me (every last one refused; pilgrims, it seemed, were barred entirely). With no other choice, I downed a drink; directed by someone at the shop, I attended the wake at the Daishidō hall on the hilltop outskirts—there was a door and a straw mat, quite decent indeed. I ate the remnants of my boxed meal, sucked on hard candies, and drifted into sleep unbidden; all night long, the valley stream murmured on.

In the early evening he slept deeply thanks to alcohol’s aid, but come dawn his eyes opened—the night stretched endlessly long with water’s ceaseless murmurings; then stillness and loneliness arose—compared to last night’s clamorous bustle and noise—this cold—in any case these two or three days had taught him things unknown until now.

November 20th. Clear, fine weather; distance six ri; Kumamachi, Shimosho, Tomiya.

At last, night began to break; a blanket of fog enveloped everything. Cold, so cold—hands and feet grew numb (Tosa is warm after all, I thought, but Iyo is cold). The roar of the rapids swelled; as the fog thinned, the goodness of the mountains ahead revealed itself. Cherry leaves tinged autumn red scattered down beside me; incense burned, sutras were chanted, meditation and silent prayer held.

There, the village’s devout old man—likely the caretaker of this hall—came to pay his respects; I was told various things—that there were all sorts of pilgrims, that they were rarely allowed to stay here, that some caused trouble by stealing offerings or such—but fortunately, my integrity was recognized.

Cold though it was (due to the river wind blowing), from eight o'clock I begged for about an hour (twenty-eight sen in coins, four gō of rice, continuing to beg along the way); then on to Kumamachi—the flow of the Narukawa River, the mixed autumn leaves of the mountains, beauty at every step; from an old woman at a roadside house, I received many steamed sweet potatoes—immediately ate half for breakfast and the other half for lunch—delicious, joyful.

After walking nearly three ri, I reached Mitsudo Bridge; here, the road splits off toward Omogokei Valley. The massive wedded rocks there amply suggested that the scenery deeper inland would be anything but ordinary. I pressed on single-mindedly toward Kumamachi—toward Matsuyama.

The mountains opened up, and there was already Kumamachi; the sun had not yet set; he managed to stay at the lodging below the temple; the old woman was quite skilled; it was a good lodging—spacious and kindhearted, and—

Five days since his last lodging, five days since his last bath!
(A good bath at a good lodging)

He went out to town, downed two cups of mixed drinks—*Sweet nectar, sweet nectar! And paradise, paradise!* (Having handed over five *gō* of rice and thirty *sen* in coins to the lodging, he was at ease).

Over ten lodgers; he was treated to country rice cakes by a fellow ascetic pilgrim sharing his room. The taste was indescribable. Thank you.

He spent half the night in deep sleep and half writing; tonight, even the long night did not feel burdensome.

(Evening) (Morning)

Vinegared miso salad Miso soup
Grated daikon Simmered beans
Vegetable leaf soup Simmered dish
Pickles Pickles

(Unusually, vegetarian Buddhist cuisine)

(In Kawaguchi)

Black miso

(Not red)

In the countryside, there were many households that kept goats.

A single goat stood tethered—quietly, lonesomely grazing and bleating—somehow, I too was like a goat!

(November 20th)(November 19th as well)

Modestly, paperbush blooms in unison across the mountain fields.

Rocks—large rocks—covered entirely in ivy’s autumn leaves.

How crimson it blazes in autumn hues—what tree?

Ginkgo leaves falling, falling; the goat looks sorrowful.

All water turns to waterfalls; autumn deepens.

Truly, the warmth of late autumn—butterflies, butterflies.

Sweeping together fallen leaves from mixed trees and burning them.

Sleeping outdoors.

Chilled awake; dazzlingly, the mountains blazed with mixed autumn leaves.

November 21st.

I woke early and immediately paid respects at Temple 44 above; old cedars stood in profound silence beneath deep fog—a fine temple indeed.

Having been treated to rice cakes by a fellow lodger on the pilgrimage, I offered a small donation at the temple and received more rice cakes in return. Country mochi was delicious; it had been hospitality unlike any I’d encountered in recent times. From the old woman at the lodging, I also received one sen as part of her monthly custom.

From eight to nine, I begged in Kumamachi—thirteen sen and two gō of rice; walking nearly two ri through fog brought me to Misaka Pass. I fell in step with a fellow pilgrim whose limbs were disabled, and we walked slowly together—his story about finding a chicken had been amusing. The pilgrim path seemed little traveled, fallen leaves lying deep; an ancient cherry tree stood withered; a towering muku tree soared upward; where the pass began its descent, we ate our boxed meals side by side before parting—farewell.

Mountains upon mountains, trees upon trees spread their autumn leaves in beauty beyond description; I hurried to worship at Temple 46, crossed a long bridge, took the train from Morimatsu Station to Matsuyama, and from Tachibana Station dashed to Mr. Fujioka’s house around six o’clock—at last, I could breathe easily.

Overwhelmed by people’s kindness, the fatigue of the journey surged forth all at once; slightly tipsy, I soaked in Dogo Onsen; having gotten a haircut, I felt even more at ease—then, through Old Man Ryokuhei’s hospitality, I ended up getting dead drunk with high school students at an oden joint called Botchan!
Still, I made it back!

"Madam, I’ve caused you so much trouble… I taste the wretchedness of my drunkenness… I taste the preciousness of friendship."

Daihōji Temple

For morning worship—I alone—ginkgo leaves lie scattered.

The mountain—in deep and still fog, giant cedars soar.

Pilgrim lodgings

Customers came and went; cosmos flowers withered and withered.

From fog into fog—a figure’s silhouette.

Where autumn leaves of mixed trees blazed bright, I ate my bento.

Autumn wind—walking and walking.

Nun Rengetsu: With compassion for those who grant no lodging—beneath hazy moonlit blossoms, lying down.

November 22nd–26th: At Mr. Fujioka’s house.

Wildly, I drank and ate and slept and rose.

Sunny then cloudy, drunk then sober—autumn deepened.

November 27th. Cloudy—clear. Dogo Yunomachi, Chikuzengya.

I was invited to morning sake and bid farewell for a time; becoming a pilgrim once more, I headed to Dogo—turned away by inn after inn, I was finally allowed to settle at this lodging.

Laundry, sewing, writing, reading—so busy, so busy.

November 28th–December 2nd

I thought this must be what they call a drunken, dreamlike existence. There is nothing to record, but if I must write something—

On the 30th, I visited Mr. Takahashi at Kōshō and met him after a long time; that night he came and guaranteed my lodging fee, then gave me pocket money.

How profoundly I was made to contemplate my own incompetence day after day, night after night!

December 3rd. Clear.

My mood had lightened somewhat—my fifty-seventh birthday; there was no room for self-celebration or self-mourning!
While I was talking to the youth sharing my room, Mr. Takahashi came to visit; accompanying him, I went to call on Mr. Fujioka.

Invited, I visited Mr. Takahashi from the evening; his younger brother Shigeo had died in the war, and we offered prayers for his remains. Life begets death, death begets life; departing and arriving—I think that is as it should be.

Around ten, I returned to my lodging; because the sake wasn’t sitting well and because various thoughts kept arising, I couldn’t fall asleep no matter how late it got.

A certain day

How warm it is to remove lice.

On the night of December 3rd, at Isshun’s residence, I prostrated myself before the remains of Mr. Shigeo Takachi who had died in war.

Persimmons and apples offered in worship lay scattered.

Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu—the sacred lights flickered.

Tears like wax—unnoticed, the long autumn deepened.

Parting—hurried footsteps, cold upon cold.

In sunlight, profoundly like a stone.

Autumn deepens upstream—I cannot cross the water.

An old man.

As if declaring he had lived steadfastly in the sunlight—

December 4th. Cloudy.

Woke early，took a bath，and spent time reading and writing.

West and east, or south and north—goodbye, farewell.

After eating lunch, I walked—having no money for the train—to the city hall, where Mr. Shigeo’s municipal funeral was conducted. Guardian of the Nation, Lay Buddhist—I prostrated myself earnestly. Walking back, I returned to my lodging at five o’clock—a day filled with tears.

Earth and Soldiers

Ears of susuki grass glow—we struggle.

December 5th. Clear and fine.

Somehow, my body and mind feel unwell... lonely without any particular reason.

All day and all night，he remained silent and motionless.
He had no alcohol yesterday or today.
I could do nothing but reflect and burn with shame.

December 6th. Clear.

Cold—a thin frost had settled (they said the first ice had formed in Matsuyama City)—winter had truly set in.

A headache; everything feels oppressively heavy.

After finishing breakfast, I went out immediately; borrowed a little from Mrs. Takahashi; visited Mr. Fujioka at the post office—he was away on business; threw back a drink and returned to my lodging; took a bath; lay in bed; delusions without end!

Night—Mr. Takahashi visited; I was struck by him—I—I—let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

Tonight again, no sleep; useless regrets persist.

December 7th. A mild, sunny day.

I took a morning bath and had a drink—truly a mild day!
Tidying up my surroundings—wash wash; throw away throw away.

In the afternoon, I strolled around the outskirts; Dogo Ground lay in ruins; Jōshin Temple was rather fine.

In the evening, I visited Mr. Takahashi; accompanying him, I went to worship at Gion Temple and participated in Kōshō’s zazen meeting.

Returned to my lodging and had another drink, and yet... My fellow lodgers in the same room were all old men; it was quiet and lonely.

December 8th. Cloudy—clear.

Incompetent and powerless, penniless and untroubled……

……………………………

………………………………

December 9th. Clear.

Santōka is a lazybones, a self-indulgent creature, a capricious being; he resembles an insect, he is like grass.

In the afternoon, I took a walk around the vicinity.

December 10th.

Another day much like the others slipped away.

December 11th. Clear.

Visited Mr. Takahashi; accompanied him to search for a rental room—none found; on the way visited Mr. Futagami; met Ms. Fusako for the first time.

Received some pocket money from Mr. Takahashi and downed a couple of drinks.

December 12th–13th.

In the early hours of the 12th, there was only a search.

………………………

December 14th. Clear.

I visited Mr. Fujioka at the post office to receive my mail; all of it was welcome news, but the one from Ken especially brought joy. I promptly drank, ate—and got properly drunk for the first time in ages.

When I returned to my lodging in the evening, I heard that Mr. Takahashi had visited during my absence, bringing news of a new residence—I was sorry.

I slept soundly, with neither dreams nor regrets—settled yet disheveled, unkempt and wild.

December 15th. Clear.

The overdrinking and overeating from yesterday took their toll; I glossed it over with a few morning drinks.

In the morning, Mr. Takahashi visited; relying on his generosity, I moved to the new residence—a house like a hermitage at the foot of Mt. Miyuki, near Miyuki Temple. It’s too grand for me; I feel unworthy of such a place.

Mr. Takahashi brought all manner of things for me—futon, desk, hibachi, pot, shichirin brazier, bucket, rice bowls, chopsticks, rice, soy sauce, salt—and I accepted them humbly, with no words adequate to express my gratitude.

Lunch was at a local oden shop; dinner was at Mr. Takahashi’s house.

——

In the evening, I was taken by Mr. Takahashi to visit Mr. Yasui; I was offered all the sake they had; while we did calligraphy, discussed haiku, and were shown paintings, it became nearly ten o'clock, so we hurried back; failing to cut across the drill ground, we wandered about but returned without incident, and I went straight to bed.

………………………………………

(Here, I must express renewed gratitude to the innkeeper’s wife—it was truly a fine lodging, she was an excellent keeper; I ended up staying nearly twenty days after all (circumstances compelled me, but had the lodging not been good, I would have fled elsewhere).)

I considered this the most comfortable pilgrim lodging during my Shikoku pilgrimage (though the fee was 40 sen—10 sen higher than other regions—as lodgings in Dogo generally were; even so, with three meals a day, it totaled 65 to 70 sen).

The night bedding was always freshly laundered; the living room and toilet were meticulously cleaned; the meals were excellent—fish, vegetables, miso soup, pickles, all skillfully prepared and plentiful. The husband seemed merely a decent sort, but the wife was sharp-tongued and deft-handed—quite the capable manager.

December 15th. Clear. (Though this repeats, I’ll record it anew.)

Finally, the day—today—had come; I was truly about to take a turning step, and I had to take a new step.

Led by Isshun, I moved into my new residence—a secluded dwelling within the grounds of Miyuki Temple at the foot of Miyuki Mountain. Situated on a high elevation, it was tranquil; both the house and the land were pristine. The mountain views were splendid, and the distant vistas of town and countryside alike were fine.

A Kyōma-style six-tatami room and a four-and-a-half-tatami room; the kitchen and toilet had been suitably arranged. About ten ken ahead, there was a hand pump for drawing water—the quality wasn’t bad. Firewood could be freely gathered from the back mountain. Facing east-northeast, the sun rose directly (these days it veered slightly to the right); for moon-viewing, there would be no drawback.

To the east lies the newly built Gokoku Shrine; to the west, the ancient Ryūtai-ji Temple; Matsuyama Ginza is about seven *chō* away; Dōgo Onsen a few *chō*.

As acquaintances: Isshun, who with sincerity and gentleness cares for me wholeheartedly; Mr. Fujioka, who shields me from various troubles without complaint; and so on—and their wives.

In every respect, this dwelling is far beyond my station; I wept with gratitude and humbly, modestly fashioned my bed here.

For dinner, I was treated at Isshun’s house; then, accompanying him, we visited the neighboring Painter Tsukimura and talked late into the night.

The first night’s sleep at the new residence was peaceful.

Record of the New "Windblown Dwelling"

“When all is well, the mind’s passions settle of themselves;

“when matters are absent, all circumstances are as they are” (Self-Admonition Verse)

December 16th. (Clear).

I went to Mr. Takahashi’s house sometimes, and he came to mine other times…