Writers In Kyoto

The island of Shikoku’s principle attraction is of course its pilgrimage.  While the 88 temples that serve as waypoints are of varying grandeur and importance, Cape Muroto’s Mikuriyajin Cave must certainly be considered of primary significance, for if Kukai had not had his spiritual epiphanies here, it is doubtful that the pilgrimage would exist at all.  Legend has it that the holy man, then known as Mao, lived and trained in the cave during the early 9th century.  During meditations, his gaze would have been limited by the narrow rock mouth to the separation of sky and sea beyond (from which he took his name, “Ku,” sky and “Kai, “sea), a separation that would have been completely erased in times of the cape’s foul weather.  

Cape Muroto is infamous for being a typhoon magnet of sorts, including the 1934 storm that was considered at the time the strongest ever.  Yet the violent intensity of the accompanying wind and wave have bestowed a bounty of sorts, in the stunning rock formations they have carved along the shoreline.  Forces below have provided the foundation, in this seismically active region ever sculpting and expanding.  The area’s unique beauty was the centerpiece of the founding of the Muroto-Anan Kaigan Quasi-National Park in 1964.  The Cape itself was listed as a Place of Scenic Beauty in 1928, with the local vegetation receiving its own recognition as a Natural Monument the same year.  The waves here have even been selected by the Ministry of the Environment as one of the 100 Soundscapes of Japan.     

But it is Cape’s 2011 designation as the Muroto UNESCO Global Geopark that drew me here today, as I find this special landscape to be indelibly connected to Kukai, and the three pilgrimage temples found nearby.  I leave the bus at Taishizo-mae, just in front of the towering statue of Kukai, a clean white figure that pops out against the green of low scrub trees behind.   The Mikuriyajin Cave is just a few minutes walk away.  The cave had been closed for a number of years due to rock fall, but chain link fencing now help protect visitors from gravity-enhanced enlightenment.    

A low candle-lit altar is now set against the back of the cave, marking where young Mao had presumably sat, he too becoming part of the geology.  He vowed to chant the Kokuzo buddhist mantra one million times, which surely would have resonated powerfully off the narrow walls of the cave.  One morning while going through these aesthetic practices, the Morning Star, Venus, rose from the sea and into the sky, before entering the young monk’s mouth.  Thus Kukai, and Shingon, were born.  It is as easy to see how the sight of Venus, cutting through this cold damp darkness, could jar one into Enlightenment. 

I backtrack a short ways to enter the narrow trail that runs for two kilometers, through the heart of the Geopark.  Bisago-iwa towers above me, its name (like many of the rock formations here) having religious connotations, in this case, Vaisravana, the guardian god of Buddhism.  But this 14 million year-old piece of magma jutting horizontally into the sky predates all religions.  As if in contrast, Eboshi-iwa, mimics the shape of the headwear of a Shinto priest.  I move past the Gyosui-no-Ike pond for bathing, and the Me-washi-no-Ike pond for washing eyes, which is said to cure eye disease. There are also a good number of uplifted marine terraces, the land here having risen 1.2 to 1.6 meters every thousand years.  The walker can also spy the fossils of tube worm colonies that bring intricate rope-like patterns to the towering rocks.

I follow the trail down toward the cape.  The sky is a brilliant blue, the aki biyori of a perfect autumn day.  The path climbs and falls over the lessor rock formations, then on through the cavernous covers of low scrub and tree.  At times I feel that I am in a dense, prehistoric forest.  Emerging out the other side, all is spiny yucca-like plants, driftwood, low brush.  The hillside above is what in another continent would be called parasol pines.  Probably most noticeable is the wealth of birdlife, far more than I usually see in the hills and forests of Japan.   

Around the cape’s sharp tip and the ubiquitous Meoto-iwa pair of wedded rocks, conjoined by a rope.  Muroto is unique in that from here one can see both sunrise and sunset, and legend dictates that if one views the sunrise between the rocks on any day between the autumnal and vernal equinoxes, he or she will be blessed with a good marriage.  Another trail extends away from the road, this one wild and overgrown, forcing the walker to scramble over the rocks in a number of places . It leads to a small cove of remarkably clear water, well over a meter deep, and if the day were five degrees warmer, I’d have a dip.  Stone steps cut into the rock face away from the direction of waves, a hint that this would be where fishermen of old had moored their boats.  Amazingly enough, the rocks on this side are smoother and less dramatic than their counterparts around to the east.  The cape creates an obvious break water, which is no doubt a clue as to why the town of Muroto stands where it does.          

I return to the cape’s east side, and find the trail that climbs steeply up a rock staircase to Hotsumisaki-ji, the 24th temple of the Shikoku Pilgrimage.  Though this picturesque temple has a 1000 year history, the current buildings are just over a century old, rebuilt after a fire.  A horseshoe of low buildings make up the grounds, anchored by a low pagoda in one corner.  As it has one of the few remaining shukubō (pilgrim accommodations) on the entire circuit, walking pilgrims would find that it makes for a good place to stay after the long arduous approach down to the cape. 

Temple 25, Shinshō-ji, is six kilometers away, in the center of Muroto town.  After a pleasant descent through the forest, I traverse a long narrow village that parallels the shore.  At its center stands a beautiful house surrounded by stone walls, more reminiscent of those seen on the outer islands of the Ryukyu chain far to the south.  Muroto’s port dates to the feudal Edo period, and ships used to wait here for favorable winds before carrying on to Osaka and the Kansai.  Today, motorized ships can go out in most weather, in search of the tuna that enliven the meals of the many restaurants standing just above this deep harbor.  The seawall that surrounds it is an impressive piece of work, built like a labyrinth in order to protect the boats and the town from the typhoons that are regular guests. 

Shinshō-ji has pride of place, at the top of a long flight of stairs that extends away from the harbor’s edge.  The arched gate near the top is almost Chinese in style, and turning around, I am rewarded by marvelous views out to the Pacific and up the coast to the north.  Though of an older history, the current structures date only to 1881, on grounds far more modest than they’d been in the past.  

It is about an hour’s walk to Temple 26, Kongōchō-ji, through an older section of town, which empties eventually into quiet countryside.   This temple too requires a steep climb, though I am again rewarded by the fine views, and a pleasant atmosphere of weathered halls pleasantly nestled into old growth forest. It is obvious why this place was chosen as a location for ascetic practices, seemingly far off from the complications of the modern world.  Apparently it was here that Kukai had engaged a tengu goblin in debate, who, if I understand correctly the explanation overheard from a nearby guide, might actually have been a foreigner.  My own pet theory is that the tengu was probably a tree, as the forest here is filled with twisted and fantastic shapes.  Ironically, on the way down the mountain, my pack catches a tree limb, which breaks away from the trunk to come crashing down a few inches to my right.  Most of the wood is rotten (and currently sprinkled across my clothes and pack), but the center of the limb is solid enough to have broken a bone or shatter my skull.  It’s a close shave, but somehow I survive the tengu’s revenge. 

I could take a bus to Kiragawa, but the day is warm and pleasant and the path pointing downward.  I take a a late lunch at Sadamaru Burger, rewarding myself for the 18 kilometers I’ve walked through the morning.  The simple interior charms with its laid back beach town vibe, but I sit on one of the benches out front, admiring a pair of Harley Davidsons that pull in, the sun shining off their chrome. 

My digs for the night are a very short walk away in Kiragawa, a once-prosperous charcoal-making town.  The narrow lane that runs through the center is framed by houses and shops of an older vintage, and even the newer buildings have the almost English look of the late Meiji period.  To walk up the main street, the pilgrim wishes the entire Shikoku circuit were like this, which is one of the finest parts of the Kochi section.  I spy the familiar kura storehouse whose upper layers look like a wedding cake.  I often stopped here for coffee during those times when I guided the pilgrimage, allowing my guests to marvel at the guitars and the records and the sci-fi hi-fi, while I caught up with the friendly man running the place.  Today, his wife tells me that he has passed on, the cafe now opened sporadically.  She leads me through an attractive open garden courtyard of rock and green, all ringed with rooms facing in.  I’m given what I assume is the best, a large tatami room complete with sofa, and a pair of beds hidden away in a smaller room off to one side.  The sliding doors in front make it simultaneously private and pubic, and to open them invites conversation from the rooms adjacent.  

Meals are not included at Kura Kukan Kurashuku, so  I make my way up to Home Bakery for tomorrow’s breakfast, before backtracking to an old renovated house that is now Gen~kuro, a small izakaya with a growing reputation. As it is early, the owner is free to sit awhile and chat.  Besides serving as chef, he further specializes in charcoal making, which forms the base of his food prep.  I try a number of his grilled vegetables and fish, (including the region’s famous katsuo tataki), and even my beer gets a dose of charcoal.   

Well satiated, I cross the now quiet Highway 55 and descend to the cobblestone beach.  Today in its full glory, the moon extends a long length of silver tinsel across the water toward my feet.  The waves are soft, the wind light, but I’ve seen what they can do when provoked, shaping and reshaping this entire shoreline.  The practice of the Buddhist monks in the hills above is grounded in the concept of impermanence, to which the geology of the Muroto peninsula would certainly concur. 

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Based in Kyoto, Edward J. Taylor’s creative writing has appeared in a variety of print and online publications, and he was Co-editor of the Deep Kyoto Walks anthology. A list of his writing on the WiK website can be found here. For his blog, Notes from the Nog, click here.