The Kindness of Neighbours

When I was growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for me to be sent next door to borrow a cup of sugar. This became a metaphor for introducing yourself to the neighbours because it was easier to ask for help than to just knock and say, “Hey, I’m Julia and I live next door.” Neighbours actually talked to each other and wanted to support. It was reciprocal too. People were never frightened to come to us and ask if they could borrow something or get some advice. I’d like to think that things haven’t changed that much. I have lent eggs, hedge clippers and drain rods to our neighbours. I have watered plants or fed cats when they are away (I’ve also killed a whole tank of tropical fish by switching on the wrong plug but that’s another story). 

The other day, on Twitter I saw a thread that made me feel sad and uncomfortable. My Twitter feed probably isn’t like yours. I follow all sorts of people; not just those I agree with. I’m particularly fond of writers who notice funny things and people who tweet pictures of animals. I’m not sure why but I’m following a sports journalist who covers New York Yankees baseball. He had posted a thread about his neighbours, who are expecting a baby. 

‘The week I got a thing in my mailbox to join a social network @Nextdoor. People in my neighborhood can alert each other about crime and stuff like that. Great idea! But today someone posted the most ridiculous thing ever (1/?)

"My wife and I are having a baby. I'm starting a meal train because it is our first and neither of us have a clue what we're doing. If you are feeling neighborly" so I clicked the link bc there is no way these people are asking strangers to make them food bc they have 1 baby(2/?)

Turns out they are in fact asking total strangers to help them and with the most millennial  phrasing I have ever seen in my life. (3/?)

Trying not to be negative, I figured maybe it's like "if you make a lasagna and make too much, we would accept it". That would be very reasonable inside a totally unreasonable ask. BUT THERE WERE 30+ SPECIFIC MEALS WITH RECIPES 

 THEN THEY LET YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DONT LIKE AND IF YOU CANT ACCOMMODATE, YOU CAN COME AND DO THEIR DISHES OR VACCUUM. WASH THEIR FUCKING DISHES OR VACUUM THEIR HOUSE?!?!?!?!?!

 This guy then tops it all off be telling us we can sign up for a day to text, and if they decide they would rather not see people, WE CAN COOK THEM A MEAL AND LEAVE IT FOR THEM IN A COOLER HIS WILL PROVIDE IN THE YARD BECAUSE HE COULDN'T BE BOTHERED ANSWERING THE DOOR’

He had got so angry about it he had gone into shouty capital letters and forgotten to continue to number his tweets. He finished the thread by saying that if he didn’t egg their house it would be a miracle. People pilled in to say how awful it was and a newspaper picked up the story, reporting the names of the parents and mocking them. 

The phrasing of the messages (he provided photos) were funny. They were terribly of our time with phrases like, “I’m teetering on a fence of emotions,” and  “if you feel like reaching out, that would be awesome.” The list of foods and recipes was particularly funny (although I do have some new dinner ideas) and I could feel myself thinking that being so specific in telling people how they could help was wrong. I bristled with the idea (that the thread poster had) that ‘they should be grateful for what they get.’ I didn’t agree with the people who thought that having a baby was no big deal and said things like, ‘it’s not as if they’ve got cancer,” because having a baby is a big deal and cancer isn’t always a special case. It’s perfectly possible to have cancer and want and be able to continue to do everything for yourself. 

A lot of people aren’t very good at asking for help. There is an idea that you should be able to carry on with everything and that if you can’t you are somehow a failure.  However, a lot of us would like to help and sometimes don’t because we don’t know what to do.  “Just let me know, if there’s anything I can do,” we say. We mean it but then would we feel cross (as this man has)  if the reply came back, “Yes, thank you. Could you cook me a Quinoa stew using the linked recipe.” ?

When mum was ill people would turn up with cakes that none of us could eat and flowers that we didn’t have vases for. I wrote a blog (funny, I hope) about bringing more useful items to a cancer deathbed (like bleach and milk - to put in the visitors tea (the milk, not the bleach!)). After that people visited with those items too and were happy that they could help.  If I had been ridiculed in the New York Post for that blog, it would have destroyed me. 

I wondered if the problem is that the personal connection has been lost. This man clearly didn’t know his neighbour and only found out that he was terrified about having his first baby by clicking a link that he thought was a neighbourhood watch scheme. I would quite like that. I’d love to have a WhatsApp group where my neighbours (even the ones I don’t know) could tell me what they need. If someone posted, “Hey, I’ve just got in and the in-laws are coming round, does anyone have cake?” I’d be thrilled at the excuse to whip up a quick Victoria sandwich. My mum’s neighbours have a similar group. In her last few days we ran out of toilet paper and we were going through a lot of it but were also trapped in the house by the business of caring. We sent a message and for the rest of the day and evening people turned up on the doorstep sombrely holding rolls of toilet tissue, which the nurses who came to give an injection and run away before they knew if it had worked found very funny. It wasn’t funny. It was the kindest thing. 

If all neighbours were equally as kind the world would be a better place. 

We all have mental health (fear of flying)

I wasn’t going to write about this. ‘Stay positive,’ I thought. ‘Don’t dwell on the tricky things. It’s not as if you want anyone to know. You don’t want sympathy or advice. You’re not asking people for their tips on how to fly when you are bonkers. Just keep quiet. Pretend it never happened. Pretend you are completely sane.’

Then I thought that was duplicitous. I have written about PTSD and being fixed and maybe if someone was reading that and the following blogs, they would think any treatment hadn’t worked for them. If you are my friend and are reading this then I don’t want you to panic and think I don’t have things quite as together as you thought I had (although if you are my friend you’ve probably always thought I was bonkers and ‘together’ is never a word you’d use to describe me). I’ve also decided to tell you the story of my flight home from Japan because it is actually funny.

So, if you don’t know, when my mum died last year (yes, it is nearly a year) it was traumatic and I caught myself a bad case of PTSD. Luckily, I found an excellent therapist and managed to get back to work and living a normal life. That doesn’t mean that everything is easy. There’s lots I have to work on.

PTSD is an anxiety disorder that stems from a traumatic incident. At first, I couldn’t close my eyes without that incident replaying in my head, like a horror movie stuck on a loop of the worst part. This movie came in full 5D effect: sight, sound, touch, smell and taste. This caused panic attacks and, for me, claustrophobia. I wanted to manage the panic by having a small ordered life; being outdoors, walking and being in control of everything  helped. Then I had EMDR and the videos stopped playing. I was given some CBT tools to help manage any panic that happened and normal life could  resume. I was different - my brain forever changed but not so different from anyone else.

The Long Suffering Husband has always wanted to go to Japan. We had intended to go last year but Mum was dying, so we didn’t. You can imagine that this trip pushed all my buttons. It’s difficult to stay in control when you have no idea what to expect and very difficult on an 11 hour flight. The journey out wasn’t too bad. I had an aisle seat next to the toilet with a wall behind me and if I felt wobbly and none of the sitting-still-CBT-mind-games worked I went to the toilet and ran on the spot for a few minutes, pretending to be at the sea wall with geese flying overhead. I might have done that about a dozen times. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I stared back at the LSH with my saucer-wide eyes, “It’s just that anxiety is a bitch.”

Coming home was different.

Our seats were in a group of three with our two closest to the window. You don’t get a choice  when you check-in online. A teenage boy sat next to us. Japan attracts sensitive, studious misfit boys. He was reading Victor Hugo’s Hunchback and I wanted to ask him if he had started it before the fire but I didn’t. The LSH asked him if he would prefer a window seat and I told him that I was a fidget but he thought he’d be ok where he was.

Three hours in and I had only made the boy move four times. It was ok:  I’d eaten the meal, read lots of my book, I was still breathing. Then they turn the lights off and hope that everyone goes to sleep. The boy next to me obliged. I thought I’d try to watch a film (which, looking back was probably a mistake, as my brain hasn’t coped with that much sensory input for a while). The man in front of me reclined his seat (just know, that if you ever do this on a flight then it’s a dick move - no excuses - it’s just rude) and the LSH started to snore.  Sleeping is not something I’m very good at and it was only lunchtime.

It started to rise. That feeling was in my chest. I was hot, sweaty. I tried to think of the sea wall but when I closed my eyes I saw something else - the last time I was trapped in a situation I wanted to get out of.  My mouth was dry so I finished my 5th bottle of water. My head was pounding. A crying sound was trying to escape from my throat despite the fact I had firmly clamped my lips together. My knees were banging together hard enough to cause tiny bruises.  I needed to get out. I tapped the boy on the knee but he was sound asleep, so I knelt  up on the seat. That was better. I could try to get back in control. Five things I could see, four I could hear, three I could touch, two I could smell and one I could taste. Okay. I could breath again. Crisis averted. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but it worked. Then the fifth bottle of water made its way to my bladder and I started to think that  I had to get out again. The thought washed over me like a wave and I punched the boy in the arm, shouted, “I’ve got to get out, I’ve got to get out,” and leaped over the top of him. He came round, groggy and confused, rubbing his arm apologetically. I picked myself up from the aisle and ran to the toilet, where I sobbed, breathed, used every technique I’d been taught until I was able to splash my face with water and emerge from the brightly lit toilet cubical back into the dark of the cabin, blinking as though I had gone the other way.

There was a lady outside, waiting for me.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I saw everything,” she said, “Are you really sure you are alright.”
I blinked back the threatening tears, mortified. Then another two passengers appeared. One had fetched a stewardess on his way.
“I feel such an idiot,” I said.
“She fell over,” one of the passengers explained to the stewardess.
“No, I think she was tripped. Someone stuck their foot out,” said the one who had seen everything.
“No, no, I just got a bit panicky,” I whispered.
The stewardess thanked everybody and sent them back to their seats even though they were still muttering about how people should keep their feet in and pulled me into the galley, where I promptly burst into ugly tears and explained everything. Well, not the stuff about PTSD and my mum and the year of my life I can't remember but enough so that she knew that I hadn't physically fallen.

I can't tell you how kind and wonderful these two British Airways cabin crew were.  There was absolutely no pressure for me to be normal and back in my seat.
"Are you travelling with your husband?  What seat are you in? I'll go and let him know."
I explained that he was asleep and that he would be fine.  They told me off and said that they weren't worried about him. It was me that wasn't fine! They were really upset that the aircraft was full and they couldn't even move me to first class.  "Oh, I don't think I deserve that!" I said. They disagreed.  They reassured me that I wasn't the worst and that it 'happens to all of us'.  I was sceptical about that.
"It doesn't happen to you, does it? You wouldn't be able to do this job if it did."
"Oh no, not at work but I'm terribly panicky in situations where I have to speak.  I'm not married because I don't want all that speech stuff and have people looking at you all day."
We talked about her anxiety and I wondered if there was any way round it.  I suddenly realised that everyone has mental health.  There are times when we are depressed or anxious and the trick is to deal with it.

I had just stopped shaking when it was time for them to do another drinks round.
"If I'm going to stay in here, can I be of some use?" I asked, "Honestly, it would really help me if I was busy."
I spent the next hour pouring juice into plastic cups and finding out all about the life of BA cabin crew.  Soon, it was time for their break (They go upstairs in the tail of the plane and sleep for a couple of hours) but reassured me that I was welcome to stay and the other two crew members would be more than glad of my company.  Apparently, I'm funny!  I thought I had overstayed my welcome and would try to get back to my seat.
I was told that the 'cabin crew seats for landing' were mine if I needed them for the rest of the trip. I lasted about ten minutes back in my seat when the LSH suggested I go and use them.

One of the problems, for me, was that people fart in aeroplanes.  They fart a lot. The smell of the toilets and the rotting food and the pot noodles that they make up in the galley for people who need to eat all the time all smell like something I remember, so that even in my less claustrophobic seat the anxiety was difficult to manage.  Eventually, I was sick and by the time the crew came back from their break to serve the last meal I didn't look well at all but it was a bit busy and crowded at the back so I went back to my seat.

"Beef or Pasta?" the stewardess said to the man in front. "And can you put your seat up for the lady behind!" she snapped, catching my eye, in solidarity.  He had annoyed her earlier anyway when he'd demanded to know what the meal was going to be so that he could decided if he wanted red or white wine. Then she tried to offer extra drinks to the poor boy with the bruised arm but he was too nice and polite to accept and she stumbled over her words.  "Oooh, sorry, I've gone into full-on fight mode," she said. 

The flight was over.  I thanked the staff for all their kindness and left, grateful to have made it. 
"So, where are you going next?" asked the LSH's friend who picked us up from the airport.
"Errm. I think we might leave it for a while," the LSH said, squeezing my hand nervously.
It will be fine though.  I'm not going to let this thing beat me.  We all have mental health but the trick is to not let it stop you living a life. 

It’s only a ruddy kingfisher

Deciding what to do on your last day of a full on holiday like this trip to Japan is tricky. You obviously have to do some of the obligatory souvenir shopping, which I hate and am really bad at (don’t expect a gift) but you have to decide how you are going to spend the rest of your day.
You could rush round, trying to see everything you haven’t done, or you could kick back and relax, or just feel a bit sulky that you are going home.

We opted for something in between.

The Long Suffering Husband is a bit worried that he’ll suffer from post holiday blues when he gets back. This is a trip he has looked forward to for a long time but we are both tired. We’ve been to seven places in Japan, walked 170 miles, and climbed mountains and tall buildings. We needed a bit of a rest but didn’t want to stop completely and it was a beautiful day.

When we looked at the ‘must do’ things in Tokyo, we discovered that we had done most of them that interested us. I had no intention of driving around Tokyo in a Go-Cart dressed as a Minnion, spending a day in an arcade (even though my son had recommended the Taiko drum game) or going to a Maid Cafe. We did want to see the Sumo wrestlers but they were out of town and the museum wasn’t open on a Saturday. My boss told me not to come back unless I’d taken a selfie with a Sumo wrestler, which I am a bit worried about because I’m really ready to come home.

So we chose the zoo. We both like animals and we thought it would be nice. Tokyo zoo is in Ueno Park and has three Giant Pandas, having had a successful breeding programme and a live birth in 2012. It’s a very cheap zoo to visit. Actually, we were struck by how little you had to pay for most  attractions in Japan (except Tokyo Tower). Children under 12 go in for free, as do disabled visitors  and their carer.

I have mixed feelings about zoos. I like animals. I love seeing them and I always start out feeling excited but soon I start to look in the animal’s eyes and I can feel that they’re not happy. I know people who like zoos say that they do a wonderful job of conserving animals but I can never quite get away from the feeling of sadness.

We had seen the pandas, the bears, the polar bear, the tiger, the elephants when I started to think I needed to leave. We were standing in the bird cages when I saw a kingfisher. I’ve always wanted to take a photo of a kingfisher but when I see them by the canal they’re too quick and all you really see is a bright blue flash.
“What’s that?” asked the LSH, pointing to a bird in the next cage.
“It’s only a ruddy kingfisher,” I replied.  

It made us laugh.

 It was lovely to see the children getting so excited to see the animals. I think I’m more of an anthropologist than a zoologist and Japanese children are particularly lovely. They look cute, are well behaved and indulged and liked by their parents and they are all in training for carrying their huge school backpacks from a very early age.

This holiday has been a great experience. We will be glad to go home for a rest but will miss these friendly, happy quiet ordered people. I have noticed from social media that people at home are still furious and they’re absolutely livid if anyone asks why they’re angry.

End of the breakfast buffet

I’ve always been a fussy eater. When I was very small my parents worried. They found a book to read me (books usually worked) where a little girl didn’t eat until she had a plate with a house on it. In the story there were elves or fairies living in the house and the girl had to eat all her peas or they would roll into the chimney and cause all sorts of problems for the creatures living there. The book came with a plate, which totally freaked me out. There was no way I was going to let anyone put food on top of a fairy house, let alone eat from it. What if I accidentally chowed down on a mythical creature?
A breakthrough finally came when I was about 8 and agreed to try one baked bean on toast. From that moment I tried to be a bit more adventurous but it was always tricky, especially as in my twenties a lot of food made me ill. I never managed to like fish, despite knowing how good it is for you; the oily variety can actually make me vomit. Mushrooms and fermented foods were particularly difficult, which was a little unfair on someone who actually liked drinking.

When my children were little I decided not to have any battles over food and they have grown up less fussy than me. My son is a very adventurous eater now and is my go to encyclopaedia whenever I’m not sure what something is. The navigating of food was one of my major concerns about this holiday.
“They eat so differently,” I worried him with my endless concerns. He was patient: took me to a Japanese restaurant in Brighton, explained that a don buri was a dish of meat and rice, ramen was like a pot noodle, yaki means grilled and that I would be fine because they have pictures or models of food that you can just point to. The don buri I had on that day did make me feel bloated and a bit woozy but I coped.

The Long Suffering Husband suggested that we book nice hotels with a breakfast buffet for most of our stay. “We can fill up at breakfast and not eat for the rest of the day if we need to.”
A breakfast buffet in a hotel always amuses me. They try to cater for every nationality. There is sausages for the Germans, pastries for the French, egg and bacon and cornflakes for the British, fish and soup and rice for the Japanese, meat stew for the Koreans, pizza for the Italians, and Cava and churros for the Spanish. There is a salad bar, fruit, yogurt and cereal too. It amuses me to watch what people choose for breakfast. I’m sure they pick things that they wouldn’t normally go for. I watched a young Japanese woman eat a whole bowl of cherry tomatoes and then struggle to eat cornflakes with her chopsticks.

We have tried many things and most are delicious but I am now craving a crusty ham roll and a roast dinner. My friend who is also in Japan at the moment has been adventurous with food (her son is living here) but still texted me, “TGF Starbucks.”

Last night we were beginning to find our feet and walked into a restaurant without really working out what we were going to eat first. They didn’t have an English menu but a nice girl game over and tried to explain what everything was. The LSH hoped to order a side salad and pointed to a picture of something green. “Retisse,” said the helpful girl. I had seen someone eating a dish of stir fried noodles, as I came in, so I pointed to that. The LSH chose takoyaki. “Octopus balls,” said the helpful girl. Another man with no English came over to actually take the order. When the LSH pointed at the takoyaki he was answered with some very fast Japanese that sounded, to me like a question. He has been leaning Japanese but his skills were not up to scratch. I thought maybe he was asking him how many he wanted and suddenly remembering the word for eight said, “hachi”.

First to come up was a plate of fried cabbage and pork. It was delicious but not the lettuce we were expecting. Then a takeaway box arrived containing eight teriyaki flavoured octopus balls. He had pointed to the wrong picture, still it was fine to eat from the box. Then my noodles arrived.
On top of my stir fry was something that looked a bit like flat grey worms. “They’re moving!” I said. The LSH assured me that I was seeing things. The noodles were nice, even though I knew that amount of soy sauce would make me feel a bit light headed I decided to be brave and tuck in properly.  I didn’t like it. I really didn’t like it. It was fishy. I tried to pick around it but they all fell through and every little mouthful had a taste of cat food past it’s best.
“It’s Bonito flakes,” texted my son when I asked him what it was later. He sent a YouTube clip of them moving around. I googled for mor information. They are dried and fermented wafer thin flakes of fish that aren’t (thankfully) alive but move around because they are so thin and are wafting around in the steam of the food.

For our last few days we don’t have a breakfast buffet booked and we’re going to take our chances with the restaurants. Maybe I’ll persuade the LSH to go to Starbucks for a muffin and grab a ham sandwich and packet of crisps from the Family Mart and maybe get pizza for tea. But it’s only one more day.

Exit doesn’t mean Exit

Today we are in Kanazawa and we are tired and grumpy. We’ve tried to pack a lot into this holiday and we could really do with a rest. The end is also in sight and whenever I’m on holiday and start thinking about going home I want to be there instantly. I don’t think I’m the only person to be feeling like this. I overheard a small American girl (Americans are really loud but not as loud as the Chinese) say, “Mom, next time you go on a holiday can I stay home with the sitter?”

We are not really appreciating the full glory of Kanazawa. The garden is beautiful but post blossom trees always look a little sad. The castle is impressive (although less so than Himeji) but as I was walking round I said to the Long Suffering Husband that I hadn’t got ‘that history feeling.’ This is   something we talk about a lot in our family (probably because we are all spooky witches) but buildings seem to carry a spirit of the people that have lived in them before and we can feel that. It    can be particularly noticeable in places where great or awful things have happened and it’s like a    shudder and a sensation in the back of your head. The LSH agreed and proceeded to inspect the nails, declaring them modern. We soon realised that they are making no secret of the fact that this castle is a restoration. It is probably the unluckiest castle in history as it seems to have burnt down about eight times. We have also arrived on a day when campaigning for elections is happening and so the normally peaceful place is full of shouting over loud hailers. It’s weird because normally I love being in a place where politics is happening. I am curious about the number of candidates.

One of the best things about Kanazawa is the station. It has the most brilliant fountain at the entrance that welcomes you and tells you the time.

I couldn’t leave Japan, though, without blogging about trains, so today seems as good a day as any to  do that. 

There is so much to like about the Japanese public transport system. Wherever I go I always seem to be impressed by the trains or buses, which is because ours are so terrible and expensive.  

We bought a Japan rail pass while we were still at home, which has been worth every penny.  It has taken us from the airport to Shinjuku, all the way around Tokyo on the Yamamote Line, to Hiroshima on the bullet train, around Hiroshima on the tourist loop bus, across to Miyajima Island on the ferry, to Himeji, Kyoto and Kanazawa. It took us to the bamboo forest at Arashiyama and around  Kanazawa on the JR bus. It will take us back to Tokyo and around and then back to the airport. If we felt like taking a day trip to Fuji or anywhere else then we could. 

The trains leave on time. If there is any kind of a problem then passengers are informed quickly. The most usual disruption seems to be due to passenger accidents but they are taking steps to deal with that.

People know where to stand to get on the train. There are markings on the floor to show where the door is and where to queue. You will know where to stand because the car numbers are written on the platform and the train stops at exactly the right place. If you haven’t booked a seat then the announcements will tell you where the unreserved carriages are.

There are toilets at the end of every carriage on the bullet trains.

There’s enough leg room to put your cases in front of you and still sit comfortably.

It’s spotlessly clean. The cleaners get on at the end of the line, turn the seats around, so you are facing the way you are going and give everything a good polish. Obviously there is no litter because the Japanese don’t leave any. 

The staff are amazingly helpful. 

There are clean waiting rooms that don’t smell of urine.

We had been warned that you can face long queues to reserve seats on the trains but we discovered that if you ask a person in a brown suit with the word ‘ENGLISH’ where a row of medals might sit, then they will take you to an automated machine and you completely skip the queue. 

The only problem with Japanese trains is the size of most of their stations. In Kyoto station there are several exits and getting the wrong one can mean you can never get to your destination until you go back in and try again. Shinjuku Station in Tokyo is even worse. You can exit through the ticket barrier walk around the station and find there another ticket barrier, or you are deep into an underground shopping labyrinth. 

If only Thereasa May had been to Japan because then she would have known that even exit  doesn’t always mean exit. This would have also saved us from being lectured on how not being a united country will lead to world war three by little old Japanese men, who suck their teeth when we tell us where we are from. 

All Shrined Out

It is our last day in Kyoto, so apart from a little wander around Nishiki Market to look at the weird food we thought it was an ideal day to do a few more shrines and temples.

There are over 1600 to see in Kyoto, so we were never going to manage them all. When I first started looking at them I was taken with the idea. I’m not against religion. I think it’s comforting. Growing up in England, with my High Church grandparents and the baptist minister’s children as best friends my experience of religion has mostly been Christian. My Welsh grandmother (on the other side) was always more open to my questions and told me about other religion’s beliefs whenever she got stumped. I remember quite liking the idea of a religion with loads of gods, rather than one all powerful being. For me, Christianity was always a bit violent. As I grew up and started doing Yoga I thought I preferred Buddhism because it was more peaceful. It was just a shame that I’ve stamped on so many snails.

The problem with seeing so many in four days is that you start to get temple/shrine overload. They all blend into one and you confuse them with the palaces, which seem to have shrines in anyway. There are Buddhist temples and Shintō Shrines. I think some have elements of both. Then, I think some are purely old houses that someone has turned into a tourist attraction. (I could be wrong about this).

Today was a day to search for happiness. There are a couple of people in my life who I think need a bit of help and so I decided to make today about thinking of them. I’m not above a little superstition and this trip has helped me find a little more peace, so there’s no harm in spreading it around a bit.

The Long Suffering Husband had checked the internet and found that Fushimi Inari-taisha shrine and  the Kiyomizu-Dera temple were on most of the ‘must do’ itineraries.  The guidebooks told us to get  to Fushimi Inari early for that Instagram moment. We have been following an influencer around and her holiday looks exhausting a cold. She’s always in some flimsy floppy dress being told where to stand and how to look. We aren’t photogenic enough for Instagram but aren’t too keen on crowds, so we were there at about 9am.

 

I’d read somewhere that this was a shrine people made a pilgrimage to at the beginning of a new year to wish for happiness and that it was a climb to the top that made all the difference. We got some of the way up when the LSH claimed that I had broken him again. His other calf muscle had popped but as I wanted to get to the top he said he’d wait for me.

Once I was on my own my thoughts started to be less sensible.
“The staff are a bit miserable here.....Bit ironic for a happiness shrine....oh, look, this is actually a Torii gate forest....there are lots of ‘Don’t’ signs....how do you see eyes with a monkey?...”
I tried to make myself concentrate.
“Come on Julia this is a wish for happiness. It’s never going to work if you keep getting distracted.”
I did my best to focus and only stopped for a little while to take photos of the man painting the gates but, as my friend who teaches RE occasionally says, “It’s all made up anyway.”

On the way down I took a time lapse picture to show the LSH that he didn’t miss much. We noticed all the signs on the way down and he suggested that we should rename it The Don’t Shrine. I’m not sure if he means don’t bother.

Kiyomizu Temple was more promising. You could tell it was a bit more up market because instead of fast food stands on the way to it there were cute little pottery shops. It was like comparing Market Harborough to Leicester, or Maldon to Basildon. This had all our favourite things. Gorgeous, peaceful gardens (embrace the moss), singing birds, an enormous temple, a pagoda (the LSH loves a pagoda), a giant singing bowl, a gentle climb to the top, some fat Buddha statues and a sense of peace on top of the clouds. The only downside is that has scaffolding around the large hall while it is being renovated.

It also had O Amorim charms for happiness, so I could buy a couple and let someone else do the magic.  As we walked back we stumbled across several other shrines and temples that we hadn’t seen. Each time we looked at each other and said, “Nah, can’t be bothered. I’m all shrined out.”

Scale

When my son came back from Japan he talked about its beauty and he said I would love it, as it’s not all bright lights, automation and Pokemon. His photos, however, didn’t give me much hope. I trust he’ll forgive me for telling you that he took terrible photographs. There were about one hundred and twenty pictures of the back of one man’s head.  If you’ve been reading my holiday blogs then you might think that my photos are a bit better. I’ve taken over a thousand photos but they don’t really do the country justice.

What you don’t get with photos is a sense of scale.

The Japan I’m visiting does huge and tiny and from the photos you can’t tell which is which from a photo. A photo doesn’t give you that breathtaking feeling as you realise just how massive something is. Some of the things we have really enjoyed that don’t get high marks in guidebooks, such as the Imperial Palace or the Higashihonganji Temple impressed us because of their size.

     

You can’t tell from the pictures. They just look like any other temple but they left us slightly breathless with awe.
“It’s just so...” I said, lost for words.
“It’s so huge I can’t get it all in,” said the Long Suffering Husband, fiddling with his camera.
Normally, I love a spot of innuendo but I was too busy gawping.

Not all Torii gates are the same. Some barely scrape over a tall Western man’s head, while some monsters tower above.

You can’t always tell from the photos because of perspective.

The gardens have replicas of waterfalls and mountainsides that I’ve seen in real life, with rocks eight times as tall as Robert Wadlow. These duplicates are perfect miniatures but you can’t always tell from the photo.

Today we went to the bamboo forest in Arashiyama. Maybe it was inevitable after 1000 photos but I suddenly got a bit grumpy about taking any more.
“There’s no point,” I sulked, “You just can’t get the feeling in a photograph.”

That’s why we travel, rather than just looking at pictures, or watching TV programmes. Films or books might get you closer to a feeling but those feelings belong to someone else.

Move Over Monty Don

I love Gardener’s World. It’s my Friday night relaxing time. I’m finished teaching small people to makes noise and I can sit quietly with a cup of hot water and be inspired. Every week I want to rush out and buy plants or deadhead my rose bushes or turn the compost heap. The inspiration has usually faded by the morning and all those jobs feel a bit like a chore again.

The Long Suffering Husband’s relationship to the garden is a little different. He’s not interested in growing things. For him, it’s a place to sit in the hammock with a glass of wine and watch ‘A Good Year’ for the millionth time. He also makes the grass his responsibility and wages a personal war on the moss.

On our first day in Kyoto we were sore and tired. We’ve walked 11 miles a day and climbed enough steps to get us to heaven since we got to Japan. “Let’s take it easy today,” the LSH suggested. It was a good plan. We were going to stay on the flat and explore our local area. It didn’t quite happen like that, even though it was pouring with rain (we never go anywhere without full waterproof) as we still walked 10 miles and racked up 30 flights of stairs.

We stumbled upon a small shrine dedicated to a goddess of music. I made a request to help all the people I teach make beautiful noises and had my book stamped.

Then we found the gardens outside the Imperial Palace. The Sakura is just beginning to fade and fall off the trees but they were still beautiful. Whatever the guide books say, we think the Imperial Palace is worth a visit (it’s free too). The gardens inside are stunning.
“I love those,” I said pointing at the rain chains hanging from the gutters, “Maybe we could find a space in our garden for one.”

 

The LSH had already thought of that. We are planning to redesign the garden to include a workshop where he can use my Dad’s tools to keep him busy now that he’s a YAP (Young Aged Pensioner).
“I could hang it from my shed,” he said,  “and if we can’t get one I can make it from tiny terracotta pots.”
As we walked around we continued to be inspired. It was amazing what was done in relatively small areas. Water features, gravel, tiny trees all gave me the Gardener’s World feeling.

 Then we went to the GinkaKuji Temple, also known as the silver pavilion. It’s not actually silver but is considered second rate compared to the golden one, which is actually gold (We haven’t been there yet so I can’t compare them). This temple is beautiful, mainly because of its garden. Even I felt at peace there and peace isn’t something I’ve felt for a while. Instead of grass there was moss. Little  fluffy hillocks in rich and various shades of green.  The LSH couldn’t believe what her was seeing.
“It’s all moss!” he kept saying.

I suggested we try it in our garden. He was horrified. “Embrace the moss,” I have whispered quietly in his ear every hour or so since.

 We were going to see the garden at Heian-Jingu shrine but when we got there we were shattered. The rain was beginning to drip down my neck and even my excellent waterproofs were in danger of leaking.  I’m so glad we saved it until today. In the sunshine, it was the most inspiring garden I have ever visited.

Japan is my new Monty Don. There is inspiration everywhere. Small pots to tiny plots to temples and palaces, everywhere is a gardener’s delight.

Normal Rules Don’t Apply

Since we arrived in Japan we have marvelled at what a rule bound society it seems to be. Everything feels neat and ordered, with everyone knowing and happily following them.  No one ever does an unseen eye roll after bowing for the umpteenth time, or pushes onto the train, or crosses the road before the green man appears. They walk calmly, certain that they have left exactly the right amount of time to get where they are going. I like it. Even in a big city with flashing lights everywhere you can feel calm.

Today we travelled from Miyajima to Kyoto, where we will stay for 5 nights (and actually unpack - I’m very excited about this). With the Japan rail pass (worth every penny if you ever make a trip like this) you can’t take the straight through bullet trains so you have to change. They recommend changing at Shin-Kobe but a friend had recommended seeing Himeji Castle and we discovered that changing there with a three hour stop between trains gave us enough time to see this absolutely beautiful place. We left our cases in the lockers at the station and walked up to the castle.

Himeji is a place where normal rules seem to not apply. Outside the train station were some  musicians. We’d seen buskers before in Tokyo but people shuffle past not making eye contact. In Himeji they had drawn a crowd and the crowd were clapping and singing along. Then we noticed that people were running. Someone even crossed the road before the green man appeared. The Long Suffering Husband looked at me, confused. I scratched my head, “I’m not sure what’s going on,” I told him.
Then I noticed that they have statues of women in Himeji and not just naked ones.  The castle, which they describe as a white heron, seems to be all about a Princess, rather than her husband.

People were eating as they were walking along the street. It was most odd. In Tokyo where they sold street food there were helpful signs reminding you that walking and eating just wasn’t on. Hundreds of people stood on one street corner looking at their phones (we assume it was Pokemon related). Even the crossing Jedis in Himeji also seemed very old.

“People don’t seem very happy here,” observed the LSH.
“That’s because normal rules don’t apply here,” I said.
Then we saw another statue that confirmed my theory.

Naked saxophone playing is against the rules wherever you are.

I’m on top of my maiden

When we were booking our trip to Japan I kept looking at going to Mount Fuji but the Long Suffering Husband insisted that we didn’t have time. He was right. I’m glad I listened to him as I’m really looking forward to a five nights in the same place tomorrow. It will be so lovely to unpack.

Tonight we are staying on the island of Miyajima. You’ve probably never heard of it but you’ve seen the pictures.

It’s such a beautiful, spiritual place. Wild deer wander around and try to get into the few hotels that are here to nibble on the plastic trees.

You can hear birds tweeting in Japanese (yes, they do sound different). The waves lap gently at the shore in front with mountain filled trees behind. You can see why it was chosen as a spiritual place. It’s full of Shintō temples and shrines and even contains the  eternal flame, lit by the Shogun but the best of these are at the top of the mountain.

There is a cable car, called the Miyajima Ropeway that takes you most of the way to the top. The LSH is a bit scared of things that you can plummet to your death from but we are having a holiday of being brave. Also, I think he thought I’d make him walk up. We shared a cable car with two Japanese ladies, who were more nervous and enjoyed chatting in the smiling, gesturing way you do when you don’t speak each other’s language.

When you get to the top of the ropeway there is still quite a trek up to the top. Our new friends didn’t make it but I think they had the wrong shoes. As we were going up the LSH said, “How come you make me do this every holiday we have?”
I suddenly realised why Fuji was not on our itinerary. He thought I’d want to climb it.
When we got to the top he WhatsApped the kids, “I’m on top of my maiden.”
Autocorrect had given them a bit of a shock but he was telling them the name of the mountain: Mt Misen.
It was worth it as the views were spectacular and I found my favourite god.

I stopped in the little shop to buy a bookmark and get my little book stamped and the man gave me a  present of a second bookmark and explained that the mountain was a maiden, it’s line drawing shown
on the bookmark, turned sideways looks exactly like a woman.

We did walk all the way down the mountain, which may not have been the best idea as we are sleeping in a traditional style room tonight. Sleeping on the the floor with creaky knees and aching back might be a challenge.

Exhausting, upsetting and beautiful

It’s Thursday, it must be Hiroshima. When in London, we’ve always laughed at the Japanese tourists, doing exactly what we are doing. If you travel all this distance you want to see everything. Of course you can’t but you travel great distances, clicking away with your camera, barely taking it all in.

It was exciting to get the Shinkansen and travelling 500 miles in five hours in relative comfort is not to be unappreciated but it is exhausting. 

Since arriving we have visited the peace park, the museum, some gardens, a shrine and the castle. A Japanese woman giving a private tour to a rich American told her that Shintoism has 80,000 gods and its not really a religion, more of a spirituality. It is the most amazing place; a Phoenix that has risen from the flames and dedicated its life to hoping that no where else suffers the same way. The stories of what people went through (and are still going through) made me so glad that I’m a woolly lefty liberal, who is totally against war and completely committed to suggesting that no war is ever justified. 

 

Hiroshima is a very pretty place. The cherry blossom is still just in bloom, which gives the whole place a pink glow. We struggled to understand how a place could feel so safe. We walked through a park where there were tents set up. There had been a flower show, which was then closed for the day. The exhibitors and stall holders had just left everything out for the night and gone home. We kept saying, “You couldn’t do this at home .” and it made us feel a bit ashamed. 

In the evening we were brave and went to a restaurant where we couldn’t even read the name. We love the feel of these bar/restaurant type places. Serious businessmen in their regulation suits sit and drink beer and Sake and relax. Today we had Okonomiyaki, a speciality of Hiroshima. We sat around a large hot plate where the chefs made a layered dish of thin omelette, cabbage, pork, bean sprouts, sweet corn and noodles in front of us. It was topped with a stick, slighly spicy soy sauce and we were given a spatula and chopsticks to eat it with. 

Tokyo Shrines

There are so many shrines in Tokyo you couldn’t see them all.

Yesterday, I wondered why you would want to. “Seen one shrine, seen them all,” I kept muttering under my breath. I was tired and a bit grumpy yesterday. We walked thirteen and a half miles and I’d only managed about four hours of sleep. It was sunny and the shrines were all quite noisy and crowded. I found most of them a bit overwhelming. Today, however, after a good nights sleep and viewing them in the rain with less people I’m beginning to think I could just spend my life on a shrine hunt. They are all slightly different but also the same.

Every shrine starts with at least one Torii gate at its entrance. These are often red but not always.

You should bow as you enter and before you leave. The gates mark a distinction between the real world and the world of the gods. There is something about going under these huge gates that makes you feel how small and unimportant you are in the world.

These gates sometimes lead to shrines and sometimes to temples. I haven really worked out the difference, except that you are supposed to light incense at a temple. Some temples are Buddhist not  Shinto but Shinto shrines still have the Buddhist symbols. It is quite shocking to see the swastika on  something so peaceful. Blooming Nazis!

As you approach you come to a place to cleanse yourself ready to greet the gods. You are supposed to dip the ladle in, pour some water into your left hand which you then tip in your right hand. I have read that you are also meant to wash your mouth with it (from your hand, not the ladle) although I have yet to see anyone do that.

When you get to the shrine you can ring the bell two or three times to let the gods know you’ve arrived.

Then you go up the steps, bow deeply, drop a coin in the box, clap twice,  make your wish thanking the gods and bow again before you go back down the steps.

Inside the shrine or temple it can be sparse or highly decorated. There is often a huge drum.
Each place has its own unique thing. I believe that each one hosts different gods and can bring different luck.  You can buy a fortune and if it’s good luck you take it with you but bad luck you tie onto something to leave it there for the gods to deal with. My fortune was very bad luck and said that fire was going to burn up to the sky. Unfortunately, when I tried to tie it on I pulled too hard and ripped the paper in half. Still, the LSH got ordinary good luck where every day just gets better. I think I’ll borrow a bit of his.

All shrines have something that is worthy of Instagram, from sake barrels to multiple gates, to huge pagodas. Here are a few more pictures.