Shikoku

Rolling off the car-ferry in Tokushima, there isn't much time for a novice on a borrowed bike to build up good cycling legs. A dozen miles of flat, and the mountains are abruptly here. But what chances does gravity stand against youthful enthusiasm? Can't be bridled, even by a heavy rucksack and a hard narrow saddle.

Loneliness feels slightly unnerving, though. Especially straight after Tokyo. To lighten the mood, dark clouds appear overhead and it starts drizzling. The eaves of a temple provide shelter for the night, if not spiritual guidance. Off at dawn, before the monks discover my trespassing.
As usual, sunshine makes all the difference. Already physically and mentally atuned to the new state of affairs, I can start enjoying the beauty of the land and the simple routine, pedal, eat, sleep on the ground, bathe in rivers, freedom. So simple and organic I feel like an animal at times.
The alpine backdrop unrolls, mile after mile, uphill and down. A maze of summits and river gorges, and often the only piece of flat land is the road.

On a long hard climb, a car overtakes and stops. A man steps out and gives me two garden-fresh radishes and a brand new head towel, wishes me 'Gambatte' (good luck) and speeds off before I can say thank you. The Japanese have a reputation for being reserved with foreigners.

Around a corner, somewhere in the maze of hillsides and pedalling days, miles from anywhere, a house and a homemade golf driving range perched on the edge of a precipice. A man is sitting on the porch, waiting for passing trade to stop and practise their swing with his battered irons.
He shuffles across, head towel down to his eyebrows and cigarette hanging off his snarl, looks me up and down. 'You got girlfriend?' he enquires, and mimes the internationally-recognized skiing motion indicating sexual intercourse. Not waiting for a reply, he guffaws and forces me to shoot a couple of complimentary balls into his dilapidated net. I get a tee as a leaving present as he spits on the ground and waves me off with a grunt. The Japanese have a reputation for being reserved with foreigners. And for being full of contradictions.

Along the road, a cast of characters keeps making appearances at random to brighten long days and anchor memories. Little moments shared with pilgrims, animals, truckers and farmers to sprinkle a touch of friendship or comedy. And hospitality doesn't fail to materialize in times of need, a room, a meal, or the shelter of a primary school on a stormy day, offered as an exhibit to the children's curiosity and sitting as their privileged guest to an impromptu Taiko drumming performance while thunder echoes across the valley.

The heavy rucksack, the hard saddle and inadequate denim shorts would eventually take their toll on my flesh and morale, but the two weeks until capitulation are remembered as a magical time of meditative solitude and vagrancy.