Trip report: Shikoku, Japan
In which I interview myself about myself (I'm sorry).
The following interview took place between Patrick Boxall and Patrick Boxall over a number of days in May 2024. Neither was a guest of Tourism Japan. This transcript has been edited for both clarity and legal purposes.
I suppose the obvious question is: how’s the book coming along?
A book? What book? I never said I wanted to write one of those, did I?
In your last newsletter you wrote: “No-one I’ve spoken to has actually heard of this pilgrimage and I would like to share its stories in some way, be it through these newsletters or something longer once I return.” I would argue there’s a strong implication that a book was the goal.
You know I don’t deal in implications.
But you told people – myself included – that you hoped to write a book.
Well, yes. And I suppose I thought I could. I thought I could write something meaningful about Japan. About people and places and maybe even faith and religion. About what it all meant, you know? About life, yeah? I mean, I’ve read books about long walks and thought: I could do this. And you’re right. I confidently informed certain people that this was something I was capable of doing.
So what changed?
I was foolish, wasn’t I? Naive. Arrogant, even. Because books are hard to write. They’re long. They have structure (ugh). They’re supposed to have a point, a plot, a purpose. There has to be a transformation. Details and descriptions. These are not things I excel at.
And I’ve found that books about long walks follow a well-trodden path: an unprepared author bites off more than they can chew, vanquishes their enemies (blisters), comes to terms with their trauma and discovers they’re stronger than they know. Et voilà! A bestseller is born.
It worked for Wild, didn’t it?
Yes but Wild was incredible. I mean, a former heroin addict overcomes abuse, bereavement and her own demons while conquering the Pacific Coast Trail. What’s not to love? My experience came closer to Mild. A former private school boy overcomes a minor achilles strain while walking along a highway.
So there were no blisters? No trauma to work through?
No blisters. No trauma. Or to put it in narrative terms: no goddamn plot. Not that I didn’t try, of course. Countless kilometres passed with me mining my life for long-repressed trauma, for anything that could anchor my transformative journey along the Shikoku Henro. But I came up empty handed. I suppose, on reflection, my childhood consisted of unconditional love. Just forgiveness, really. Just roots and wings, as my mother once said in a speech. Just my luck.
Did you enjoy yourself, at least? How far did you walk in the end?
I covered 1070 kilometres on foot. The pilgrimage’s official distance is 1140km, but I took a few buses and trains because of my tight timeframe. And sure, I had fun. For whatever reason I like walking for weeks on end. Were I [insert comfortable level of wealth, adjusted for inflation], I’m sure I would spend my life walking. It’s fun, but fun is not a good through line. Fun does not win you a Pulitzer. Fun does not a novel maketh.
Yet you agreed to this interview.
Well, there are still things I want to share with people.
Before you do, can you share some context about the walk and its history?
Can’t you Google that?
Seriously?
Fine. The walk is called the Shikoku Henro. It’s an old Buddhist pilgrimage visiting 88 temples on the island of Shikoku, which is southwest of Osaka. It’s a circular pilgrimage, so you finish where you started. I’m sure there’s a poetic metaphor to be had there but I’m too tired – too cynical, perhaps – to reach for it. The temples are associated with a monk called Kōbo Daishi, who brought Buddhism from China to Japan. He was born on Shikoku, near Zentsūji (Temple #75), and lived from 774–835AD.
It sounds like you learned a lot.
Honestly, this Kōbo bloke was everywhere. From what I understand he just walked around carving statues and building temples and performing miracles and meditating. Constructed a dam, too. Apparently the townsfolk were so excited to work for him they completed the build in record time. The guy was productive if nothing else.
At Cape Ashizuri, there’s actually a torii [shrine gate] known as “The Torii That Wasn’t Built In A Night”. It’s famous because Kōbo Daishi couldn’t knock it off in an evening. This is a man who achieved enlightenment at the age of 35, while meditating in a cave. He opened his mouth and a shooting star flew in. Boom. Enlightened. A hell of a stomachache too, I imagine.
Impressive. Am I right in saying there was a uniform you had to wear?
You’ve done your research. Yes, there’s a henro uniform, but it’s not mandatory.
Henro?
That’s what pilgrims are known as. The pilgrimage is called the Shikoku Henro, the pilgrims are o-henro-san, or simply henro. They identify themselves by wearing a white vest, which traditionally doubled as a burial shroud should the pilgrim die on their journey. And a conical hat, the kind you might imagine a rice farmer wearing. I enjoyed the hat because it felt a little, I don’t know, culturally appropriative? Like I would be cancelled if I wore it in any other setting.
The idea of wearing burial shroud is bleak.
Death, man. The Buddhists are all about it. I carried a stick, too, which doubled as a grave marker. You’re basically equipped to die at any point. Which is annoying, given I’d paid for a return flight. But the stick, or kongōtsue, is also said to be the physical embodiment of Kōbo Daishi. He walks beside all pilgrims. There are all these rules to do with how you treat your stick; you can’t tap it on a bridge, for example, because Kōbo passed a freezing night under a bridge and you wouldn’t want to disturb him.
Did you stick to those rules? Were there other rituals?
As much as possible, but I didn’t beat myself up for fucking up or forgetting. Given the state of the world, I feel we could all use a bit of Big Daishi Energy in our lives. So, you know, perhaps it was time to wake the great man up. You can’t just sleep under a bridge while the world goes to shit.
It’s funny, though, how important a lot of the rules – maybe customs is a better word – became to me. To all the pilgrims. Like, I would become agitated if I didn’t have coins to leave as an offering. Or if there was nowhere to wash my hands before entering a temple. I was called out by several people for walking with my stick tapping a bridge. Not in an overly serious way, of course, but after a week or two these things become weirdly important to you.
Did you identify as Buddhist before you went to Japan?
I was as Buddhist as any white guy in his late twenties or early thirties. That is to say I, you know, liked the vibe of it. Detachment and all that. I imagine there’s a thin line between Buddhist Detachment and an apathetic arsehole and I’m still not sure which side I land on. That said, I’ve bought books by Alan Watts and almost finished them, and my YouTube algorithm occasionally suggests videos with titles like Stop trying to get it and you’ll have it. Perhaps that’s enough to call oneself a Buddhist.
Would spiritual be more accurate, then?
No. I, too, have ruined a stranger’s day by claiming to be spiritual but not religious, but I like to think I’m better than that now. I’m definitely older. Perhaps wiser. I like to think I’m off spiritual and pro The Void. Comfortable with it. Encouraging of it. Like, I would follow The Void on Instagram. But only if it promised to follow me back.
So you’re an atheist? Agnostic?
I think, if anything, I subscribe to the Lou Bega approach to spirituality and religion.
Lou Bega?
Come on, man. Mambo No 5.
I don’t follow.
A little bit of Jesus in my life. A little bit of Allah by my side. A little bit of Buddha’s all I need. A little bit of Shiva’s what I see. A little bit of Vishnu in the sun. A little bit of Joseph (Smith) all night long.
I’m wary of blasphemy, and getting bogged down in religion, as I know a lot of our readers are keen to hear about the people and landscapes you encountered. Or you might say the external over the internal, right?
You both flatter and infuriate me.
Let’s talk topography. The landscapes. Were you surprised by how Shikoku looked?
I was surprised by how stupid I was. I read that the path is 85–90% bitumen yet I arrived thinking there’s no way that could be right.
Was it?
It was. Of course it was. Shikoku is an insanely mountainous island. Look at a satellite image. Range after range of steep mountains. It looks like a piece of scrunched up paper. And the pilgrimage route does take you into the mountains, to those hard-to-reach temples, but a lot of it follows the path of least resistance through valleys and along the coast.
That’s the thing about pilgrimages: people have been walking them for a thousand-plus years, so the routes follow the most obvious path. And that obvious walking path became the obvious path for a horse, which became the obvious path for a car, which is now the obvious path for buses and trucks too. There was a hell of a lot of road walking, and while that could be really frustrating, it also meant the mountain stages, or any section through forest, felt extra special. Again, there’s a metaphor there, but I can’t be bothered with it.
What were the forests like?
Oh, man. These forests, I tell ya. As green and clean as you’ve ever seen. Trees. Soil. Moss. The whole shebang. Sublime stuff.
And the mountains?
Really cool. Some of the best walking I’ve ever done, even though you’re often back schlepping along a highway come afternoon.
You’re not exactly painting a pretty picture.
As I made clear at the beginning of this interview: I do not excel at details and descriptions.
Let’s pivot then. Were there many other pilgrims on the route? I’d love to hear about some of the people you met.
It sounds counterintuitive, but people, for me, are what make or break a big walk like this. More so than nature. And there are a lot of oddballs on these trails, myself included. But Shikoku was quiet compared to other walks I’ve done. I walked in spring, which is supposed to be the busy season, but I sometimes walked for two or three days without encountering another henro. There were people walking the opposite direction, which is common in a leap year, but yeah, much quieter than I anticipated. My favourite person I met was Bob from Minnesota. Do I have time to tell you about Bob?
It’s your [quickly dwindling] readership.
I met Bob at a surf hostel overlooking Ozuna Beach. I was staying with a Dutch henro, with whom I’d been walking for a few days, and we were having a couple of beers in the courtyard. Bob turned up late in the evening and we were thrilled because he was a regular tourist, rather than a pilgrim.
How did you know?
He was wearing a cream turtleneck and a heavy suede jacket. Not an inch of Gore Tex on him. He was bearded, in his early thirties maybe, and he immediately ingratiated himself by popping over to the 7/11 to buy a couple more beers. He then peppered us with questions about the walk and why we were doing it. I’m embarrassed to say our responses were far from inspiring: we, um, like walking?
No, not a particularly riveting response. What was Bob’s deal?
He was from Minnesota. He was interested in Zen and had just spent a week in meditation at a monastery on Honshu, Japan’s main island. He said it was a worthwhile experience, but that he’d been surprised by the atmosphere. He arrived at the monastery expecting to go deep in the craft but the monks, he said, kept fucking around. Talking shit and playing pranks on each other. He said it felt more like a frat house than a place of contemplation. Isn’t that fantastic?
How so?
Can you not see it? Use your imagination. Here’s Bob – beautiful, bearded Bob – sitting in lotus position. He’s upright, he’s uptight, and he’s shooting spiritual daggers at the freshman monks causing a ruckus outside. They’re chanting. They’re doing keg stands. They’re holding each other’s ankles and their upturned robes reveal crudely tattooed buttocks.
BUUU–DDHA!
BUUU–DDHA!
It sounds unlikely.
Just…whatever. I loved it. I can’t stop thinking about how disappointed Bob was. Imagine complaining that the monks aren’t being serious enough.
What about other pilgrims? You mentioned a Dutch guy?
Yeah, he was great. We’d both walked several of the Camino de Santiago routes so we were on a similar page. Both liked walking, having a beer, having some food. Liked our alone time but enjoyed meeting up throughout the day or in the evening. We shared a room a couple of times because of messed-up bookings. He said something really beautiful while we were walking one day. We’d been talking about his life and his family. About his divorce, which happened years ago. He said: divorce is sad, but it’s also brave. I thought that was nice. I wrote it down.
Before we were ‘on the record’, you mentioned making a bit of a faux pas with a Canadian pilgrim. Are you comfortable talking about it?
I mean, I am. I feel like a bit of a prick, but sure, I can talk about it.
You were in Kochi, right? A city in southern Shikoku?
Correct. Can I start by saying I’d had an incredibly stressful morning?
You can start however you wish.
Okay. So, I was having an incredibly stressful morning. I had a sore foot and had decided to skip a 50-kilometre stretch of coastal highway because I was falling behind schedule. The trains don’t run very often in this part of Shikoku because it’s fairly rural and isolated. I needed to get a train from my accommodation to the base of a mountain, then walk up the mountain to a temple, walk back down, and get another train to Kochi City, where I’d then walk a further 25 kilometres. If I missed the 10am to Kochi, I’d have to wait until 3 or 4pm. Seriously high stakes.
I left the guesthouse at 5am to give myself plenty of time. Took the train and was halfway up the mountain when I realised I’d left my stick behind. Now this temple – Kōnomineji (#27) – is a shekisoji, or spiritual checkpoint. If you are not worthy, in a spiritual sense, of continuing your pilgrimage, something will happen to put a stop to it. And I’d left my fucking stick – the physical embodiment of Kōbo Daishi – behind. There was no way I was worthy.
It sounds stressful.
I sense sarcasm in your tone, and look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But it was stressful. I’d been carrying this stick for over 300 kilometres and it was part of me. My head spun when I realised I’d left it behind. It felt like losing a child.
I highly doubt that.
This is my lived experience, yeah? So, to cut a long story short, I rejigged my plans. I hit the temple at pace – in the rain, I might add – then caught a train back towards my accommodation. I left my pack in the corner of a convenience store and sprinted back to pick up the stick. I made it back to the station with under a minute to spare.
Ever the athlete.
Thank you. When I arrived in Kochi City, this Canadian woman – Christie – got off the same train and struck up a conversation. We were both heading to Dainichiji (#28) so we decided to walk together. She asked how my morning was going and I told her, with great theatrical flourish, the same story I just told you. My stick, the mountain, the rain. The fear I felt having left it behind. The panic, the anxiety. An overwhelming sense that disaster had struck.
How did she react?
She laughed, which was kind of her. And then she asked why I was walking the pilgrimage. I mumbled something about enjoying walking and quickly returned the favour.
What was her reason for walking?
Christie was one of what I like to call The Walking Wounded. Their native habitat tends to be the Camino, but they occasionally branch out further. Within five seconds they’ll ask why you’re walking; within ten, they’ll share something extremely vulnerable and expect you to do the same. And let me say, for the record, that I love these people. I’m just not one of them.
How was Christie wounded? What was her story?
I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about this.
It’s a little late now.
Maybe if we change her name. Can we do that?
Sure. What name would you like to use?
Let’s call her Cammy.
Okay. What was Cammy’s story?
Cammy was walking in honour of her son, who had taken his own life a year prior. He was 17 and his favourite country was Japan.
Fuck.
I know.
What did she say?
She spoke about the pain she felt and asked me if I’d met Park, a Korean pilgrim. I hadn’t. She told me that he’d had a parachuting accident in the military and had basically broken everything. He was walking to believe in his body again. She told me they often spoke about pain. Even though it was a different kind of pain. How they both walked with it, both walked through it. She told me that’s all you can do.
Christ. And you had compared losing your stick to losing a child?
For this, too, I ask forgiveness.
Did she pull you up at all?
No. But she did tell me that it’s impossible to know what it’s like to lose a child until it happens to you.
How did that make you feel?
Like she hadn’t been listening when I explained what happened with my stick.
Stop it.
I know you’re thinking the same thing.
Let’s move on – how was the food?
I’m honestly not a huge food guy. Don’t get me wrong – I like the idea of food, I understand its place in the world, but I’m unsatisfied with my experience of it thus far. That said, I’ve had some fairly gnarly withdrawals since coming home.
Withdrawals from what?
From sugar, primarily. From the four prepackaged, pillowy-soft peanut-butter sandwiches I consumed for breakfast each day. From rice; glorious, glutinous rice. From the sugar-soaked tofu skins that I thought, for weeks, constituted a healthy lunch option. From fried chicken. Pickled plums. From my afternoon hit of two Snickers, a packet of Pringles and an alcohol-free beer. Washed down, of course, with a real beer.
Japan has a reputation for some pretty out-there foods.
I heard about people eating whale and urchin but I managed to avoid all that. I was warned by Akira, a Japanese pilgrim, that guesthouse owners would hunt down all kinds of strange seafood from the local market and serve it to me. That’s why I steered clear of the fancier coastal guesthouses, but a man named Yohei still managed to trick me into eating shark. It’s fish, he argued, when I expressed my distaste for the tuna-like meat cocooned in…what was it? Jelly? Congealed fat? He said, You said you like fish and shark is big fish.
Touché, Yohei.
Touché indeed. A real foodie highlight, come to think of it, was sharing some bar nuts and a Cognac with an old Japanese guy in the mountains. I walked past his house at eight in the morning and he waved me into his garden. I assumed he would offer me coffee, which he did, but he also brought out the Hennessy.
A little early, no?
No doubt, but what was I to do? I tried to pour myself a small glass – a nip, no more! – but he insisted I down a double. Motto, he commanded, which means more. He kept tipping the arse-end of the bottle as I poured. Motto. Motto. So I sipped my enormous Cognac while he poured himself a second. Then we flicked through a guestbook filled with messages from previous pilgrims, all of whom were greatly appreciative of a breakfast brandy.
How long did you stay for?
That took an hour, I reckon. And then we took a stroll through his garden. He had all these amazing stone statues. He was desperate for me to ride his stone tiger with him.
Did you?
I did. And the best part? I saw a few friends later that day and they had all stopped for a drink with this guy. One of them walked past at 6.30 that morning and had a beer, and another drank some Cognac around 3pm. He must’ve been belted by the end of the day.
It’s an amusing anecdote. But a highlight? Really?
I think so. I mean, now that I’m home I’m trying to decide how important this interaction was. Like, is my life better or worse for having drunk Cognac with this man? Does enjoying some bar nuts with a retired drunk qualify as a cultural – dare I say transformative – experience? It ruined the rest of my day as I was tipsy and dehydrated and still had 30 kilometres to cover. But I look back on it fondly.
A good question, I guess, is what makes any experience important? I think of the things that have really stuck with me from this walk and none of them are what you’d think of as big moments. Returning to Temple #1 – completing my 1100km circle – wasn’t particularly emotional. But I was eating lunch one afternoon, maybe halfway through the pilgrimage, when a man scurried out of the restaurant and returned with an enormous orange. It was sliced up and served to me as a gift. I almost cried. Seriously. The locals call it osettai – a gift given to a pilgrim, which is actually a gift given to Kōbo Daishi.
Did you get many gifts?
So many. And it’s rude to refuse these gifts, too. You bow deeply and say thank you, thank you. Even if you’re given an enormous bag of oranges, as one pilgrim was, which would add a lot to your pack weight. I was given coins for a cold drink from the vending machine. Cars pulled over to hand me a can of coffee or a soft drink. Walking through a park, I was called over by two women to drink coffee with them. Neither of them spoke English, and I don’t speak Japanese, but we sat there for half an hour sipping coffee and eating biscuits. They were thrilled when I asked to take a photo of them.
It sounds like there was a lot of kindness along the path.
Kindness, yes. That’s what we, the Westerners, kept commenting on. How kind everyone was. Small kindnesses, too, like cars swerving to avoid splashing us with puddles. Or a farmer tossing an orange our way. People would go out of their way to help you. Even when you didn’t know you needed help.
Why is that? Because of the Japanese culture?
Sure. But I think it also has something to do with the vulnerability that comes with walking. People want to talk to you, help you. Learn about your life and how you’re liking their village, their city, their country. I was passing through the tiniest village, in this remote river valley filled with peach trees and cherry blossoms, and was stopped by a youngish guy out for a spin with his ancient aunt and uncle. He asks me, in this flawless Canadian accent, how my day is going – turns out he runs a medical lab in the Yukon. So he gives me his WhatsApp and tells me to message or call if I ever need help with translating, or booking accommodation, or anything, really. Then he gives me a couple of bottles of water and points me in the direction of my campsite.
So kind.
I mean, I was hoping for an invitation to dinner. But sure. Kind enough.
You mentioned earlier that you took a few trains and buses. Was that always the plan?
No. But walking 35–40 kilometres everyday doesn’t leave much time or energy for anything else. I realised I could either be the guy who walked 35 kilometres a day and experienced nothing, or the guy who walked 30 and managed an occasional bath and conversation. Neither would be particularly great company at a dinner party, but the guy who bathed would, at least, be okay to sit next to. And maybe that’s what life is about: becoming someone who is okay to sit next to.
That almost sounds like an epiphany.
I know, I know – I promised not to have an epiphany. But I also said I wasn’t trying to write about Japan, and the truth is, I have been. Though I’d be lying if I said it’s been productive.
How so?
I’ve spent the last three days trying to come up with a collective noun for flaccid penises.
Excuse me?
A collective noun. Like a murder of crows, or a mob of kangaroos. But for, uh, flaccid penises.
I’m not sure I want to know why.
I was trying to nail this sentence:
“How, in the sweat-soaked sauna of a rural onsen, the speakers blasted Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing as a droop of flaccid penises festered around me.”
That’s quite a sentence.
Three days, Patrick. Three days to come up with: a droop of flaccid penises.
Are you happy with “a droop”? Was it worth the effort?
Happier than I was with the situation I’m trying to describe.
I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing – kind of ironic, isn’t it?
Oh, Patrick.
How I wanted to close my eyes.
How I wanted to miss it all.
Thanks for your time. And the disturbing visual, I guess.
This was a great read.
Look forward to the book version of this! Great read.