The whole thing is 77KM (48 miles) but there are hostels and so on along the way. I had done my preparation work; I knew to get the map from the tourist information office at the station and then I would rent a bike from the Municipal Parking Garage behind the Green Hill Hotel, 5 minutes walk from the train station. All planned out.
I got to Onomichi station at about 8:30AM and rushed over to the tourist info booth. The lady at the counter gave me the map but apologised because it was all in Japanese.
And indeed it was. All the place names in difficult kanji with a big scary diagram of the whole bridge network. There were some friendly cliparty pictures of people cycling though so that gave me hope.
I had to explore for quite a bit before I found the Municipal Parking Garage for bike rental. In my search for it I came across Pontefract.
In case you don’t know, Pontefract is an English town in the county of Yorkshire. It is also where my mum is from and so I have been there many times to see relatives and so on. It isn’t particularly famous or particularly pleasant a place (sorry relatives) though it does have a Morrisons. Anyway, I was frankly astounded to find it in Japan.
It was the name of a plant shop, a “Herb House.”
As you can see it was closed when I was standing outside it in confusion. There was no one to ask about why on earth this shop had that name, nobody to finally demand that Japan make sense. But really, the minute Japan makes complete sense it will wink suspiciously and then fly into space.
When I did find the bike rental place, it was underneath Pontefract, there were some polite ladies choosing bikes. The owner of the place, a large but small man in a white Tshirt, was barking orders at them. I saw one of the women make a, “what’s wrong with him,” face which I was also included in. As the women chose theirs bike I walked around wondering which one I should get. Not having ridden a bike for around 6 months I was feeling nervous about this whole idea.
It wasn’t long before the women were gone and the man in the white T-shirt beckoned me over. He sat down at a desk and I sat on the other side, there were forms to fill in.
The Shimanamikaido has many good things about it. Bike rental is pretty cheap, you can get the bike at one end and leave at the other and there are signposts and the leaflet. Online there is not much information, but somewhere is a Japan Cycling Guide with pictures and so on that I had looked through.
I was filling out the form as best I could, writing my name in katakana, the alphabet used to write foreign words. In katakana my name is ニク グリルス The bike man looked at what I had written, sighed and demanded, “Don’t write in English letters.”
Now I don’t know about you but I think there’s a big difference between my name written in English, Nick Grills, and in Japanese, ニク グリルス.
“It’s in katakana” I complained to him, he didn’t seem to hear me.
We struggled through the rest of the form and I handed over the money. He explained lots of things to me for which I used my pretend-to-understand nod.
At some point he became nice because as I got on my bike he got on his to show me where the ferry port was.
I couldn’t get my bike to unlock though, all the bikes in Japan have inbuilt locks that you use a tiny key for. Probably any 5 year old in the country could do it, but not me. He smiled and did it for me. “It’s different in the UK,” I said pathetically.
We cycled to the ferry for the first island, which was about two minutes bike ride from the shop. He checked I had the correct money and then shook my hand. The ferry left a second later with me on board clutching my new stead.
Two minutes later the ferry had arrived, it was a pathetically short journey but all the advice online says to get the ferry from Onomichi to the first island, Mukajima. There is a bridge between the two islands but it is not very cyclist friendly.
I got off the ferry and found myself on the bend of a road, there was hardly anyone, or anything, around. A picture of a bike on the pavement indicated the cycle lane which I thought must be the right way. I started cycling, picking up speed and easily balancing myself with my backpack aboard my back.
It was starting to get hot but there was a breeze, things were fine…
but not for long. After about 15 minutes I was unsure whether I was going the right way, there were hardly any signs and it had been a while since the last one. There being cycle marks on the pavement was nothing much, in Japan everyone cycles on the pavement. I stopped outside a small restaurant and went in to ask for directions.
Alarmingly, they had never heard of the Shimanamikaido, even when I showed them my leaflet they both looked worried – on my behalf. “Good luck” they told me as I left.
I carried on the way I was going and then turned left onto a more main road that seemed to be the right way. The going was hard as I was cycling on proper road now and it started going up hill. The sun was high in the sky and I was already very sweaty.
After 15 minutes I came to a carpark with some trucks but no drivers. I hid from the sunshine in the shadow of a truck and drank some precious water. I got going again.
On and on. The road became more scenic and sloped down next to the edge of the sea. I felt better now, and as I went around the corner I saw a bridge to the next island which I recognised from online.
But when I got over the bridge I had a left or right decision. Both looked the same. I looked at my map but after trying to fit the red lines on the map to the roads I had been on I realised that I wasn’t even sure what island I was on. I went right and followed the road down between fields and orchards. It was pleasant now, downhill and quiet, the road became much smaller and led into a small cluster of houses with a shop.
And another junction. I went left.
Onwards and I found myself having to stop more often to rest. The road came to a pitch black tunnel that I could see the end of, but was fairly long and looked unsafe with no lights. A steep path led up the side and I ditched my bike and mustered the energy to climb the path and see how easy it would be to avoid the tunnel. It wouldn’t be, so I braved the tunnel.
I came out the other side unscathed and grateful for the shade.
The road sloped down by some houses and then a large truck came along, it was going down the same road, next to the sea. I was just metres from the water, the view was beautiful.
The truck stopped in a car park with other vehicles digging at the ground. The road I was on turned into a hill and I soon had to get off and push.
A voice in my head, called Reason, was telling me to stop. I was already exhausted, hot and honestly didn’t know where I was. I was certain that I was lost but I didn’t know how lost I was. I also had the unnerving feeling of being somewhere I really didn’t belong. This was the back end of the middle of nowhere; there were houses but no one around, not one solitary figure. The signs were unreadable, my phone had no signal and the map was useless to me. It was all going horribly wrong.
Resting in some trees I decided it would be all or nothing and that I had to act either way and stick to it.
You know all those films, or should I say all films, where the central character has something they have committed themselves to doing but there comes a point where he or she nearly gives up. Well Western culture keeps this idea running strong: in order to achieve something you have to stick at it, you get out what you put in, never give up. In any story anyone ever tells you where this situation occurs you expect them to tell you that they put in the effort or they found the solution and got there in the end.
Well not this story.
I decided to give up, not just go down the hill to the tunnel, not just go back to the bridge or the first island. I decided to go right back to the man in the white T-shirt and give him his bike back. It was clear that this was beyond me. As I cycled back there were no people, no cars, even the trucks were gone.
I got more lost trying to find the way back. I cycled along roads desperately trying to remember any familiar houses or trees or anything. After trying many identical roads I eventually found the tunnel and it was my hallelujah, I knew the way from there.
Back near the shop, well I thought it was a shop but it was actually a house with large windows and a vending machine outside, I got a drink and sat in the shade. I remembered staying in tiny villages in France as child and having a fear that I would wake up and my family would have left me. This was years before I knew any French and the sense of fear and helplessness the idea gave me was very powerful. Somehow I had gotten myself into a similar situation.
Back over the bridge and I saw a rare sight, a westerner. He was a proper cyclist in lycra, reflecting sunglasses and basically everything that proper cyclists wear. He was going the other way to me. I stopped and watched which direction he went at the end of the bridge. Instead of going right he went left and I watched as he rode along a flat road following the sea, it looked like a beautiful road; it looked like the correct road. Again I asked myself if this was the right path for me. I answered no and stuck to my guns.
Back on the road next to the parked trucks it got even harder, I hadn’t realised how steep the hill was but once I was over the crest of the slope the rest was easy and I sailed back to the ferry.
I was elated to get back to my starting point, back into a place connected with the parts of Japan I understood: trains, restaurants, shops, airports. The whole excursion from it had lasted over 3 hours and got me nowhere but upset and exhausted.
I stopped outside the bike place to remind myself of some key Japanese expressions for the conversation I was about to have.
“I got lost” I announced as I cycled in and the man in the white T-shirt looked up from his paper. He seemed surprised to see me, and then flustered. I was just hoping to park the bike and walk away but he insisted on getting the paperwork out again.
He needed me to sign to say that it was now all void, he seemed very nervous about this until I got out my Hanko – my Japanese name stamp, equivalent to a signature. He was then concerned that he could not give me my money back, I told him that it was fine, I did not expect any money back. He did give me my 1000 yen deposit though, which was a plus, and then I got the profound luxury of walking away.
On the way, cycling back just before the carpark with the trucks, I had looked up and seen a road sign about 10 metres above me. It said in English, “Shimanamikaido” and pointed up a steep fly road that joined onto a larger road. So most of my day had been spent entirely on the wrong path and although I then knew the right path it only confirmed my decision to take the train. The moral is, if you are on the shimanamikaido follow the cars and look up a lot.
I was so happy to be free of the nightmare of being lost in the back end of Japan.
I went back to the tourist information office to ask about buses. It would take two buses to go across the 77KM of bridges and get to Imabari Station
I changed my clothes from the sweat rags I had on in a toilet. On the way out again a cleaning woman looked at me and said, “That was the women’s.” We both laughed.
I put my bag in a locker and went to Mr Donuts. I felt such elation; it was like a massive problem had been lifted from my shoulders. I mean it had been replaced with the problem of how to get across to Shikoku by other means, but this would not involve peddling around purgatory anymore.
I was getting my bag out the locker again to catch the bus. I put my water bottle, freshly bought, on top of the locker where it fell over when I pulled out my bag. But it didn’t just fall over; it rolled, backwards, till it hit the wall. The lockers were already taller than me, and when I jumped I couldn’t get my arm far enough over to reach the bottle. I thought about stepping inside one of the lockers when I saw a big security camera on the wall right next to me. I did sort of try stepping onto one of the lockers but had nothing to hold on to when I tried to reach over. All in all I probably looked really stupid to who, or what, was watching. It goes without saying that I couldn’t get my water back, I had to buy a new one L
I caught my first bus ok; it seemed to be full of shouting teenagers. I listened to music to drown them out. The bus drove out of Onomichi and over the islands that I was meant to be cycling over. The views were stunning though, the sunshine so strong that everything looked new.
But then I was in doubt about whether my bus stop had passed. I went up to the driver at the next stop and showed him my ticket.
He explained that oh dear, my stop had been the one before that one. A familiar feeling of helplessness crept up on me, it was like I had been getting away from the place but was now discovering that it was just an illusion.
Two Japanese ladies appeared behind me claiming to have the same problem. The driver thought about our dilemma and thank god had a solution. Down the road there were some steps leading up a verge. He told us to go up those steps to a bus stop and wait there.
Getting off the bus I lead the way, partly because I wanted to get to the stop as soon as possible in case there was a bus leaving that moment.
The bus stop had a tiny shelter next to it which was a welcome bit of shade in the mid thirty degree sunshine. Studying the timetable, and listening to the two women who were going in the same direction, the next bus was not for an hour and a half. I sat down and started reading my book. One of the ladies did strike up conversation with me but it didn’t last very long.
The day was feeling like a huge struggle, the worst part of my whole trip by far, the worst part of my year and a half in Japan.
Eventually the bus did come, accepted my ticket and my destination was also the bus’s final one so I could relax. It took over an hour and I tried to get some sleep. The two women got off before me and nodded a courteous goodbye.
At Imabari Station I got a train to Matsuyama, somewhere near enough to where I was but also on the way to the ferry port where I could get to the final island of my trip, Kyushu, in a few days time. The train was slow and it was about 7PM when I arrived in Matsushima. I had nowhere to stay but asked at the tourist information, I was hoping that the guy would call hostels for me – I had heard that people did that for you in Japan. Instead he just gave me some leaflets and wished me luck.
I browsed through some of the leaflet and one place caught my eye. It sounded like a hippie hostel, where you could learn about astrology, aromatherapy, spoon bending and pay extra to talk to the owner about UFOs (in Japanese only alas). It had also been voted in the top ten youth hostels in the whole of Japan.
I called them and a friendly woman informed me in English that there was a bed if I did not mind sharing and no problem to come in the next hour. Things were looking up; I even had the directions to the place in the leaflet, by tram no less.
A large three story traditional bath house was next to the tram’s final stop. Looking at my map I followed the map up a steep road. Tennis courts and what looked like doctors surgeries passed me on both sides. The street lighting was sparse on this road but out of the darkness I walked into the light of some large hotels and the hostel right next to them.
Inside I took some slippers and met the owner of the kindly voice. She told me the rules of the place, there was a sort of curfew at 12, food at certain times and showers on the second floor. She gave me my linen and then up I went to my room.
There were three beds, two were made and the other was covered in things but nothing alive. I was trying to work out where this person came from, they seemed to have some documents with Japanese on them, but then I saw that they had a bottle of shampoo from superdrug which clinched it for me.
The showers in the hostel were odd. The shower heads all contained small green balls that the water ran through, I guess to invest it with minerals or some such. You could buy this special shower head and some green balls from the shop. I didn’t feel much difference but it was great to be in a hostel that cared to provide it.
I went out for some food and a look around. Everything seemed very traditional around the bath house, there were even people walking around in bath robes and sandals. A long enclosed pavilion of shops led on for quite some way selling souvenirs.
And there was a Lawson, I got my convenience food.
On the way back to the hostel I noticed a shadow. It was of a traditionally designed street lamp, but the shadow was caused by a bright flood light from the side of a tennis court.
I went up some steps to get another picture of the shadow but ended up with a blurry image of the bath house.
Then I noticed another shadow, of me this time, going down the steps between a stone torii.
Back at the hostel I ate my food in the now deserted dining room. Up in my room the other bed’s occupant was still absent. I got changed and went to brush my teeth. In the communal bathroom I got talking to a friendly Irish guy.
Back in my room it transpired that he was the one sleeping in the other bed. But this took several hours of darkness and both being unable to sleep to establish.
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