Musashino Musings

Hiking alone around the Japanese mountains gives one plenty of opportunity for rumination and general navel-gazing. I guess in a way that's part of the attraction - getting away from the normal hubbub and allowing the mind some space to step back and take stock.

Yesterday I had a very agreeable few hours exploring the hills above Hatonosu in the Tama valley. We've been spending a lot of time around here recently, in particular around Lake Okutama. Big M is not a fan of Yamanobori (mountain climbing) - hence the reason that I tend to hike alone. But she does enjoy being outside. Lake Okutama boasts a well maintained, and most importantly, an almost entirely flat hiking trail along its southern shoreline. We've had a couple of nice days exploring the 12km trail, enjoying the views and catching rare glimpses of the forest's residents, such as monkeys and snakes.

But whether you are slogging up steep mountain trails or meandering along lakeside paths, the one common feature of the landscape is trees. Lots of them. In fact, Japan has pretty much cornered the market in tree covered mountains. From the bamboo groves of sheltered valleys, through deciduous woodlands and up into the majestic cedar forests, trees are your constant companion when walking in Japan. So yesterday I got to thinking about trees.

In Old Norse tradition, the world was supported by Yggdrasill, the World Tree connecting the nine worlds of Norse mythology. Its roots ran to the wells of knowledge, while its upper branches reached to the heavens. The world of men lay nestled in its branches and squirrels ran up and down the trunk carrying messages between the gods and the different worlds. The evergreen tree as a symbol of life is deeply embedded in Western European culture; it's why every English churchyard sports a yew tree, and why we celebrate Christmas with a decorated pine tree - a distant echo of a far older pre-Christian tradition.

I was pondering yesterday, how the Norse view of the universe as being supported on the limbs of a great tree could be interpreted another way. If one were to imagine one's existence not as a 3 dimensional creature, but as a 4 dimensional one - the extra dimension being time - the effect rendered back into 3 dimensions would not be unlike looking at a tree. Every branch would represent some decision point in your life, where reality takes a fork into two equally valid but increasingly divergent realities; each then forking again and again as they extend upwards before finally tapering to a singular conclusion as they touch the sky.

The thing about trees is that they grow upwards towards the light. A tree never juts out a limb sideways unless in an attempt to find a new way towards the light. Unconsciously, the tree knows how to do this, and I guess we do too - constantly searching for meaning and fulfilment in life. Perhaps we too know that when we lose our thirst for sunlight, we will wither and die. But most of the time, as long as we keep trying to move upwards, just like the tree reaching upwards, our efforts will prove successful no matter what branch we start from. There are no wrong turns because we can always go forwards, and upwards. We just need to chose to.

Carrying on with my tree-related ponderings, I thought about the different trees and how the environment shapes and changes them, just as our environment shapes and changes our own development. The English Oak stands solidly alone. Its massive roots reaching deep into the earth to support its sturdy trunk and spreading foliage; the Japanese cedar grows tall and strong in the company of its fellows, wasting no effort in reaching straight for the sky from the dark forest floor. Like the roots and trunk of Yggdrasill, I kind of see each of us supported by our personal histories, our cultures and our families. The deeper and stronger these roots, the stronger we are and the higher we can reach. I guess that's why these things are so important to me - to us as human beings. And how important it is to recognise that everything we do now, everything we are, is rooted in our past effort and the efforts of those who have gone before. Our parents, our families, our ancestors and our communities How much we have to be thankful for.

So why not do something right now to nurture your own root stock - hug the mrs; pick up some litter from the street outside your house; phone your mum; take the time to appreciate the good things about where you live, who you are and where you've come from. See if you can't grow an extra inch upwards today!

When I travel back to Europe and I meet with someone who finds out that I live in Japan, the inevitable first question is along the lines of "What do you like about Japan?" It's a question I have fielded hundreds of times, and to be honest I tend now to try and just skip over it as quickly as possible. It's not that I don't want to answer, or that I find it tedious to trot out the same basic response each time. It's more to do with the fact that I find it such a difficult question to answer honestly. What's so great about Japan?

Everyone has their own ideas, of course. For me, it has always been a problem to articulate my particular viewpoint. I have loved the country since the very first moment my foot touched Japanese soil. I have visited and worked in many countries, and I've enjoyed them all. But I have never felt such an instant connection with any of them in the way I did with Japan. I have never been able to adequately explain why.  Until now.

Prompted by our own recent trip to Japan's Inland Sea for our 10th Anniversary, I bought a book of the same name by - as it turns out - a truly wonderful writer by the name of Donald Richie. Richie, originally from Ohio, came to Japan as a young man and like me fell in love with the country. However unlike me, he is able to express his own affinity to Japan eloquently and elegantly. He wrote in response to the question why he liked Japan:

I think the most honest answer is: I like myself here. There are places—Calcutta is one—where you can come to loathe yourself. I never knew I would be ready to kick children from my path, to strike out at cripples, to compose a face apparently contemptuous at the sight of misery so great it seemed almost theatrical. And all because of sheer terror. I, along with most of my richer Western brothers, had believed that such qualities as disinterested politeness, trust, friendship, even love are necessities. It had never occurred to me that they are luxuries until India showed me that this is so. Such attributes—the pride of Western man—are but accoutrements, like well-cut clothes. They are removable. One can go naked and miserable.

For me, that's it in a nutshell. I like myself here. In Japan, you can be kind, polite and gentle, and nobody mistakes this for a weakness to be exploited. In fact, quite the opposite -  to be strong, yet quiet and benevolent are considered the ultimate manly attributes. As the great Dan Inosanto (shameless namedropping: Malc, Lewis and myself had the honour of training with Guru Dan many years ago) is fond of saying "Don't mistake kindness for weakness". The inference is that the truly strong man has the capacity to be kind and gentle, not because he is weak but precisely because he is strong. But in the UK, wherever you go, there is always some entity that tries to challenge this and impose its "Might is right" view of the world on others. Either personally through loutish anti-social behaviour, or indirectly through faceless unaccountable corporations or useless government bodies. I got so tired of having to fight endlessly with these people on a daily basis. I got tired of having to stand my ground, react forcefully to a threat or waste time and energy fighting with idiots. All of that stopped the moment I arrived here.

But even that's not the whole answer. The wonderful Donald Richie goes on to write thus:

Japan, then—to answer this perennial question—allows me to like myself because it agrees with me and I with it. Moreover, it allows me to keep my freedom. It makes very few demands on me—I am considered too much the outsider for that, a distinction I owe to the color of my skin, eyes, and hair—and, consequently, I become free. I become a one-member society, consistent only to myself and forever different from those who surround me. Our basic agreement permits an amount of approval, some of it mutual; our basic differences allow me to apprehend finally that the only true responsibility a man has is toward himself.

In Japan, not only am I free of the jobsworths, louts and gobshites, I am free to be exactly who I want to be; to hold my own standards and to set new ones of my choosing based on the things I have learned here. In other words, Truly free.

One of the great things about the internet is the way that it has democratised writing. Once upon a time, getting your work into print was the hard-won privilege of the favoured few - at least, those who didn't want to stump up the cost of vanity publishing. Now we have Amazon, and anyone with a computer and a story to tell can have a go.

Predictably, this has generated an awful lot of tosh. I spend a lot of time looking for authors worth reading on my Kindle, and a lot of the time it's like searching for a Wispa bar in a sea of turds. Just occasionally I stumble across someone really worth the effort, like the excellent Carrot Quinn (see my links). But more often than not I find myself getting to the end of a slim volume and thinking "What the bloody hell was the point of that"?

One such example was the book on "Over 50's Fitness" I previewed last night. Among the earth-shattering insights offered by the author was the fact that you slow down as you get older and you probably shouldn't try to go from coach potato to marathon runner in one month. But the one thing that really tickled me was the author's authoritative run-down on medical conditions likely to afflict the over 50's. Number 1 was stiff joints. Well, OK we all feel a bit stiff in the mornings. Number 2 was hair loss.

Now, I had never considered hair loss due to natural ageing to be a medical condition. But our font-of-all-knowledge solemnly assures us that the psychological impact of male hair loss can be catastrophic. Really?

Let's face it, most of us blokes are going to go a bit threadbare up top as we get older. For the vast majority of us, it's going to occur in our thirties, and for the vast majority of us, we're over lamenting the loss of our youthful mane in a very short space of time. Just have it cut short and get on with life. There are always going to be some that just can't handle it, finding solace in the syrup or hair transplant or comb-over for the stingy ones. Incidentally, the comb-over is known as "the bar code" in Japan - which always makes me laugh.

I feel sorry for anyone that struggles to come to terms with approaching slap-headedness. But at the same time, I can't help thinking that their grasp on their masculinity must be a bit flimsy at best if they allow it to be defined by their lack of spam. It's a well-known fact that male pattern baldness is in fact dictated by the amount of testosterone flowing through your veins. Therefore baldness surely should be celebrated as a badge of honour rather than covered up and cited as a cause of psychological trauma. Mr "Fit Fifty" is talking out of his arse.

And anyway, as any bloke over fifty knows, your hair doesn't disappear - it merely migrates from the sunlight uplands of your bonce to the shaded groves of nostril and ear lobe!

I had originally planned to hike the Oze marsh region in Gunma ken this week to coincide with the blooming of the unfortunately named Skunk Cabbages (whoever thought of that name was a clearly a bit of a charmless berk). It's a trip I've been looking forward to for quite a few months - a 3 day/2 night hike across fairly flat terrain but with a whacking great 2346m peak in the middle of it. The idea was to explore the area in preparation for a return with Big M in July when the lilies are out in the marshes.

Why had I returned? Bloody good question, as it turned out, and one that - surprisingly - I discovered I didn't have an immediate answer to.


The next day dawned clear and bright. The brand new Gelert Solo tent I'd purchased for the trip had survived the night albeit with a worrying little rent in the inner. More on that later.

Having stuffed myself full of tinned crap, I broke camp and got underway. About five minutes later, recollections of my previous trip and the effort required to lug a fairly hefty backpack up to the start of the Llanberis path came sharply back into focus. I had been 25 last time I was here, but a smoker. I was quite pleased to find that a 52 year-old non-smoking version of me was able to set a pace that I think the younger man would have struggled to keep up with.

On I trudged, over stream, across rock and tufted grass - the latter under the disapproving stare of a rather large bull, which added a certain zing of energy to my already tired legs. After I while, I connected with the Llanberis path proper above Hebron Station and began the long climb to the summit in earnest.



The last section of the path as it passes Clogwyn gets a bit steeper and more rugged. But the reward for the knackered hiker is an increasingly impressive selection of views. The section of path where it crosses under the Snowdon Mountain Railway is particularly fine. The A5 snaking its way far below gives some impression of the elevation gain.

By now, the summit was within striking distance. I was pretty tired but I'd made good time and the weather had held this far. I was in no particular rush, so I just focussed on maintaining a steady pace. Before too long, I passed the point where the PyG track joins the Llanberis pass on the ridge that runs to the summit. It was about here that the clouds closed in and it was waterproofs and gloves time. Even in August, the windchill at the summit can be quite severe. Later that day I passed a group of muppets attempting to ascend to the summit in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops. It is amazing that despite all the warnings, some people just seem determined to become statistics. Hopefully in this case the cold wind and rain would have turned them back before they came to any harm.











 

Well, here we are, a mere 3 years and 6 months after my last meaningful post! I am somewhat at a loss to try and recap everything that's happened over the intervening period. Suffice to say there have been many highs - Y's marriage and our family trip to Hawaii probably stands out as the biggest and best; the Tohoku Dai Shinsai in March 2011 was one of the worst. It's true to say there have been many difficult times; not only disasters and economic travails, but also some big domestic and health problems as well. I don't want to dwell on the negative but I think it's true to say I have experienced some pretty miserable periods over the last few years. But, hey, I'm still here and still more-or-less happy with life here in the Land of the Rising Sun.

So what of the now? Well it's been an interesting 18 months or so. Late 2012 I began to experience some real health issues. I was really starting to feel dreadfully tired and my cholesterol levels had shot through the roof. Earlier that year, I'd made the mistake of going to a Japanese dentist for a routine filling (NEVER go to a Japanese dentist - they are all idiots!). He botched it so badly that I ended up in total agony for nearly 3 weeks and with a full-blown systemic infection that required a serious course of antibiotics and a trip back to the UK to finally get on top of. The whole experience left me clinically depressed and at a pretty low ebb. Upon returning to Japan, I had some blood tests done for thyroid function (depression and high cholesterol are both symptoms of hypothyroidism), and low and behold there did seem to be a problem. I started on treatment, but I have never felt comfortable with the idea of long-term medication so I decided to try and find another way to sort myself out. It turns out, that this was the best course of action.

In a nutshell, I had become fixated on the negative aspects of my life. Somewhere along the line I had lost sight of the fact that I am fortunate enough to be living in one of the most fascinating places on Earth, and for the most part I was comfortable and not facing any major health barriers. I decided that I needed to start making the most of this opportunity that been placed in my hands. So, I started doing stuff: exercising in the park every morning, going on walking trips to the mountains, getting back to Iaido which I had shamefully let slip, and even returning to Aikido training. The net result has been a big improvement in health, both physically and mentally, and a much brighter outlook.

I say all this by way of an introduction to some of the topics I intend to be writing about a lot more from now on. In particular, I have re-discovered my love of the outdoors and especially hiking in the mountains. Everyone thinks of Japan, and especially Tokyo, as a hyper-modern environment. And of course it is. But it's also much closer to wilderness areas than you might suppose. Less than an hour by train, I can be in thickly forested valleys or clambering over peaks with incredible views of distant mountain ranges, including the iconic Mt Fuji, of course. True, when the weather's good you do have to share the view with about 6 billion other people on the more popular routes. But even in the peak periods, it's still possible to find solitude off the beaten track.

So - without further ado, welcome back to my world.

I really must try and write something on my blog...

This Summer has been really great. But it’s not all been lounging around on beaches and having impromptu barbeques in our car parking port here at Beerhound Mansions. There was also the small matter of my iaido third dan examination that took place in September. Regular readers will know that I failed the first attempt earlier this year. No surprise, as I had really not had enough practice in the run-up to the test. If I’m honest, I’d also seriously underestimated the standard required. Having never failed a martial arts grading before, I thought I’d be able to swing in on the day. I was wrong. So this time, and with the honour of the dojo at stake (this is actually quite a serious point) I was determined not to make the same mistake again.

I had been practicing regularly throughout the Spring and early Summer, but my plan was to start accelerating the training in the run-up to September. As well as iaido practice, I also wanted to build up a reasonable level of base fitness. Even though the examination is not a full-on aerobic challenge like the gradings we used to do in aikido, it is still necessary to have a reasonable amount of core strength to be able to carry out the moves properly and with the required poise. So to help with this, I started running in June. As a devout Fat Bastard, this didn’t come easy at first but within a few weeks I was running a 5km circuit quite happily.

The next milestone was attending the dojo’s Summer Gasshiku, or Summer Camp. This is a tradition in many dojos – a kind of retreat where you just focus entirely on practice. As there is also an element of shared endeavour about the whole thing, this has the additional benefit of helping to strengthen the social ties within the dojo. So it was that I found myself trudging to the station at 4.30am on a bright and hot August morning for the long train journey to Katsuura on the Boso Peninsula.

My destination was the Japan Budo Centre; a purpose-built complex for visiting dojos and school clubs. Set high on a hill, the centre overlooks Katsuura and the Pacific coast of Chiba. It’s basically a hotel with dojo facilities. When I say hotel, perhaps the word hostel would be more appropriate as we were all expected to share 4 or so to a room and the facilities were somewhat, er, Spartan. But comfortable nonetheless, and the dojo was blessed with AIR CONDITIONING! a rare luxury.

The weather was, to use the correct terminology, Bleedin ‘ot. So the air con in the dojo was a blessed relief indeed as the training sessions ran from 9am until 6pm with an hour for lunch. Over the two days, we ran through a lot of stuff; Seitei no gata, lots of koryu (old style) and some of the paired kata from our school where you get to practice with a real opponent using a wooden sword for safety.

On the Saturday night after practice, I walked down the very steep hill from the Budo Centre to the town below. After purchasing some liquid refreshments from the local Family Mart, I made my way to the little fishing harbour for a little drink and some contemplation time. When I say ‘fishing harbour’…think more ‘Grimsby’ than ‘The Algarve’. But the fact that it was dark and warm, and I had a plentiful supply of various alcoholic beverages to hand, lent it a subtle charm. I spent a while watching the local yahoos let off fireworks on the beach (fireworks are a Summer thing here –quite sensibly, in my opinion) and quietly quaffing my Nodo Goshi and Chu-hi. As I sat gazing out across the calm Pacific waters, I really had a sense of wonder about how my life has turned out. I wouldn’t say utterly brilliantly – there’s plenty of things I’d change given the chance. But it certainly has been a remarkable journey; and I think I can take a little bit of pride in the experiences I’ve had and achievements I’ve attained along the way.

After the gasshiku, I had a couple of weeks to refine techniques ready for the grading and I took full advantage of the training opportunities to make sure I was as  prepared as I could be. I was still struggling with niggling doubts. Things can always go wrong in an iaido embu (demonstration). The cords that are used to tie the sword scabbard onto the belt have to be expertly handled and can easily get tangled; the scabbard can jump out of the belt; your foot can easily get caught under the hakama – the long pleated trousers we wear. These are all apart from any technical errors in the handling of the sword itself, and any of these will result in an instant fail. Bear in mind that this perfection has to be demonstrated under the baleful glare of a panel of 8th dan masters, looking at you from several different angles, and you can begin to appreciate some of the pressure. Oh and the entire embu has to be completed in 6 minutes, otherwise that’s an instant fail too. I’d had some real problems with the opening and closing Reiho (bowing and sword etiquette) during the gasshiku. During one practice grading, I just couldn’t get the sageo (cords) tied on correctly and I went over-time. These things were really playing on my mind: If it went wrong in the practice, it could also easily go wrong during the exam. But iaido is just as  much about mental training as it is physical. Having practiced as hard as possible – including hours spent at home just practicing tying and untying the cords and performing the bows correctly – I felt I had done my best and now it was really out of my hands. With that realisation came a degree of calmness.

The grading itself was held at the Tokyo Budokan in Ayase – scene of both my biggest failure (first 3rd dan test) and my biggest success (winning my 2nd dan class at the Tokyo area championships). There are just two gradings each year. The Summer one was a good deal less busy than the March one, which made it feel a little less stressful. As always, I got there very early so I had a lot of hanging around to do before hand. But soon enough, it was my turn to march out onto the court and do my demonstration. You are given five techniques from the seitei no gata to perform within 6 minutes, including all the opening and closing formalities. These are announced on the day, so there’s no chance to practice these specifically in advance – so you have to know all twelve kata from the set equally well.

I don’t really remember much from the test itself, apart from the fact that it felt a whole lot better than last time. The techniques we’d been given were not my worst ones and I felt quite strong, smooth and in control, compared to last time’s desperate thrashings. It was all over pretty quick, and then I had the long wait to see what the result was.

Once everyone has completed the test, the judges retire for their deliberations. I think for 3rd dan, a minimum of 3 out of 5 judges have to award a pass. The techniques are judged purely on technical merit, so it’s quite unlike a competition where you need to imbue your demonstration with a bit of spirit. I watched another gaijin going for 2nd dan – alas, with a bit too much gusto. He was obviously trying hard but it looked far too aggressive and didn’t exhibit the calm spirit required to advance up the grades. He didn’t make it that time.

After what seemed an eternity, the official emerged with the sheet of paper containing the numbers of those who had passed. If your number’s not on the list, you didn’t make it. I remember the disappointment of last time as I scanned the list in vain for my number. But this time, it was there. Ureshi! I’d done it! My sensei and fellow students were as delighted as I was (and perhaps a little relieved that I hadn’t disgraced them with another failure).

So, another milestone passed. I’ve passed a dan grade exam in Japan and I am now a fully-fledged sandan. Not that this means very much in the great scheme of things: I’m still one of the most junior members of the dojo. However the significance for me is that I have now passed the rank of the guy that wrote my first iaido manual, that I bought maybe 20 years ago when I was studying aikido. The book, “Iaido – The Way of the Sword” by Michael Finn, told the story of the author’s travel to Japan to study iaido and was just as much a personal adventure story as it was a description of the art itself. I was fascinated by his tales of harsh training sessions, stern discipline and his fear of losing face with his teacher. I remember thinking that, while it sounded exciting, it sounded pretty scary too and I wondered if I would be able to cope in such a demanding environment. The author finished his particular journey as a 2nd dan. I can now understand much more about his experiences. Whereas at the time I thought him the ultimate expert, now I can see that maybe he wasn’t quite so adept at negotiating the subtleties of iaido and Japanese culture. But that’s not a criticism – at no stage does the author try to elevate his own status or claim any special knowledge or skills, even though at the time the book was published he could have so easily done both. I have the greatest respect for someone who can maintain such dignified humility. And I still enjoy reading his book – I have it with me here in Japan.

Having an experience like this really brings life’s long journey into perspective. Like looking down from a high mountain pass at the road you’ve travelled along. I am very pleased to have had the opportunity to travel the same road as an author and commentator I respect, and to have perhaps even passed a little way beyond his vantage point.

Well, it’s been a while since my last post and to be honest, I don’t know where this Summer went. One minute I’m blogging about the end of term at Japanese class, and the next I’m sitting here listening to the September rain pounding the street outside and wondering what happened in between.

Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. It’s been a truly great Summer and enough stuff happened over the intervening month or two to provide amble blogging material for the cooler, wetter nights to come. Now things are settling back into a more home-based routine, I shall be relating some of those tales over the next couple of weeks – so stay tuned!

I am presently going through one of those revelatory periods in my iaido practice where some small insight into the deeper significance of the art has become clear to me. This has come at the end of a reasonably despondent period of training where I don’t seem to have made any progress at all. After all the disappointment of failing 3rd Dan, I really felt down about the whole thing.

The reason I felt I didn’t do well was related to a lack of practice – of course – but also to a sense that my ki (spirit) just wasn’t strong enough. In the dojo, it’s easy to kid yourself you are better than you really are; it’s not until you are in front of the unwavering scrutiny of a panel of 8th Dan masters that you really find out how good your techniques are. It is very stressful, and that stress manifests itself as tension, which in turn robs you of speed, power and fluidity. In a weird way, it’s like the ki is being sucked out of you leaving your cuts weak and your movements slow and clumsy. And it’s the same in competitions as well. This is what I have felt has let me down many times in the past – not the knowledge of the technique but the strength of spirit to be able to carry it though under stressful conditions. This is the very essence of any martial art – without the will to carry through your attack, all technical proficiency is pointless.

It was this weakness of spirit that denied me 3rd Dan, and rightly so. The question was, what to do about it. I considered that perhaps what I needed was a period of more physical training involving actual combat. A return to this kind of environment, I reasoned, would help to rediscover a more aggressive fighting spirit. However my plans to start kendo were comprehensively poo-pooed by my teacher, who suggested that if I have time to study kendo, I’d be better-off training for my 3rd Dan re-test. She had a point.

But suddenly, just last week, I suddenly had a eureka moment. I can’t describe in words what I mean, other than to say that it suddenly became clear that I had been concentrating on the wrong thing. Rather than obsessive focus on perfecting technique, the mind should be almost entirely on the act of engagement with your enemy. This had been described to me before by a 5th Dan colleague in the dojo, and I thought I understood at the time, but now I can see I didn’t really get it. Furthermore, this mind has to be carried with you at all times, and in all things. If you can maintain this mind, then suddenly everything drops into place. At last week’s practice, I decided that I would practice with this in mind. The results were spectacular – smooth, co-ordinated strikes with dramatically improved power.

I have since re-read a translation of a book written in about 1630 by a famous samurai Lord called Yagya Tajimanokami Munenori, called the Heiho Kadensho. In it, is the following passage that describes in amazing accuracy what I have just come to realise.

The books of Confucius are thought of as a gate to those who devote their mind to learning. What is a gate? A gate is the entrance to a house. Only by going through the gate can one meet the master of the house. Learning, for example, is the gate to truth. Only by going through the gate can you obtain truth. Opening the gate should not be mistaken for having entered the house, for the house lies beyond the gate. (my italics)

The gate in question is my iaido technique. I can see now that learning the technique is merely a means to an end. Seems obvious now. But I feel that with that knowledge I can perhaps start to make progress on the path towards what is waiting in the house for me.

Well, at the risk of tempting fate, we’re still here despite the mass exodus of oarfish. Although regular visitors might be forgiven for thinking otherwise given the shameful lack of recent posts, for which I can only apologise.

I’d love to be able to explain the aforementioned post drought on work pressures or thrilling adventures being had in far flung corners of the globe. But the truth is – I haven’t really been motivated to sit down and pontificate much of late. After the chaos of Europe and the UK at the beginning of the year, I’ve been enjoying just bumbling around the house with the toolbox and doing something other than sitting in front of the PC. But that’s not to say I’ve been idle. Oh no. There’s been plenty going on in Shoan Nichome, as I shall now relate.

Firstly, Little M started at University. We went along to the matriculation ceremony at the beginning of April. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting. As we were ushered into a lecture theatre to watch a video of the proceedings on a big screen, I had a suspicion that this probably wouldn’t turn out to be the most exciting experience of my life. And so it transpired. Nevertheless, I was as proud as punch of Little M and her achievements, and very grateful to have had the opportunity to have played a small part in helping her get to where she is. Incidentally, Princess Maki is a classmate of Little M – who knows…maybe an invite to the Imperial Palace might be forthcoming after all.

The big disappointment was your humble scribe failing to achieve 3rd dan in iaido. To be honest, I didn’t deserve it and it’s a good thing that I didn’t get it. I’ve never failed a martial arts grading in 30 years of training, so perhaps it was a lesson I needed to learn. In any event, it has kicked me out of my complacency and made me more determined to practice hard for the next chance in September. My resolve was given a boost by winning in my class at the Tokyo area championships a couple of weeks ago. Nobody was more shocked than me, but I finally hit gold in Japan. It’s not like winning an Olympic gold or anything like that, and actually it really doesn’t mean anything. But I’m secretly bloody chuffed that not only have I had the chance to train in Japan but I’ve actually beaten Japanese in straight competition. Amazing. The nervous little 10 year old that started karate in Lochaber Road church hall in south London would never have dreamed that the path he was starting would lead so far.

Next week marks the 6th anniversary of the “official” start of my relationship with Big M. We’ve been talking a lot about that week and it is still so fresh in my mind I can almost feel the gentle Pacific breeze as we walked hand-in-hand along the harbour wall in Kamakura. I can see her dear face sheltered under an umbrella as we dodged Spring showers between our numerous forays to various restaurants, shrines,temples and bars (not necessarily in that order!) It was a magical time. I won’t go into details, but I will say this: If anybody ever tells you love isn’t real, don’t believe them. Love is as real, as powerful and as glorious as all the poems and songs say it is. Most people never get to experience it the way I have – and I am truly and daily grateful for that.

Anyway – it’s 1.30am and the shochu is slipping down far too easily as I write so it’s probably time to call it a night. I won’t leave it so long next time!

I am sitting in the rather agreeable bar of the George Hotel in Rye. I haven’t been here for 15 years at least. In fact the last recollection I have of this place was coming here with my father, so that must be over 15 years ago.

Needless to say its changed quite a bit since then. Not least in its selection of beers; hello lovely Leffe !

It sure has changed a lot since the last time I was here. The world has changed a lot; I have changed a lot. It’s strange coming back to a town that holds so many bad memories. Even though the faces and the scenery might have changed, this is still a place I associate with the worst period in my life. There are ghosts here that no stylish makeovers can ever truly exorcise and no matter how tasteful or up-market places like the George become, there will always be a grey pall of gloom hanging over this town as far as I’m concerned.

I will forever associate Rye with failure; once upon a time, your humble scribe had a proper job working for a proper company, with all the benefits that entailed: Big house, expensive car, high disposable income etc. Life was stressful, and sometimes difficult, but generally good. For a while. Then it all started to unravel. First, a messy and very destructive divorce. Next, within 12 months, my company went bust. And, after struggling to find work for many months, so did I. I lost everything. I ended up here in Rye. Washed out and with my self-esteem in total tatters. For a while, I lost the plot here – something that’s very easy to do in a town that consists almost entirely of alcoholic losers. I existed here a few months before my instincts for self-preservation kicked-in and I realised I had to get out and start rebuilding a life again. The rest, as they say, is history. But even though life now is good – in every respect far better than before the “crash” - I can’t come back here without feeling tainted and depressed by the bitter curse of those dark few months. Regret for the bad decisions I made; Hatred for the losers and wasters that beguiled me into wasting so much precious time and resources following the wrong path. It’s not Rye’s fault, of course. The blame lies entirely at my feet. I should have been stronger. But Rye rubs my face in my own failure every time I come here and I still have a hard time dealing with my own fragility in this regard.

15 years ago, The George Hotel was once quite the den of iniquity for the local lushes, all of whom were banished when the walls were knocked down and the designers bought in to create the George as it exists today. Maybe I should do likewise with my soul: take the time to properly demolish and refurbish the dark corners that still lurk in my psyche from those black days. Perhaps with the right lighting, those dark corners will turn out to have been not so dark and dingy after all.

Well, here we are at the end of another year and once again I find myself with the family queuing on a cold and clear night to clang the temple bell of our local shrine and offer a prayer for good fortune in 2010. Afterwards, we are treated to a cup of sake and a plastic mug of hot porridgy stuff and a warm by the fire, shown here.

The fire is more than just a bonfire to warm the hands on. It's traditional at the turn of the year to burn all the good luck charms and decorations from last year. So in a very real sense, we have been warming ourselves on the prayers and hopes of our neighbours, and that knowledge is a very comforting thought.

It seems strange to us to burn the very charms that we hoped would bring us our dreams. Yet, it is another reminder that everything has a right time and place to be. Just like in martial arts, energy that is misplaced or left over-long in a static position usually turns out to be a liability rather than a benefit. I guess it's the same with our prayers and dreams. Just like everything else in nature, they have to live, because to stand still is to die.

To anyone reading this, I hope your dreams and prayers thrive and grow strong in 2010, and my best wishes for everything you hope to be.

I have just returned from Devon. By virtue of its reason, that of the funeral of my uncle, a trip of very great sadness. Yet, amongst the sadness was contained the joy of reunion. It has been so long since I have seen my cousins, aunts and uncles. And it has been a long time since I have seen this distinguished fellow.

This is a portrait of my grandfather, Jack Peopall, who was a remarkable and much-loved man. Unfortunately he died before I was born, but if I could meet one person from history it would be him. Next time you buy something from the meat stall or cheese counter in your local supermarket, say a little thank you to Jack: He was the man that invented the write-on price tag that's now used pretty much universally. By all accounts, his intelligence and business acumen were only surpassed by his sense of fun and by the unbounded kindness and love he showed to those around him. In short, an inspiration.

Seeing his portrait hanging in my aunt’s house and meeting all those wonderful people again really made me realise that, in reality, I am not quite the solitary character I sometimes consider myself to be. I have the privilege to belong to a wonderful family. I am really resolved to make the most of that by making the effort to stay in touch much more. And in so doing, I can really acknowledge and enjoy the gift that this man bestowed on me.