A walk amidst autumn's splendour 2

As Sanae said, "You'd never think we lived in Muroran".

A walk amidst autumn's splendour 1

God decided to make it up to us for the snow he threw down last Tuesday and blessed with one of those glorious autumn days that leave you murmuring words like 'sublime' and 'transcendent'.

Men of the soil

God shook some of his frozen dandruff over us yesterday. He didn't even have the good grace to wait until the start of November, but instead flung winter at us before we had even finished with Autumn.

Now, this mightn't be such a big deal to all of you basking in the warm benevolence of the North Atlantic Drift, buy we live in a part of the world where the time frame for 'winter' extends to the beginning of May. Think I exaggerate? Well then let me remind you, dear readers, of this:

http://gaynor-takahashi.blogspot.com/2010/04/oh-lord-hokkaido.html

The weekend before last Cian and myself took ourselves off to the mountains above Lake Toya to plant some trees, because that is the kind of caring-sharing we-all-live-on-one-planet-with-mother-nature kind of family we are. So, hippies for a day, but rugged, manly, LL Bean attired hippies. (Mammy was busy with her 'school festival', but from how she subsequently described it - "feckin busy" - I don' think it was all that festive.

The event, in a sort of outdoorsy, try not to think of the environmental damage house building actually entails, way was organised by my good friends at Sudo Home, who obviously had forgotten about the events of last spring.

http://gaynor-takahashi.blogspot.com/2010/03/home-loans.html

Or perhaps they presumed (prayed?) I wouldn't come. But the invitation (yes, on recycled paper) had said trees, and importantly, free barbecue afterwards, so Cian and myself jumped in the car, stuck some Neil Young in the cd player, and sang about searching for a heart of gold, cos I'm getting old, man.

In actual fact, it turned out to be a great day, the occasional rain shower notwithstanding. Cian was in his element, wielding shovel, digging soil, planting trees, while I felt all Daddy like as I instructed my son in the ancient Kerry art of digging a good, round hole.

And on the way home, we had ice cream. Perfect.

Tis the Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

Autumn in Hokkaido brings with it some fine, cool sunny weather and more importantly, fruit. Lots of it. Orchards full of burgeoning ripe apples, prune trees weighed down with full, voluptuous berries, and vineyards resplendent with the many hues of succulent grapes.

It is all a bit vaguely erotic, in a 'fecund Mother Nature and her abundant fertility' sort of way, but thankfully we don't stand for any of that auld hippy shite around here. Nope, pick 'em, eat 'em, and poo 'em out. That's our motto. Well, Cian's anyway.

A couple of weekends ago, on what turned out to be a gloriously sunny Saturday, we jumped in the car and headed off to Sobetsu, home to some of Hokkaido's finest fruit growing farms. We had been there back in June to devour our body weight in strawberries, and after our long, hot summer, we were expecting a bumper harvest. We weren't disappointed.

First we had grapes. Or to be scientific about it, red grapes.

Then prunes. Voluptuous ones only mind you. No sagging berries for us.

Then more grapes, green ones this time.

Next, apples.

By this stage Cian's sugar levels were somewhere up in the stratosphere. But the boy is a professional juice junkie; even now he was only having a mild 'buzz'. So, time then, for some more grapes. Black ones, if you please.

To calm him down we took ourselves off for a walk to look at a waterfall. And then we threw Cian into it.

No we didn't (though the thought did cross our minds). Instead we went off to Lake Toya, where Sanae and Cian went and threw stones at the small lake-side shrine.

Before Daddy and Cian sat down and contemplated the serene beauty of Mother Nature (when she's not being overly fecund), and how fleeting and thus so precious, are days like today.

Well, Daddy did. Cian sat there wondering how he could score some more grapes.

No Surrender.

Last Sunday, I went for a run up the mountains in nearby Noboribetsu, along with 26 fellow fleet-footed souls of questionable sanity. The occasion was the annual 'Forest Kozan Trail Run' though this was my first year to compete. And compete I did. There was honor at stake, national pride, as Ireland's representative at what is now the 'International Forest Kozan Trail Run', I had the expectations of a nation resting on my slim, albeit still toned, shoulders. Plus, I didn't want Cian calling his Daddy 'a wuss'.

So 'Bang!' goes the starter's gun and, as you will see from the following clip, in a turn of speed and a sudden burst of acceleration, within 10 metres of the start I had already opened up a commanding lead on the donkey in 25th and made 24th place my own.

Now, keep an eye on the old guy in the yellow top, number 402.

In every race I have entered in Japan their has always been a 'Death before Dishonor' older Japanese competitor, who takes it personally if the tall, hairy foreigner passes him by. In the Kozan race, he was the man, the Nihonjin who embodied the samurai spirit of old, who would rather run himself into the ground, smear himself in honey and get torn to pieces by ravenous bears rather than let a lanky gaijin beat him. Also, they all run like the Duracell Bunny, constant, clockwork-like steps, pat--pat--pat--pat--pat--pat, that only ever changes when they realize they have been overtaken by yours truly, when they suddenly shift from low to high and go pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat as they scurry past me.

Anyway, we come to the 2km marker, and there we are, me and Swifty Suzuki, little and large, dueling it out for the highly coveted 20th spot.

Back up into the mountains, this time for a good, lung-burning 7km constant climb. At the top I'm still behind him, but as we descend, I stretch those gazelle like limbs of mine and lope past him. But not for long, Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat and he, I swear, 'whirrs' past me, damned if the spirit of the absent Emperor isn't willing him along. "Ah-hah sweaty foreigner, eat my dust!"

7km though, is a long down hill and well, my legs relish the stretch. Go by him again. More frenetic pat-pat-pat-pat-pating but it's a warm Autumn day, I've got at least 20 years and 30 centimetres on him and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose to a bald hobbit.

After this we headed back up into the mountains again, for what turned out to be a 'Sweet-Mother-of-Jesus-what-was-I-thinking" final 6km of an absolute bastard of a climb. Embroiled in my own private world of excruciating hamstring pain, I don't know what happened to Mr. 402 but I thought I saw some empty honey jars on the trail as I finally plodded home.

To a surprising 10th finish, which I was quite pleased with. Until Cian called me "a wuss".