9 today, well, the other day.

Cian is now 9. This is the cause for much rejoicing, as he can now legally work at the local Eneos petrol station and his parents don't have to pay for his upkeep anymore.
Not true.
But if you are reading this Prime Minister Abe, it is an idea worth considering. Think of the boost it would give to the Japanese economy.
Anyway, Cian turned 9 last Saturday and there were the usual celebrations:


A flyover.


 Big parade.


 Spectacular fireworks.

 
 And the traditional Japanese tanjoubi sacrifice to the Wicker Man.

No, not really.
Even by our own low key standards we didn't do much to mark the occasion. Sanae had to go to school (they are slowly and insidiously reintroducing Saturday classes. At the moment they are 'voluntary' in the particularly Japanese meaning of the word: the local Board of Education issues an edict commanding the teachers to 'volunteer' to teach classes on a Saturday. Should they be feeling less than charitable about 'volunteering' their free time at the weekend, they will be forced to enroll in some 'retraining course' over the summer holidays. That's how the system works here). Cian went to his swimming classes in the morning and then spent pretty much the rest of the day constructing a giant Lego civil works project involving trains, freight yards, oil storage facilities and what, at one stage, I took to be the Death Star but actually turned out to be a grain silo. We did go for kaiten sushi in the evening so the day wasn't without some merit, but there was no party, no cake, no candles, and no singing happy birthday.
Just the way Cian liked it.

Surfing

"Yeah, I think the left looks rideable".

Back in the summer, Cian went surfing.
Alright, that sentence needs some qualifying.
Back in what passed for a summer this year in Ireland (this was our fourth year home in a row and weather-wise, by far the worst), Cian stood up, rather shakily, on a foam board as it was pushed ever so gently in shore by the crumbling wash of a gentle wave.
We were down in Clonakilty, the beating heart of West Cork, for a few days and let me begin stating straight off that An Sugan serves the best pint of Murphys anywhere. That glorious glass of velvet smooth goodness is reason enough to visit the town.
And then there is the surfing down at Inchydoney beach where we enrolled Cian in a beginners surfing class for 2 days. Motivating us was a chance to meet my cousin Kay and her two boys who were over from England at the same time we were home. And why did we want to meet with the boys (besides to commiserate with them for having a Cork woman for a mother)? Well, I had managed to convince Kay and her family to come over and visit us all here in Japan later on in the autumn (a long post for another day), and we thought it would be a good idea to meet up beforehand so the second cousins could get acquainted.
And get acquainted they did. Along with getting very wet. Kay had enrolled her boys in the surf school the year before, by all accounts they had loved it, and they were back for another session this summer. Cian, in awe of his father's exploits all along the Pacific side of Hokkaido, wanted to experience some of that gnarly big wave magic for himself, so he readily agreed to take part. Unfortunately the weather didn't agree to take part.
God, but it was bitter those two days. I have surfed in February here in Hokkaido when its been so cold that ice forms on your wetsuit as you are walking back from the shore to the car. But it still wasn't as bitter as the weather in Inchydoney last August. If it wasn't for the fact that Cian was (a) born in the depths of a Hokkaido winter and from a very young age (i.e. 2 days old) was exposed to freezing temperatures; and (b) he has inherited some of his Mammy's ahem, 'roly-poly' subcutaneous fat genes, especially around the midriff section; he would surely have succumbed to hypothermia. But the boy put on his game face (along with his 5 mm wetsuit, hood, gloves and booties), and caught himself some waves.
And so it begins...dudes.

Summer 2015 in Ireland.

The Hiroo Santa Land Marathon Taikai

Well, well, only 37 posts for the the year and only a month to go until we say sayonara to 2015. I am determined to beat last year's paltry total of 49, which, yes maths fans, requires that I write something new every 3.333 recurring days. And unfortunately those days don't recur.
But where to begin? It's not like I have nothing to write about. Quite the opposite in fact. We had a busy summer and an even busier autumn and it is only now, as the first snowflakes fall (as they did today. On my bare head. Whilst sitting atop a surfboard down at Itanki this chilly afternoon. I really should have worn my 5mm booties. And at my age and scant hair coverage, I should definitely have worn a hood), that we have time to pause, take a breath, and catch up with the past couple of months.
So, indeed, where to begin. The prompt came from my good friend Master down in Hiroo (another good surfing spot), who rang during the week to inquire if everything was alright in the Gaynor-Takahashi household. Having not added anything to this blog since my fey, the-elvenfolk-go-to-Lake-Toya post, he was concerned that I might have succumbed to a prolonged illness or something.
Nope, I reassured him, just lack of time and eh, commitment.
But he did make me think that for my 'comeback' post I should really write about one of the highlights of the sporting year, the Hiroo marathon. Or rather, the 2015 Ougon-Douro Hiroo Santaland Marathon, to give event its full, majestic title. As Sanae and myself met, married and ahem, 'made' Cian in Hiroo, our ties to the town are many so it was only natural that we participate. Especially as this was the inaugural event and when history is being written you want to be holding the pen, or something. I have no idea - that metaphor came and went before I could fully grasp it.
So on Saturday, October 3rd, we hopped in to my trusty little Mazda and drove the four and half hours to Hiroo. And by the end of the journey my stiff body knew exactly how little my trusty Mazda is.
However, the aches and pains were eased by the marvelous dinner the Master of Goody and his wife gave us, followed by a mountain of ice cream for Cian who claimed he was 'calorie loading' before the big day.


Their generosity also extended to hosting us for the night so that we were fresh and ready for the race. Or rather, races, as Cian, Sanae, and myself were running different distances. Cian was up for the 3km, Sanae was going for gold in the 5km, and Daddy was aiming to be the first foreigner home in the 21km. We were blessed with the weather, a cool, crisp, blue sky day, with only a gentle breeze to contend with. I was off first and the route took us through Hiroo town before going out and back along the Ougon Dooro (Gold Road - so named for the exorbitant amount of money it cost to build it). The road runs along side the sea and this part of Hokkaido is renowned for its great waves (something I was happily oblivious to when I actually lived there. Love will do that to you). As I jogged along I couldn't help but notice the nice swell rolling through and then just beyond Funbe, a group of surfers lined the road cheering us on while out on the sea on a stand-up paddle board, Santa himself waved to us. Man, I nearly quit the race right there, but I kept going, to finish in 1:48, my best time in over two years. That's Hiroo for you. Cian finished 6th in his age group while Sanae stunned the world of athletics by being the 8th women home in the highly competitive 5km race. (Though there was subsequent talk of 'Russian methods' being used to achieve this.)
Then it was back in my little Mazda for the still-no-shorter four and a half hour drive back home. And if I thought my body was stiff after the drive on Saturday...

Lake Toya

 We have been going here quite a bit of late. It seems to be our default destination whenever we decide upon an impromptu day out from Muroran. We were there yesterday amid some very blustery, changeable autumn weather. Almost Irish it was. The Lake is graced with some relaxing, simple cafes (menus are limited, service is slow, views are contemplated) which get by on atmosphere rather than he definitive Italian short espresso. We were out for a stroll by the lake in the falling light, distant showers drifting across the still water when we were treated to this.

Whooohooo....oh, shite....

This is heading our way.

The surfer in me is going "Whoooohooo!!", the home owner in me is looking anxiously at the roof and the tall trees around the house and going "Oh shite".

Andrew Fox, "Good Money"

I subscribe to the Dublin Review, a quarterly periodical that successfully embraces the long form essay and contemporary Irish fiction. At times it tends a tad too much towards a prevalent 'grim brutalism' in its depictions of modern Ireland, but this is balanced by the sheer quality of the contributors' writing. I particularly like the work of a young Dublin novelist Andrew Fox, whose work has appeared in the Review over the past couple of years. He published his first collection of short stories 'Over our heads' earlier this year, and while I have yet to read it (it's on the bedside stack along with the other 300 plus books I haven't read. It's a big stack.), I have just read his most recent story, 'Good money', in the latest issue of the Dublin Review. For what it is worth, in my opinion both Fox and the Review are worth your time (and yes, money).

Up and running

It is Autumn and with it comes a spate of 'Marason Taikai', literally Marathon (running) events. None of them actually involve a full 42.142km marathon, but in Japan anything over a thousand meters qualifies as a marason. Inspired by Daddy's example (as opposed to being shamed by the steady uptick in the weighing scales), both Sanae and Cian have embraced long distance running. Last weekend saw us all up at Forest Kozan for the annual Green Race. Cian ran 3km, Sanae successfully completed her inaugural 5km, and Daddy avoided the bears on his slow 20km through the woods.
This weekend sees the debut of the Santa Land Hiroo marathon, sorry, marason. Cian has his 'Saturday Morning Variety Show at the Mizumoto Palladium' tomorrow morning straight after which  we jump in the Mazda for the four hour drive to Hiroo.
Long distance driving before the long distance running.
The race is on Sunday, and again the Gaynor-Takahashi family plans to dominate the 3km, 5km and 21km events. Then we all pile back into the Mazda and drive another 4 hours home and wonder if we have enough energy left to watch any of the weekend's rugby.

Japan 34 South Africa 32

Out of a clear blue English sky came a thunderbolt to eclipse anything the Rugby World Cup has ever seen. This was the biggest shock in rugby history, bar none, the kind of result that creates ripples beyond mere sport.
The Guardian

South Africa 32 Japan 34. It is the ultimate triumph of the underdog.
The Observer

There is good rugby, there is great rugby, there is rugby for the ages and then . . . then, my friends, there is the rugby match played in the wee hours of Sunday morning between South Africa and Japan.
Sydney Morning Herald

And so it was that a team that is based entirely in Japan, that lost to the United States two months ago, that beat Georgia 13-10 in their final warm-up game, that had won once in 24 matches spanning seven World Cups, shook your windows and rattled your walls.
BBC Sport

Shock and awe in the Brighton air, the vacant stares in South African eyes at the final whistle an arresting image as Japan inflicted on the World Cup double champions the greatest upset in the history of test rugby.
Daily Telegraph

The Rugby World Cup’s biggest shock, on the 2015 tournament’s second day. Wow. There can never have been a din at this stadium like the one raised as Karne Hesketh, a 30-year-old wing born in Napier in New Zealand, scored Japan’s winning try in the left corner to beat the two-time world champions South Africa.
The Independent

Well, well, well now we have a World Cup that's taken a direction no one thought. Magnificent, clever, innovative, brave, brave, brave Japan have pulled off the unthinkable and beaten the Springboks.
The New Zealand Herald

AMAZING! Japan turn the Rugby World Cup on its head by shocking the Springboks
Irish Independent

Nearly four minutes into added time, replacement back Karne Hesketh charged into the edge of the left corner, the crowd’s roar could probably be heard in Tokyo.
The Japan Times

South Africa lost against Japan. Not against the All Blacks. Not against the Wallabies. Not even against Argentina or Wales or England or Ireland. Against Japan. A country that 24 years ago last won a World Cup match (against Zimbabwe). A land that 20 years ago lost 17-145 against New Zealand. A land that last year still lost 21 - 61 against the New Zealand Maori (not the All Blacks). A land that is 13th on the world rankings.
Really a land that was a joke in world rugby. A land that was made fun of over its small players and that could not even scrape together a super rugby team.
But on Saturday, Japan was a giant.
Die Rapport (South Africa)

"YEEEAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
Sanae Takahashi (Muroran)

September

The by now annual summer hiatus from blog posting has finally come to an end.
We are back.
Feel free to cry.
August and our trip home (and then Daddy's subsequent tip to the US of goddamn A!) has meant that there is lots to write about, but little time to do it. Plus, September in Hokkaido is a temporal encounter with my conception of heaven: blue skies, light westerly breeze, crisp, dry air, highs of 23, lows of around 14, water temperature a relaxing 18+, and a steady waist to chest high swell.
It won't last long, and when it's gone there will be plenty of (cold) time for blogging, but for now head and the heart are elsewhere.

Fireworks

In Japan because we are all responsible citizens, mature beyond our years, anybody can buy fireworks pretty much anywhere. That anybody includes Cian and that anywhere includes our local supermarket. Summer is fireworks season and evenings are filled with the joyous sounds of exploding gunpowder and the excited shrieks of kids (and adults too).
It always amaze me that in an otherwise highly safety conscious society (top speed on the roads, a languid 60 kph), young children are permitted to handle and enjoy what is basically live ordinance. Back home doing the same can get you arrested. But then again the way kids carry on with fireworks inn Ireland would probably get you arrested here too.

Construction Site

There up to something across the road. Since last week what we had thought of as 'our secret garden' (we planted some strawberries there in spring and Cian dug a number of holes in the plot), has been turned into a construction site. Somebody did call to our house last weekend and explain that they were "going to be doing some work". And they said something about a car park.
Yes, a car park.
As the plot is surrounded by residential houses with their own parking we are a bit baffled by this. Cian reckons the story is a cover for building a secret missile silo aimed at the Chinese.
Could be, could be.
The construction work is due to continue until the end of August so it won't be until we come back from Ireland that we will know the end result. In the meantime we're hoping (barbeques notwithstanding) that we get some more of that torrential rain we experienced a fortnight ago and it causes a landslide into the house where d'auld bollox still lives. The bollox.

Barbeques and the Sunday Game

Summer. After watching the waterlogged Munster football final replay this morning, it would seem the season has decided not to visit Ireland this year. In fact towards the latter part of the second half it was getting so dark down there in Killarney I figured Ger Canning and Martin Carney were forced to use military night vision glasses just to see what was going on.
Here in Muroran by contrast, we are being blessed by a warm, though not too warm, sun filled summer. The only down side to the lovely weather is that all three of us have to look at most of it from inside a classroom. We are still two weeks away from the start of the summer holidays and are impatient for them to begin.
Recently on Saturday evenings we have taken to having a barbeque in front of the house. Not the kitchen-cooker-on-wheels, gas-flamed monstrosities like back home, but rather a small charcoal fired grill, ideally sized for three. And proper skewers of meat and onions, not the bloody chunks of engorged steak. Like so much else in Japan, the emphasis is on quality rather than quantity.
We also set up the computer outside (in the boot of Sanae's car) so that after we have eaten and Cian has fetched up another couple of bottles of suitably chilled Heartland beer, we can settle back in the day's fading light and watch The Sunday Game on the GAAGO website. And there in the glimmering twilight we can marvel at the lonely genius of Joe Canning, shake our heads in despair at the squandering of all that Clare hurling talent, and wonder what Tomás O'Sé is thinking when he stands in front of his wardrobe.

Mazdas, massages, and me

The end of June is bonus time here in Japan. I am of course using the Japanese word 'bonus' or ボーナス, which means a semi-annual lump sum payment of your salary, as opposed to the English meaning of an additional sum for good work on top of your normal salary. I receive a monthly salary and then twice a year, in June and December, I receive a 'bonus' which is essentially a deferred payment of 6 months worth of salary deductions. And why does this happen? Unfettered capitalism, my friends.
But that's not the point of this blog.
The point of this blog is that coinciding with the bonus period, there comes an avalanche of junk mail and fliers from companies desperate to relieve me of my hard earned yen. Among the letters I received yesterday was one from our local Mazda dealer.
As some of the more observant readers amongst you may recall, I have a Mazda. And I bought it from our local Mazda dealer. Nearly seven years ago. Now, the average length of car ownership in Japan is just over 8 years, so I sit atop that part of the bell curve that has our local dealer narrowing his eyes, rubbing his hands, and licking his rouged lips in anticipation of another sale to the hairy foreigner. To try and entice me down to the dealership the letter informed me that this weekend they were hosting a special 'test drive a new Mazda' fair.
But wait, there's more.
If the prospect of whizzing through downtown Muroran behind the wheel of a CX-5 or, whisper it, a turbo diesel Atenza estate, doesn't get me through the door then how about these enticements. Should I agree to take a car for a test drive, then I will get:
(a) a crepe. Yes, a crepe. With cream. And from the rather fuzzy, low resolution photo on the photocopied flier, some strawberries. Though that could well be the rouge lipstick mark from the over enthusiastic salesman.
(b) a massage. Yes, seriously, a massage. Not as practiced by those who leave their rather fetching calling cards in various niteclub toilets around inner city Dublin, but a genuine, god-fearing, hands-will-go-no-further-south-than-your-shoulders massage. The last time I had a decent massage was over three years ago on our first visit to Singapore when a particularly enthusiastic Thai gentleman tried to knead my left shoulder blade through my body and out my chest. As for Sanae, well, have you ever tried to get a massage from a hobbit? Lots of grunting, pinching, and snack breaks.
And finally (c): I would be entered into a draw for a box of hairy crab. No, really, bear with me here people. Crab, befollicled crab. Forget about your rebates and extended warranty incentives, here in Japan it takes shellfish to shift cars.
Now, I was game, good to go, but she who controls the purse strings (and doesn't give massages) said no, for fear that I would actually return with a turbo diesel Atenza estate. It is true that when it comes to shopping for, well, pretty much anything, that I am the impulse happy type. So the bonus (or what little that is left of it after the mortgage repayment), will instead probably be spent in the chocolate section of Tesco's when we are home next month.

We're building an ark

I thing the gods must be reading this blog (such is its literary quality), for they unleashed an almighty downpour upon us this afternoon. In the space of an hour we had close on 30mm of rain which, to those still laboring under the imperial system (and living on the Death Star), is the equivalent of 17.8 gallons or 200 fluid ounces (approximately). On the hazard map for Muroran the slope behind our house and everything downhill from it is coloured a terrifying shade of deep, dangerous red, designating a potential landslide threat. As I type the rain has let up a bit but we're not taking any chances - rubber boots, drinking water, and a week's worth of chocolate have been left by the front door.

Where's summer?

I think I might have tempted the weather gods too much with my previous post extolling the sunny June we were enjoying. In response the deities have unleashed some torrential rain upon us for the past week and despite these being the longest days of the year, the gloomy grey rain clouds ensure it is dark by 7:30 in the evening. Adding to our seasonal despair is the fact that although it is July we are still 4 weeks away from the start of the summer holidays.
Yes, 4 weeks away. Sweet mother of educational Jesus.
By rights that should be in fact 6 weeks away for me (and 4 for Cian and Sanae). The end of the first term in the university is the 30th of July, and this is followed by a two week exam period, taking us up to August 14th. And only then, a mere fortnight away from the start of autumn, can the 'summer' holidays commence.
Matters aren't helped by the fact that Cian and Sanae will begin their holidays at the end of the third week of July but are then back in school by August 20th, which gives the Gaynor-Takahashi family a sum total of 6 days of shared holiday time.
Yes, 6 days. Sweet, sweet ripening fruit mother of educational Jesus.
Much is made in the media about Japan's fumbling attempts to 'globalize' its educational system and prepare its children for a cosmopolitan future. Hence, the seemingly annual plethora of initiatives launched by the Ministry of Education with aerily ambitious titles like 'Super Science High Schools', 'Super Global High Schools', and the 'Global 30 Universities'. A select number of schools are, well, selected for such 'super' designations, the principal super part of it all being the dollops of additional public funding they receive (which adds to the increasingly pervasive problem of educational inequality, but that's a post for another day).
A considerably cheaper and more equitable initiative in the country's attempt to become 'global' (whatever that means), would be to change its academic year. At the moment the Japanese academic year runs from April through to March, for all levels of education from primary to tertiary. Not many other countries maintain the same school calendar. This is in turn is a very large disincentive for both Japanese students thinking of studying abroad and for foreign students coming to Japan to study. (It should be noted that this 'start in April' ethos is not just confined to schools; the fiscal year also follows the same schedule).
A couple of years back the University of Tokyo announced that it was going to break with tradition and change its academic year to the global norm of September - June/July. Now, in the hierarchy of Japanese education, the University of Tokyo sits right at the top (and Muroran sits, or rather is squashed, somewhere at the bottom), so when Todai (as it is commonly known) says its going to change then the expectation is that the rest of educational world will hastily follow.
But not this time. Too many vested interests were opposed: corporate Japan and their established January to March milk rounds; civil service exams; various professional exam boards; not to mention the knock on effect this would have on high schools, junior high schools, and elementary schools. So the plan died a despairing death and we continue with our April-March year.
Personally, I am a tad skeptical of this urgent need to 'globalize' (read: adhere to western imposed notions of education), but if it meant that we (Sanae, Cian, and myself) got longer summer holidays then hell yeah, bring on the Coca-Cola capitalism and let's hit the beaches by the end of June.

This is the garden, colors come and go...

It is June, it is summer, and remarkably, it is not raining. At all. This time last year I was complaining about the record breaking 16 successive days of rain. By the end of this month I may well be posting about the driest June I (and perhaps Hokkaido) have ever experienced. I know we are not having the best of summers back home so I don't want to gloat, but, heck, I do want to gloat. We are having a cracking summer; lots of warm sunshine, not too humid, not too hot, but consistently pleasant.
And it shows.

The garden, our thin L-shaped strip of greenery bordering two sides of the house, is thriving. Our strawberries are red and ripe; the juniper berries are coming along nicely, and it looks like we will enjoy a bumper crop of black and red currents this year. My hope is that the good weather continues which might help the blueberries ripen early this year, late July perhaps. Usually it is August and we are in Ireland so the local birds get to feast themselves on the crop, but if the sunshine continues we may just get to enjoy them ourselves. Hell, we might just bring some over with us.

Yes, I know what you are thinking; it is kind of oriental version of Chelsea flower show. But all is not what it seems in the Garden of Eden...
Last Thursday, Cian and myself arrived home to find this handwritten note of terror stuck to the front door.

 
We ran screaming into the house. No, we didn't. Cian remarked on Mammy's lack of cursive script whilst pointing out the omission of a definite article and issues with her word order. Then we ran screaming into the house.
The good weather has also brought with it an infestation of 毒蛾 (dokuga), literally 'poisonous moth', (though apparently it hides behind the more unassuming name of 'Oriental Tussock Moth').

 Along the south east coast of Hokkaido there has been an explosion of these venom tipped monsters and the tussocky feckers are everywhere. Beaches and parks have been closed because of them and poor Mammy got, well not exactly stung but more like 'grazed' by one of them. The caterpillar's poison is contained in the hairy bristles (or urticating hairs for all you Lepidoptera fans out there) covering their brown and orange bodies. These hairs are shed by the caterpillar when it senses danger and lets face it, there's nothing much more dangerous than an enraged Mammy finding insects munching on her strawberries. So, she got covered in these hairs, broke out in a terrible, itchy rash, and is now using the sort of steroid-based analgesic cream beloved of 1980's bearded, deep-voiced, female Bulgarian weightlifters.
Apparently we can expect another couple of weeks or so of caterpillar horror before they metamorphosize into winged moths and bring poisonous terror from the night skies!

A Red Team Whitewash

For the past two years in the undokai Cian has been a stalwart member of the White team, and for the past two years White team have been beaten by the Red team.
So, after intense negotiations and an undisclosed sum (but let us just say, it was a big sum; a big three figure sum. Oh yeah), Cian was transferred to the Red team for this year's competition. And yesterday the Red team were then utterly annihilated by the White team. It was in many ways reminiscent of the Dublin v. Galway match down in Tullamore. After the first three events of the morning White team had succumbed to the undokai equivalent of shipping three quick goals: they were beaten in the 50m, 80m, and 100m sprints. And that was before the horror show that was the tug of war. And don't get Cian started on the relay race...
The day had started so full of promise. Well, actually, it had started what sounded like a sustained salvo from the 16 inch guns on the battleship USS Iowa as the fireworks went off at 5:30 announcing that the undokai was 'good to go'. Which in turn meant a very bleary eyed Daddy had to hustle his still bed-warmed ass up to the school ground in order to secure a prime patch of sand from which to view the games. Given how things turned out I should really have stayed in bed. Somehow, ahem, I managed to miss the opening speeches but did get there for the "You will know us by our righteous fury" orations from the team leaders. Or rather blood curling whistles. As the video shows it was a bit like the trailer for the new Star Wars but without an old aged pensioner masquerading as Han Solo.

The events are divided up according to class grades which in turn are cleverly scattered over the course of the day so that people don't get up and leave once their kid's events are over. As I was only interested in 3rd class this meant I tuned out of much of the rest of the proceedings, though the human pyramid always has that 'will they fall and break bones?!' aspect to hold the viewer's interest.

For Cian first up was the 80m dash. The boy is a bit like the great Maurice Fitzgerald: you can't train nor tell him what to do; you just let him be and he'll perform for you on the day. And so it proved.

And yes, he was easing up with about 20 metres to go.
The tug of war followed. From the Red Team's point of view it should really have been called the 'tug of shame'. The event was staged twice and they lost both of them.

 We then had a musical interlude. A dancing musical interlude. It seems to be one of the prerequisites of Japanese primary school education that students learn how to move to the groove, even if the groove isn't particularly groovy. Looking back over Cian's school history to date it is striking how many instances there are of tripping the light fantastic. I mean, you'd never see that sort of behaviour in a scoil náisiúnta.
You can watch it, sorry, get your groove on here.

Onto the 'Hurricane'.
Initially, I thought this would be a revelatory tribute to the great Rubin Carter with perhaps a hair-raising acapella vocal rendition of Dylan's scintillating song (with a knowing look thrown towards the school principal when Cian snarls out the words "All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance, the relay trial was a pig circus he never had a chance"). But no. It was in fact a competition involving a long pole, running, jumping, and no, it wasn't a miniature version of the pole vault. It was something very ... Japanese, though its connection to a meteorological phenomenon and/or a terrible miscarriage of racial injustice remains unknown me. Suggestions, dear readers?

 
Then we had lunch.

Which induced a soporific stupor in pretty much everyone present. Matters weren't helped by the scheduling of a series of bizarre 'It's a Knockout!' (remember that?) style events in the afternoon. Note the distinct lack of enthusiasm amongst competitors and spectators both in the clip below.

And that marked the end of Cian's participation in the undokai. There were some other events but Daddy had brought a copy of the Economist with him and to be honest, the article on India's public-sector banks proved more enthralling.
At least the weather was good. Unlike the forecast for this weekend when Sanae's school is due to hold their undokai.

The countdown begins

Well, if it's June it must be undokai (sports day) season. First up this Saturday is Cian's followed a week later by Mammy's extravaganza. However, overshadowing both events (and the inane goings on at FIFA) is the shock news of the omission of Cian 'The Tenjin-cho Bolt' from the third class relay team. For the previous two years he has been the go to guy when things get speedy but this year he didn't even make the reserve team. And this despite winning his heat.
The fix, ladies and gentlemen, is very much 'in'.
I don't know what kind of bribes, kickbacks, or payoffs were made, but they were made. And the world of sport is a lesser place for it. I am not pointing any fingers but that is a suspiciously shiny new Nissan Fuga the headmaster is driving. With the leather seats. And the touch screen navigation system.
Cian has taken it all in his stride (a stride which is among the quickest in all of third class, but that doesn't matter in the relay selection as, apparently, other things rather than speed are more important. Like having a father who owns the local Nissan car dealership). Instead, he is concentrating on all his energy and athleticism on the yosokai soran dance, a 'modern interpretation' of a traditional Japanese summer dance.
I know, I know, still your beating hearts. But you will just have to wait until Saturday evening when I put a clip up on youtube.
Unlike last year (and our record breaking 16 consecutive days of rain), the weather forecast is looking good for this Saturday, so it will be up with the fireworks at 5:30 and off to fight for the prime patch of dirt around the running track.
And guess who has to do that?
As a sort of postscript, if we are talking on skype this weekend to any of you good readers, the 'relay' word is not to be mentioned. At all. If I even here the phoneme 're', the connection will be immediately dropped and not resumed. Ever.

A river runs through it

I have yet to read Norman Macclean's classic account of growing up in the mid-west (shamefully, it sits on the shelf gathering dust like so many other novels; I now reckon my remaining lifespan in terms of unread books. By my rough reckoning I have about 300 books I have yet to read sitting on shelves in the house and my office. Even in my most wildly optimistic scenario of reading two books a month and a couple more during the holidays [and refraining from buying any new ones in the meantime - an utterly fantastic notion I know, but indulge me], it would take me 10 years to get through the backlog. And don't get me started on all the back issues of the Dublin Review and the New York Review of Books that are piled up under, around, and occasionally, on top of the bed).
But I digress. To repeat, I have yet to read Mr. Macclean's short story (I will, I promise), but even unread I reckon there were more fish caught in it than what me and Cian managed last Saturday.
Our house is too small and family lifestyle too busy to justify having a dog or cat, so what we have instead for pets are various types of fish. At the moment we have one goldfish, one crayfish, nine loach, and an exceedingly large school (swarm? brood? host? gathering? team? collective? posse?) of tadpoles. However, all this aquatic richness wasn't enough for Cian Costeau, who wanted to add to his collection. So last Saturday we ventured into the woods beyond the University in search of fish. My colleague Mike had regaled us with tales of all the fish he and his son used to catch up there when he was younger. So, suitably inspired we grabbed our nets and headed up the trail.
Only to be nearly eaten by a grizzly bear!



 

Well, maybe not a grizzly bear, or even a bear really. Sanae, after looking at the photographs, says it was a Japanese racoon, and a small one and that too. But she wasn't there. It was a bear damnit, and if it wasn't for our Forest Kozan acquired consummate wilderness skills ("throw something at it! Stones, sticks, anything! Just make it go away!"), we would surely have been devoured.
Thankfully, we got to the river without any other excitement (though Daddy did have to extract a tic from his leg that was feasting on his rich, type O blood. Obviously, a geographically savvy tic who had no problem with taking Irish blood, unlike a certain scarlet shaded hospital. I still squashed the fecker anyway). Unfortunately, there were no fish to be had, no matter how many rocks we poked under, which led us to conclude that either (a) it is too early in the season for the fish to be out and about (still very cold, snowmelt water flowing down from the mountain); or (b) Mike is a lying sack of s*** (Cian's words). We vowed to return next month and if we still can't find any fish, then we are going to feed Mike to the racoon, sorry, bear.

The Japanese Red Cross

Last Friday morning I was sitting in my office doing various academic things like, ahem, checking the wave report on Tenki.jp, when there was a knock on my door. Being the convivial Irishman that I am, I said hai, (Japanese for 'yes'). A man I didn't know entered my room, explained he was from the Japanese Red Cross and they were looking for blood donations. They had a mobile unit parked in front of the main building and they were eager for both students and faculty to donate. He inquired as to my blood type and when I told him O, his eyes lit up and he strongly urged me to come along and give 800ml of the finest Irish blood this side of Howth. As Tenki.jp had shown zero wave action forecast for the day, I figured, sure, why not. Seems I would get a free pack of cup noodles for my selflessness.
So, I went down to the temporary reception area they had set up just outside the mobile unit. There I had to fill in a form asking all sorts of personal questions, such as 'Have you ever had risky sex', to which I replied, 'Only in my car whilst driving'.
Us Irish, red-blooded and funny.
Anyway, I was ticking all the 'No' boxes ('No, I haven't been to West Africa lately'), when I came to the following question: 'Since 1980, have you ever lived in another country for more than 12 months?'. To which my obvious answer was 'yes, Ireland, where I grew up. Greatest country in the world'.
This though, seemed to trouble the man at reception. 'Ireland?' he said, in the sort of voice he would have probably used if my answer had been 'North Korea'. He reached behind him and pulled out a large ring folder, blew the dust off it, and began to flip through it. 'Please wait a moment' he muttered. He got to the end of the folder and obviously having not found what he was looking for, started again from the front.
No luck either the second time, so again he said 'Ireland?', followed by 'ummm' and another 'please wait a moment'. Then he got up and went in to the mobile unit.
A few moments passed. I waited.
He reappeared with the classic Japanese head-partially-bowed-bashful-look on his face which clearly signals that an embarrassing apology is imminent.
'Ahh, I am very sorry but, eh, we have no information about Ireland'.
'What?!'
'We have no information about Ireland so, we, ehh, can't accept your blood. I am very sorry'.
I stumbled away shocked. No information about Ireland?! The Japanese Red Cross have no information about the Irish and their blood! How? Why? Who?
Are we so remote from the Orient that news has yet to filter through of modern Ireland's dynamic society where we have such things as running water, electricity, and gay marriage? Does the Irish Embassy in Tokyo know of this state of affairs? Is an affirmative promotional campaign necessary? - 'Irish blood is good. Accept donations now'.
And no cup noodles either.

Deforestation, the Gobi Desert and Me

My Mazda, just back from it's tour of duty.

For the past week Hokkaido has been buffeted by strong westerly winds which have brought with them vast amounts of airborne sand. This phenomenon is known as 黄砂 (kousa), literally 'yellow sand'. It originates in northern China and Mongolia where the sand is picked up by a passing low pressure system which then travels east over Korea and Japan coating everything in its path a golden yellow. Repeated tree and plant degradation (which is a polite way of saying the feckin Chinese chopped down or uprooted everything green) means there is nothing to stop the topsoil being, as Bono would put it, 'blown by the wind'. Unfortunately, the resulting dust cloud doesn't 'disappear without a trace', but ends up falling on my car.
This is bloody annoying as I then have to wash my car.
I don't particularly like washing my car as (a) it's boring; and (b) it just gets dirty again the next time the wind shifts around and starts blowing from the west again. Rain only makes things worse as it leaves big splattery splotches of mustard colored sand over everything. My poor Mazda looks like it has belatedly returned from active duty in 'Operation Desert Storm'.
To try and do our bit and prevent this from happening every spring, myself and Cian went down to our local garden centre, got some grass seed, put it in an envelope and sent it off to the Chinese Embassy along with a helpful note asking them to spread over the land pretty much anywhere west of Beijing.
We have yet to hear back from them.

Somewhere out there beyond the yellow haze is the Pacific Ocean.