Mad Dogs and Englishmen

As I used the motorcycle the day before to go and watch my son in a Track & Field event, and petroleum spirit prices are the highest I have ever seen them, I decide to use the mountain-bike again for my Sunday outing. ‘You are mad’ declares my wife, shaking her head in pity, ‘It’s over thirty degrees out there.’ My daughter chips in with ‘It’s like Lawrence of Arabia crossing Sinai—and you haven’t even got a camel’.

However, I dismiss their talk as idle female chatter, drink plenty of water and set off, with more water in my backpack. My target is Tsukuhara-ko, a large reservoir up in the mountains, which can be reached by using a special cycle road and is usually a pleasant ride. Today there is little wind and the heat haze off the tarmac is fierce, but I reason to myself that it will be cooler among the rice paddies and the irrigation water.

The descent into the valley of the Akashi river is refreshing, but as soon as the route levels out again the heat returns. After I have covered about 8 kilometres, I realize that the womenfolk were right and this is crazy. So I pull into another of my favourite temples, Cho-fuku-ji, and appreciate the wisdom of the The Buddha who advises me on the right kind of activity for a day like today.


The guardians of the temple, the Ni-Oh sama seem to be admonishing me for my folly in venturing out in such conditions.

On my return journey, I take frequent rests and take some more photos with the mobile. One pine tree with a posture problem reminds me of my favourite comedy duo, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

And the hot weather is good for some things anyway.


And just before the uphill push to where we live, I drop by the temple where we rang in the New Year on a freezing cold December 31st, just half a year ago.

As I approach home, another bit of wisdom enters my consciousness, from Noel Coward.

In tropical climes there are certain times of day
When all the citizens retire,
to tear their clothes off and perspire.
It's one of those rules that the biggest fools obey,
Because the sun is much too sultry and one must avoid
its ultry-violet ray --
Papalaka-papalaka-papalaka-boo. (Repeat)
Digariga-digariga-digariga-doo. (Repeat)
The natives grieve when the white men leave their huts,
Because they're obviously, absolutely nuts --

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The Japanese don't care to, the Chinese wouldn't dare to,
Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one,
But Englishmen detest a siesta,
In the Philippines there are lovely screens,
to protect you from the glare,
In the Malay states there are hats like plates,
which the Britishers won't wear,
At twelve noon the natives swoon, and
no further work is done -
But Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

It's such a surprise for the Eastern eyes to see,
That though the British are effete,
they're quite impervious to heat,
When the white man rides, every native hides in glee,
Because the simple creatures hope he will
impale his solar topee on a tree.
Bolyboly-bolyboly-bolyboly-baa. (Repeat)
Habaninny-habaninny-habaninny-haa. (Repeat)
It seems such a shame that when the English claim the earth
That they give rise to such hilarity and mirth -

Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The toughest Burmese bandit can never understand it.
In Rangoon the heat of noon is just what the natives shun.
They put their scotch or rye down, and lie down.
In the jungle town where the sun beats down,
to the rage of man or beast,
The English garb of the English sahib merely gets a bit more creased.
In Bangkok, at twelve o'clock, they foam at the mouth and run,
But mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen, go out in the midday sun.
The smallest Malay rabbit deplores this stupid habit.
In Hong Kong, they strike a gong, and fire off a noonday gun.
To reprimand each inmate, who's in late.
In the mangrove swamps where the python romps
there is peace from twelve till two.
Even caribous lie down and snooze, for there's nothing else to do.
In Bengal, to move at all, is seldom if ever done,
But mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

Which brings to mind more memories of a certain Yorkshire gas-fitter, who appropriated the title of the ditty for a world tour in 1970. I went to the Newcastle City Hall to see this show. My mother said I was never the same again after that. Not surprising really...

Go West Young Man

On the very last day of Golden Week, May 6th, I decided to get the mountain-bike out again and go for another ride, along the coast to the west this time, from Akashi, to wherever it feels good to turn back. I have heard that there is a nice cycle path along the coast, well away from any road traffic and it is this that I go in search of.

I first head south, heading down the valley-side through a patchwork of terraced newly-irrigated rice-fields and various other cultivated tracts, past a white-washed Zen-dera and finally emerge on Route 175. This is the main thoroughfare between Akashi on the Pacific coast and Maizuru on the Japan Sea and, as usual, is stiff with traffic. There is no choice now but to stick with it till I reach Route 2 so I put on as much speed as I can on the bumpy pavement, always wary of the unexpected--like old ladies stepping out from behind bus-shelters. They are remarkably good at that kind of thing, unfortunately.

Route 2 is reached without mishap and thankfully crossed at the zebra-crossing which ‘cuck-oo’s at me as the cyclist/pedestrian light illuminates in green. As I head towards Akashi Fishing Port, the world becomes a nicer place, as the hum of traffic gradually recedes in my wake. After crossing the San-Yo railway line at the level crossing, the streets become narrower and even a mountain-bike seems like an excessively large vehicle to be on them. This is the _old_ part of Akashi and probably has not really changed much since the early 19th century, in terms of street layout.

I emerge onto the coast road and am immediately confronted with the evidence of fishing-industrial-man. Old hawsers are piled up at the side of the road, along with fishing nets, trawl cables, octopus pots and sundry tackle. The road is pot-holed and all the buildings have a scruffy look about them. Deja-vu--it is just like Obama, but there are no hordes of jeering urchins to contend with, thankfully. I pull into the harbour to see if the cycling path leads out of it. Lots of moored fishing boats—but no cycling path.


I proceed westwards past a man waving red & white flags to guide traffic past some roadworks, where they appear to be repairing a gas main. Soon the road turns to the right but the cycle track begins dead ahead, by a stand of gnarled pine trees backing on to a beach of white sand. There are families picknicking and barbecuing and groups of young people simply hanging out in the sunshine on this fine but hazy day, with Awaji-shima just visible in the distance.


I have been well-informed—it is a pleasant ride along the beaches. Here and there I come across some kinds of working activity—not everyone is on holiday. There are men waist-deep in water with chest-high waders wielding wicked looking rake-like implements as they harvest the shallows for shellfish of some description. At the point where the river Akane meets the sea, there is a man out in the water driving a power-shovel, heaping up berms of silt and sand. I watch him for a while, but am at a loss to understand why he is out there.


The cycle path continues for another couple of kilometres, until it merges with a normal two-lane blacktop. There are some palm trees here and a small fishing port, but no signs to indicate the name of the place. So, in my best polite Japanese, I make enquiries to three pretty young ladies who are having a beach picnic.
Me: Er, Suminasen ga... Kono tokoro wa doko desu ka? Mich ga mayou desu kedo...
Excuse me, can you tell me the name of this place? I’m a little bit lost...
Them: Hora gaijin da!
Look, it’s a foreigner!
Me: Sigh. (Repeat question)
Them (Giggle) Eigo wa wakaranai kedo
We don’t understand English
Me: Nihongo wo hanashiteimasu! Kiite! (Repeat question)
I’m speaking Japanese! Listen!
Them: Ah so desu ne. Mezurashii desu ne. Gaikokujin to Nishongo wa... Kochira wa Ei ga Shima desu.
Them: It's true! Unusual eh? A foreigner and Japanese... This is Ei ga Shima...
Me: Arigato gozaimasu. So desu ka. Kore wa sanzui hen to Edo no E to ido no i desu ka (draws kanji in air with finger)
Thank you. Is that so! So that’s the water radical with the E of Edo and then the i of ido is it?
Them: So desu yo. Heiiirr-- gaijin wa kanji dekimasu... (giggle)
That’s right. (Sound of disbelief) the foreigner can do kanji...

I thank them again and cycle off up the road to where I know I will meet the Sanyo railway. This place is only 25 miles from Kobe, the oldest international port in Japan, but we might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Hick towns are the same all over the world it seems. I know it well. My home land in perfidious Blighty is full of them. For sure...

I stop to take a look at a nice old Shinto shrine called Sumi-yoshi Jinja (West Ei ga Shima) and decide to thank the gods for keeping me safe.


I rattle the bell rope and say my piece, but am then unable to locate the offertory box to deposit my ¥10 votive offering. I finally give up and leave it on the step beneath the bell.

At the Sanyo railway I turn right and follow it back towards Akashi, but before reaching there I drop in at Choh-koh-ji, a Buddhist temple overlooking the sea.


It has a nice old gateway and inside, a rather splendid statue of Fudo-Myo –O


"Fudo is the Buddhist divinity of wisdom and fire. He is the principal deity of the great kings. Fudo is often called upon for protection during dangerous times. He is said to live in a temple on top of Mount Okiyama. Fudo is often shown to be an ugly old man surrounded in fire. He has a sword in his right hand to sever material connections and a rope in his left hand, that he uses to tie demons with. His sword is also used several times a year at Akakura in a healing ritual. Anyone who goes to see him is said to be punished with blindness. The most famous legend of Fudo claims that a young girl, named O Ai San, prayed to him for 100 days, naked under a waterfall near his shrine at Ohara in the province of Awa. Once she had returned home, her father, whom she had prayed for, was cured of a lingering illness.

He is typically depicted with a sword for subduing demons in his right hand and a rope for catching and binding them in his left hand. He has a fearsome blue visage and is surrounded by flames, representing the purification of the mind. He is often depicted seated or standing on a rock to show his immovability. His hair commonly has seven knots and is draped on his left side, a servant hairstyle in Buddhist iconography. He is frequently depicted with two protruding fangs. One tooth points down, representing his compassion to the world, and one tooth points up, representing his passion for truth."
(Quotation from Wikipedia)

I take a left turn and head toward the township of Nishi-Akashi, thinking to add a little variety to my route back. Some dodging through back lanes brings me out onto the rice-paddies which line the Akashi River, though some of them are being dug up for housing development (if I am reading the signs right).

Last stop before home is the human gas station again.


This time I try the pork & cheese burger, a recent addition to the menu. Nice--but a tad spicy, so I drink plenty of water before setting off on the last lap. Water is free at McDonalds...

Ei ga Shima made is not as much of a challenge as the Suma-Dera run, but it’s a pleasant ride out.

Gets the heart going a bit...

I’ll do it again quite soon.

My other bike

Before I got back into motorcycling, I was already enamoured of the 2-wheel way of going about things. This was with the mountain bike method and the machine you see below has been in my possession for about thirteen years now.


She was on sale at the local bicycle emporium at a hefty discount because something had fallen on her during the Great Hanshin Earthquake (January 17 1995) causing a minor blemish somewhere to her paintwork. I had eyes only for her suspension fork and aluminium alloy handlebar and gladly ponied up the necesssary yen.

The picture was taken yesterday in the forecourt of Koumei-ji, one of the many Buddhist temples to be found in the town of Akashi, due south of us, near the end of a 50-km ride I sometimes do for health and spiritual enhancement. Koumei-ji sustained a severe clattering in said seismic event but I am pleased to note that it has finally been fully restored.

My destination though, was a much older temple, called Suma-dera, said to have been established in 886 by the saint Monkyo, which is the headquarters of the Sumadera School of the Shingon sect of Buddhism. It is almost exactly 25 km from our front door, which makes for a satisfying pedal-powered outing.

To get there I first head south, towards the Akashi Straits and one of the first things I encounter is a long downhill stretch where I can free-wheel for about half a kilometer. When I used to have one fitted, the speedometer once registered 34 mph towards the bottom of this section of the route.

Henry Charles Beeching knew all about it:

WITH lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart with a mighty lift
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:--
'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

'Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!'

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss? '
Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,
Shall find wings waiting there.

‘Going down Hill on a Bicycle, a Boy’s Song’ was written in joy to celebrate one of life’s simple pleasures. As long as I can appreciate things like that, I feel I will never grow old.

At the end of the incline there is a fairly sharp right-hander and I am pleased that I adjusted the front brake cable prior to departure. The ears ‘pop’ as I enter the Ikawa valley, I am now almost at sea-level having just descended over 200 metres in less than half a minute. From here the track follows the course of the Ikawa river until its confluence with the Akashi river and then into the somewhat scruffy township of Tamatsu. This place used to be a colony of eta or burakumin – the former untouchables of pre-modern Japanese society, who specialised in butchery of cattle and horses and also leather-tanning. As the Buddha forbade the killing of living things, these poor unfortunates were placed at the very lowest rank on the totem-pole and were obliged to make their dwelling places in the least desirable areas.

We are soon pedalling through the leafy entrance to Akashi Park in the lee of the castle wall and I hear the ‘clack’ of shogi pieces where the old men vie with each other to win at Japanese chess. As today, April 29th—Showa Day-- is the official start of Golden Week and is a fine spring day, the park has plenty of visitors, so progress is somewhat slower.

I am soon through the town and on to the sea front, with the heady tang of salt air and the magnificent sight of the Akashi Straits Bridge.


Cycling is more pleasurable now, away from busy roads and I am soon wafting past the artificial beaches of Okura Kaigan and Maiko Azur to the fishing port of Tarumi, where we spent the first five years of our life in Kobe.

Before very much longer I reach Shioya, where Somerset Maugham once lived as a noted foreign celebrity and guest of the Japanese Empire, in the heady days (for some) of the nineteen-thirties. Now I am back beside the coastal highway which is thick with traffic and I try to breathe in as little as possible.

Before the final uphill approach to Suma-Dera I pause for a swig from the water-bottle which is refreshing. Almost all the houses are new-looking, as this place resembled post-war Dresden after the 1995 disaster. I park the bicycle and lock it up, then enter the temple grounds.

There is a lot to see here, but one of my favourite places is the garden with its statues of the samurai horsemen, Taira no Atsumori and Naozane Kumagai at the battle of Ichi-no-Tani.


I also like the two-level pagoda with the five wise monkeys at its base.


During the course of my visit I get through about ¥125 in votive offerings and purchases of candles and incense sticks, set to burn in special places in hope of good favour from Siddartha Gotama, who in the fullness of time became the Buddha.
My final stop before departure is before the statue of the Thousand-armed Kannon, or Guan Yin--the Goddess of Mercy.


“One Buddhist legend presents Guan Yin as vowing to never rest until she had freed all sentient beings from samsara, reincarnation. Despite strenuous effort, she realized that still many unhappy beings were yet to be saved. After struggling to comprehend the needs of so many, her head split into eleven pieces. Amitabha Buddha, seeing her plight, gave her eleven heads with which to hear the cries of the suffering. Upon hearing these cries and comprehending them, Avalokitesvara attempted to reach out to all those who needed aid, but found that her two arms shattered into pieces. Once more, Amitabha came to her aid and appointed her a thousand arms with which to aid the many. Many Himalayan versions of the tale include eight arms with which Avalokitesvara skillfully upholds the Dharma, each possessing its own particular implement, while more Chinese-specific versions give varying accounts of this number. In China, it is said that fishermen used to pray to her to ensure safe voyages. The titles Guan Yin of the Southern Ocean and 'Guan Yin (of/on) the Island' stem from this tradition”

Quotation from Wikipedia.

It is now 15:40 and time to roll. As I reach Tarumi again I begin to feel somewhat fatigued and realise that it has been a long time since brunch. I notice a road sign indicating respite is at hand, only two kilometres ahead, and at the outskirts of Akashi pull into the human gasoline stand.


A Big Mac has never tasted better – good calorific value at ¥290 a time.

I take a slightly different route through Akashi, to avoid pedalling up the incline which gave such pleasure earlier in the day. In days gone by this slope was the final challenge, but at 53 years of age, you know, sometimes discretion is the better part of valour.

A final snap of some automotive eye-candy....


One of these days, if I can align a certain set of six numbers, an Alfa-Romeo Spider 2.2 will definitely be on the wish-list. Gorgeous bit of Italian kit.

I arrive home, exhausted, to find the house deserted. I make a welcome cup of tea—the staff of life. As I thankfully swill the last tangy remnants, the telephone rings. It is shewhomustbeobeyed aka spousal unit and daughter who want picking up from the station, now, at once, don’t spare the horses.

So I fire up the Toyota without further ado and do my duty, sweat drying on me, which invokes flaring nostrils and comments as the womenfolk get in the car. Well, they did say NOW...

I enjoyed this little jaunt so much I have resolved to try and do it at least once a month from now on. Can’t do me any harm...