The Fellowship of the Henro

After almost a month walking alone, an old high school friend appeared in Kochi carrying a backpack, two pairs of walking shoes and absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into.
Every fellowship begins somewhere.

An Unexpected Companion

Two weeks ago one of my old high school mates quit his job.
Last week he appeared in Kochi City.
“The first day we’ll take it easy,” I told him.
“Just 15 kilometres.”
I miscalculated.
We walked 22.
The same thing happened the next day.
By the end of the week we’d covered more than 120 kilometres together.
He’d also acquired a walking stick that looked suspiciously like something Gandalf might have misplaced on his way through Middle-earth.
Meet Cam.
We’d gone to high school together nearly thirty years ago, lived completely different lives, caught up every now and then, and somehow found ourselves reunited on an ancient Japanese pilgrimage.
He came looking for an adventure.
I didn’t realise until he arrived that I’d quietly stopped noticing I was already on one.

The Road Goes Ever On

The first thing I said most afternoons wasn’t…
“What an incredible day.”
It was usually something closer to…
“We’re taking a day off soon…
…yeah baby.”
Somewhere over the past month walking had quietly become my job.
Wake up.
Walk.
Eat.
Walk.
Find beer.
Find shower.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Cam was still seeing everything with fresh eyes.
Every shrine.
Every river.
Every old farmhouse.
Every farmer.
Every wonderfully strange thing the Japanese countryside throws at you as if it were perfectly normal.
Meanwhile I’d become remarkably efficient at spotting vending machines from two hundred metres away.
Sometimes it takes someone else’s excitement to remind you that what has become your routine is someone else’s adventure.

The Silence Between Friends

The mornings usually began with conversation.
School.
Work.
People we’d forgotten.
People we’d rather forget.
The previous night’s dinner.
How many kilometres we still had to walk.
Then, after an hour or so…
Nothing.
Not awkward silence.
Comfortable silence.
Just boots.
Birds.
The occasional truck.
Every now and then one of us would point at something ridiculous.
A squashed frog.
An abandoned car overflowing with junk.
One of those giant bird-scarer kites flapping around like it was on drugs.
Then we’d go back to walking.
You don’t need to fill every kilometre with conversation when you’ve known someone for thirty years.
Sometimes friendship sounds exactly like silence.

Over the Misty Mountains… or Through the Mines of Moria?

Our daily debates quickly became predictable.
Cam would point towards the mountain trail.
“What about that one?”
I’d point towards the tunnel.
“What about… not climbing another mountain?”
To Cam every ridge promised another story.
To me every unnecessary metre of elevation represented poor decision making.
There were never any serious arguments though.
Long friendships are easy like that.
It became our running joke.
Every decision was either…
Over the Misty Mountains.
Or…
Through the Mines of Moria.
Sometimes “Moria” meant a kilometre-long tunnel with trucks roaring past only centimetres away, separated from us by little more than hope and a painted white line.
Thankfully many tunnels have boxes at each entrance filled with reflective sashes for pilgrims. You slip one on before entering and leave it for the next walker at the other end.
Other days there simply wasn’t a choice.
The only way forward was up.

Camwise the Brave

On the first day Cam was bouncing around like a kid on the first day of the school holidays.
The enthusiasm lasted exactly until the blisters arrived.
Then came the nightly surgery.
Pocket knives.
Band-Aids.
Antiseptic cream.
Enough athletic tape to immobilise a small horse.
Enough left in the rubbish bin for the innkeeper to quietly wonder what on earth had happened in our room.
Somewhere between limping into a pharmacy and hobbling back out, Cam officially completed his blister apprenticeship and became a fully fledged member of the Fellowship.
He never complained.
Well…
Not that much.

Boblical Rain

Just when we thought the giant purple worms had disappeared…
they came back.
Apparently they’re waiting for the cicadas.
That’s what I was told anyway.
Every day seemed to bring another downpour.
Not gentle rain.
Biblical rain.
Boblical rain.
The sort of rain your Uncle Bob builds an ark for.
My hat, complete with its rain cover, traps enough humidity to become its own ecosystem.
Things are growing under there.
Not good things.
Some of them probably have names.
Eventually we stopped treating the weather as something to endure and started behaving like two ten-year-olds.
Once absolute saturation has been achieved there really isn’t much left to worry about.
You simply accept that you’re wet.

There and Back Again

One afternoon lightning cracked across the sky while we crossed open farmland.
In Japanese the word for thunder and lightning is the same…
Kaminari.
Halfway through the storm we spotted a turtle making a determined dash across the road.
The poor little bloke was moving surprisingly fast.
I became an impromptu turtle traffic controller, gently encouraging him towards safety with my walking stick.
About that moment a police car pulled over.
The officer looked at me.
Looked at the turtle.
Looked at Cam.
Smiled.
Shook his head.
And drove away.
I still don’t know whether he thought we were heroes…
or simply beyond saving ourselves.

The Kindness of Strangers

One lady slowly rode up beside us on her bicycle.
“You’re not Japanese?”
“I’m afraid not… sorry about that.”
Five minutes later she’d marched us into what looked less like a shop and more like somebody’s grandmother’s lounge room.
The proprietor must have been at least eighty-five.
She sold food she’d made and drinks from what looked like her living room.
Our cyclist bought us canned green tea.
A couple of potato cakes.
Asked where we were from.
Where we were going.
Chatted for a few minutes.
Then simply smiled.
“Okay… see you.”
And pedalled away.
Another man quietly handed each of us a small envelope.
Inside was osettai—a small gift for pilgrims.
Enough for a couple of beers.
Not life changing.
But deeply moving.
The Henro provides.
Usually right when you need reminding that most people are actually pretty wonderful.

Inns of Middle-earth

Every great fantasy has memorable inns.
The Henro has them too.
Some nights you’re sleeping in somebody’s late parents’ house, complete with hospital beds still fitted with safety rails.
Other nights you feel like a feudal lord in an enormous ryokan with polished timber floors, woven baskets, impossibly good dinners and rooms so large you don’t know where to leave your backpack.

Some even have massage chairs that squeeze you harder than a sponge at a charity car wash.
One owner noticed Cam didn’t yet have a proper walking staff.
“Wait here.”
She disappeared into another room before returning with what can only be described as a wizard’s staff.
“How much?”
“Oh no,” she smiled.
“It’s a present.”
Every Fellowship needs a wizard.
Ours had finally found his staff.

Feasts Fit for Hobbits

No proper adventure survives on onigiri alone.
There was smoky yakitori eaten beside cheerful old blokes who seemed determined to empty the beer list.
Katsuo tataki in Kure that reminded me why Kochi takes such pride in its seafood.
A visit to Shimanto Sake Brewery that absolutely deserved the detour.

They’re making some wonderful sake there.
They also serve fried duck fat as a snack.
Those three words…
Fried.
Duck.
Fat.
…should probably never appear together in the same sentence.
Or perhaps they were always destined to.
Whoever first looked at a duck and thought,
“Let’s fry the fat…”
deserves a medal.
Somewhere along the coast we also accumulated an increasingly bizarre collection of roadkill.
Dead frogs.
Crushed crabs.
Lots of crabs.
Even in the mountains.
Nature is beautiful.
Nature is also weird.
I am also weird.

The Elf

Then there was the other pilgrim.
His fifth Henro.
From Tokyo.
Built like someone who mistakes mountains for treadmills.
He covered in one day what took us two.
Sometimes more.
He even chose the mountain routes we’d spent twenty minutes trying to avoid.
I’m fairly certain he wasn’t entirely human.
Definitely an elf.

What Camwise Reminded Me

Cam didn’t come because he needed to walk 1,300 kilometres.
He came because life reminded him that “one day” isn’t guaranteed.
He’d quit his job.
Someone close to him had passed away.
He suddenly realised he had the freedom to stop.
To think.
To begin again.
Meanwhile, I’d quietly become someone who was simply…
Walking.
The next town.
The next guesthouse.
The next beer.
Somewhere along the way I’d stopped noticing that I was living the adventure I’d set out to find.
Cam noticed everything.
The ridiculous distances we’d accidentally walked.
The afternoon storms.
The turtles crossing flooded roads.
The massage chairs from the depths of Mordor.
The fish we’d never heard of.
The tiny acts of kindness that have become so normal to me I’d almost forgotten how extraordinary they really are.
Watching someone experience the Henro for the first time reminded me what it felt like when every temple, every mountain and every unexpected conversation felt new.
Tomorrow we’re taking a detour to raft the Shimanto River.
Then we’ll shoulder our packs once more.
Camwise with his wizard’s staff.
Me pretending I know where we’re going.
Somewhere ahead there’s another mountain to climb.
Another day that’ll be longer than we planned.
Another old lady determined to feed us.
Another story we couldn’t possibly have planned.
The Road goes ever on and on.
And for now, that’s more than enough.

Dispatch #4: The Fellowship of the Henro

Published: Day 33 of the Pilgrimage — July 10

Temples visited: 37/ 88
Distance walked: 646km / 1,300km
Current location: Shimanto town, Kochi Prefecture.
Kilograms of enlightenment achieved: 5 plus
Onigiri eaten: too many
Beers drunk: Easily 50 (a figure readers can directly influence via the beer buying button below—and a massive rocking thank-you to everyone who already has - I love your messages!)
Granola bars reluctantly consumed: 25
Blisters acquired: 5