Yesterday, on a blistering stretch of urban trail, I heard the shuffling of someone behind me.

If I were in Rome or Dublin, it might have been cause for alarm; the prelude to a phone snatch, perhaps. But this is Japan, and the only muggers on these streets have six legs, four wings, and a Latin name, Vespa mandarinia japonica, which has the danger of drawing you in.

She said something just as I turned around. ‘Ah’, I smiled. It was the lady I had seen just now, at the crossroads.

***

We were waiting for a giant harvest festival float to pass by, manned by thirty young men singing call-and-response songs of thanks, embellished by drums and whistles.

Their ornamented float was giant, weighing over two tonnes and stretching four metres skyward. One young lad with black gloves was responsible for manoeuvring the telephone wires out of the way as the float progressed. I worried that electricity might be mixed in with those multitudinous lines, and to devastating effect.

The lady at the crossroads saw my expression of angst, and laughed. We then said hello, which is fifty percent of my Japanese eloquence.

After the float had passed, I walked on, in good physical shape – despite the niggling questions on my mind all day.

Do I wish to continue this walk? What other rich and varied things might I do with my time in Japan? What are the costs of staying, and those of leaving?

In truth, I have not been able to release myself fully into the walk, as yet. I lack the momentum which builds confidence. Bad days have followed good days. There is complexity around every corner – in accommodation, in the draining heat, in an unevenly marked trail. And, I have finally admitted, in so few people actually walking this pilgrimage.

But none of these challenges carries much merit in the face of stern intention. So many times in my life, I have known that I will succeed because it is simply a decision I have made. Nothing can keep from me that which is mine.

But this Shikoku Pilgrimage finds me in a more suggestible, fidgety state. Have you ever known that feeling of pulling away from the mooring you previously had in sight? The instinct of now needing to find a fresh port? The act of reappraisal is an act of sweet suffering.

Last night, I slept on a futon in a traditional Japanese hotel, untouched since the 1980s. The lady of the house was so kind, but her floors were hard and her pillows lumpy. I slept but did not rest, and only realised so when I hit the road.

***

Some days previous, I had a long exchange with Penny (not her real name), a young British journalist who has taken a year out from a London newsroom, which began to feel hollow and toxic to her.

‘I’m disillusioned by how journalism works’, she said. I did not probe, as the focus of our conversation was elsewhere. Our exchange was marked by the frankness which anonymity confers.

Penny had started the pilgrimage earlier than I, when the humidity was unspeakable. She described how concerned the Japanese people were for her welfare. From time to time, in the Temples, she had taken to reading the intentions and prayers other pilgrims had left – notes of gratitude or consolation. These bits of paper, written in hand by someone who had walked the same path, brought her back when at a low ebb.

It turned out that Penny had not spoken to another person for days. She was hungry to be heard. I took a picture of our shadows as we descended the treacherously steep granite steps of a temple, and sent it to her by AirDrop.

‘Those steps never seem so steep in the pictures’, she said.

Neither of us needed to remain in touch. We had given to each other what we needed.

***

The lady from the crossroads was beaming at me now, with a flushed face from running.

In her hands, she held a gift – a Japanese confection designed to give energy.

The tradition of locals giving small gifts to pilgrims creates a debt that no walker can repay.

I thanked her sincerely. She bowed, and wished me well. Ten metres further down the road, I turned around and called out again. ‘Thank you so much’, I said, having stored the gift away.

This morning, over a coffee, as I ponder how to shape this Japanese adventure, I found and opened it.

‘Shimmidori’ is a kind of fruit-and-algae jelly, with that sweet and sour taste I have come to love in Japanese fare. It is balanced, nuanced, interesting – like its people, and the blessing of their encouragement.