We met on the road to Imabari.

I had stepped into a Hawaiian-themed establishment to try their chia bowl. In the restaurant’s green space outside, a signpost indicates the direction for Honolulu. Quite a power move, even eighty-four years after the fact. But I’m all for bygones, especially when the chia is good.

As I emerged, I saw her conical straw hat in the distance. Energized by the sea views and the fresh-fruit topping, I upped my step and came upon her.

‘Konnichiwa!’, I called out.

My Japanese accent is over-convincing, leading people to believe I was rescued on the high seas and raised by natives. In fact, I practice ultimate minimalism, with a vocabulary summarised as ‘hello’, even though sometimes I can’t remember it.

Miki is doing better with English; way better. We exchange using verbs and nouns. Prepositions are useful for great addresses to the nation, but not between Miki and me.

She is a woman experienced in the world, confident in her thinking, and muscularly slight of physique. She is easily recognisable as she is wearing the traditional white garb of the pilgrim; one which triggers locals to offer the walker gifts – an act of compassion valued in Buddhism.

We talked about why each of us was doing a trail of 1000km-1200km. Being a novice of the 88 Temples, it was my question. I find myself highly vigilant in an effort to understand what I am doing.

As we continued, she thought.

‘I don’t have a particular reason. But one day my body said it was time to walk’.

She touched her chest with both hands, indicating not her heart, but her soul.

Just yesterday, I myself found evidence that I have been thinking of this walk for a long time. In a 2015 essay on Haiku (the minimal poetry of Japanese insight), I mention an interest in this Shikoku walk.

Perhaps we don’t always realise how many plans percolate before they become explicit.

She was enthusiastic to be walking with me, and said so. I have not figured out how to interpret such a reaction. I encounter it a lot. Just yesterday at the 7-Eleven, the girl came from behind the counter and asked me why I had come to Japan.

‘Adventure’ I replied, which made her smile broadly and place her hand on my shoulder. ‘Take care’, she said.

I asked Miki what her favourite experience thus far has been. After all, she has been on the trail, walking alone, for forty days.

‘Now’, she said, and laughed.

***

7-Elevens, the byword of Japanese convenience, are dotted generously throughout the Empire and are the pilgrim’s modern refuge.

To think of them as a shabby local store, cobbled together, would be a misdirect. A 7-Eleven has the complexity and beauty of a single-cell, with fresh food and drink as its pulsing mitochondria.

As we walked in step, Miki was haltingly dispensing advice regarding the management of hornets, of accommodation and of pace.

‘The first ten days should be slow’, she summarised, as the body is learning a new regime.

Seeing the familiar green and red signage ahead, I invited her for an iced coffee, as my guest. She agreed, and proposed that she buy us a sweet treat to share.

No better woman. Miki is a Japanese pastry chef by profession. She makes confections three days a week, and teaches traditional skills, at her home near Tokyo, on the other two days.

We were both sweaty arriving into the air conditioned store, glad to be out of the high twenties heat and burdensome humidity.

The key to Japanese patisserie is to follow the season. October is chestnut harvest, for example, so the dorayaki should not be missed.

Sucking a cooling iced coffee through straws, we happened upon music which, it turns out, is a passion for us both. Indeed, we are both singers – though Miki has just started on her learning journey.

She was hungry for knowledge.

I explained how the body is an instrument in operatic music, and the art of singing is the making of sound, as large or as refined as is needed, whilst conserving energy.

This paradoxical idea interested her.

‘So making a big sound doesn’t need big effort’, she stated.

I nodded my head. It’s about using your body naturally, to naturally fill the space.

She turned to Google Translate for her next question.

‘So what is the point of music?’, she asked, our iced coffee almost done.

I take a moment’s consideration of this question. For a long time I thought the point of music was the beauty of the sound. But I no longer believe that.

‘Music is emotion’, I responded. ‘It’s a feeling that’s exchanged, between singer and listener’.

The idea floated in the silence, as we gathered our things and went on our way. Soon after, we parted company. Miki was walking further than me.