The slowest train ever named ‘express’
brings you into Kii-katsuura station. A quaint costal journey, with window
facing seats (for the sea view) and the noise of old people, muttering general
dissatisfactions.
Our
young couple had checked in, and bathed together, before deciding to venture on
a stroll around the headland. Before alighting upon any pleasure beach, they came
upon a café, overlooking a building site; for what they did not know.
“Maybe it’s for a new hotel” he conjectured, although they
had passed a huge abandoned hotel previously, its tattered curtains gazing
limply through the broken windows. “Whatever it is, it will ruin the café’s
view”. Turning their attention back to the café, they noticed something odd in
the cliff face behind it. Two little doors cut into the rock. Front doors. And
a window. A little house nestles into the domineering stone. She remarked that
it was like a real life hobbit hole. However, they didn’t have long to
contemplate it, as a man cycling past them caught their attention. Grasped
tightly in his left hand, a whole squid glistened, its tentacles flapping in
the wind.
The
scenery of Katsuura, Wakayama, is dramatic to say the least. Huge cliffs tumble
into the Pacific Ocean, red veins of copper snaking up their sheer sides. The
sea is crystal clear, and gets deep quickly. The seaside town which was once
bustling and colourful has now, like most seaside towns, fallen into that
melancholic state between effervescence and disrepair. One small tuna fishery
is the face of the town, but quickly gives way to a much larger port, disused
and rusting.
Our
protagonists had reached this point as the sunlight began to fade. Three large
hawks were perched on an abandoned crane. The largest of the three, probably a
female, unfurled its lengthy wingspan and soared, in a dive then an arch. We
stopped to watch, as the hawks circled in the sky above us.
Turning
our heads back to the path, a pair of glowing eyes looked up to greet us. “Neko-chan—“
I started and then trailed off. Seemingly from nowhere had appeared, maybe 15,
feral cats. Sitting on cars and boats, lobster pots and boxes, they glared like
statues. We hurried past, worried we had lingered too long on their turf. A
little further ahead we stopped for breath. We were searching the azure waters
for fish, when, deep in the waters, we noticed the skeletal remains of a rusty
bicycle.
As we
observed this, some clockwork chimes sounded. A childish melody, like that of
an ice cream van, or a child’s wind-up toy. The wind picked up, and tickled at our necks. The
music stopped playing as suddenly as it had begun. It was time, then, for us to
return to our hotel. As we navigated our way back, the town speaker crackled
into action, announcing something in distorted, echoing Japanese.
We
arrived at our hotel, and the one member of staff who still wore a kimono
welcomed us back. We sat down to dine, in a restaurant where the piano played
itself.
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