One final shrine we visited along the way.
The abode of an Aragami, a powerful spirit of vengeance.
A pool of clear water, bubbling up from a nearby spring, had instructions to wash the hands and mouth; the Shinto cleansing.
Decaying walls, carved with kanji.
The Shrine empty.
In the distance, a woman works a farm plot. The sun’s fires fade beneath the clouds.
We traveled from the island, riding the ferry back to the mainland. Before returning home, we visited a restaurant.
Classic Japanese udon shop.
Noodles made by hand.
Kitsune Udon, and a mountain of tempura far too large—my eyes got ahead of my stomach.
Topped with tofu, green onions, and ginger. A favorite dish.
For me, this is the taste of Japan.
Mikichan’s udon served up in a wooden pale.
Hisachan’s in a beautifully patterned bowl, matching mine.
We ate like kings, and returned to Mikichan’s apartment above the cafe, across the street from the sea. Tomorrow we would return to Hiroshima.
The end of our Journey would come soon.
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