Uwajima, Ehime → Hōkyō Pass → Yoshida, Ehime


Out before the shops opened, past the fish market where three men were hosing down a floor that already looked clean. The road climbs almost immediately and then pretends not to, which is the particular cruelty of the coast here — you gain two hundred metres without ever once feeling that you have started climbing.


Wind from the southwest all morning, straight off the water and into the left ear. By the top of the pass I had developed a theory that a headwind is more honest than a hill, because a hill at least ends.
Mandarin terraces on both sides of the descent, cut into the slope in steps barely wider than a person, held up by drystone walls that must be older than the trees. Someone has run a monorail up the hillside — a single rusted rail on short legs, threading between the rows, with a little flatbed cart parked halfway up and left there. Whoever farms this slope is not young, and has thought carefully about not being young.
Into Yoshida by three, which is early, and I could have gone on. Did not. Sat on the seawall for an hour instead and watched a heron fail to catch anything, repeatedly, with enormous dignity.
23.4 km. Legs fine. Left ear still ringing from the wind.

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