arrival at the tree castle

Hokkaidan Wooden House. Hand-Made.

"Is it all made of wood?" I ask, standing in the middle of the vast sitting room, my chin in the air, looking round the solid tawny walls, seeing how the grain traces the boundaries of the room, the eyes of the wood peep out on our small tea-drinking group. The heavy beams, their splits, the low table and hand-made chairs, all come together to create a sense of warmth and security - a fortress against the endless mountains and fields and forests thinning into horizon. The house stands alone; a long way off the main road. After the paper-mache Tokyo apartment blocks, it is strong and healthy, embracing me in the darkening evening. 

"Not wood," my homestay father says. "Trees." 

He opens the newspaper again. Next to him a line of Japanese sake boxes clutter the floor. I don't know whether they are full or empty. Beautiful blue-stained sake cups lean against the bottles. 

"What kind of sake do you like? Beer?" he asks me.

"Yes, beer. And wine. And Nihonshu."

"Beer, then," he says. "Nothing is more delicious than Hokkaido beer." He opens the fridge and shows me where the beer is, when I need it. 

My Bedroom

***

My homestay mother gives me a guided tour of the farmer's market. Daikon. Pumpkins. Mushrooms. Lotus root. "Here, aren't they big? Aren't they fresh-looking?" She talks nervously and quietly, almost murmuring to herself, so I'm not sure if she wants me to listen or not. It's as if my listening is an accident; my response always a little unexpected. "My neighbours grow their own vegetables so I don't have to buy any. I have five pumpkins waiting in the kitchen. I'm getting fatter and fatter. Who's going to eat them?"

Big Mysterious Vegetable

A man in the shop sees I'm a foreigner and speaks to me in English, but after he's been talking for a while I realise it's not an English I can follow. Then he gives me a document detailing the different kinds of potatoes available in the area.

"You shouldn't let him speak to you in English. Say you speak Japanese!" says my homestay mother, laughing. "Strange man."

*** 

Hana, the dog, chases her own tail round and round in tight circles. She's a white Akita, a Japanese snow husky. She likes me, I think. She sits next to me and licks my elbow. My homestay mother explains she never wanted a dog but,

"There were four of them. Four puppies. A local boy found the box left in the forest, just thrown away. He managed to give away three but there was only one left - Hana. She was the 残り物 - the left-over. So we took her in. That was eleven years ago now."

Hana guards the house

She ruffles Hana's neck and Hana, panting after her walk, watches her mother closely as she speaks. 

“どうぞよろしく！” she says to Hana. "Say hello to our guest!" Hana lifts her paw to me and taps my palm, softly, as if to check that I'm really there.