It was green hill country. Hot. Muggy. We walked past an old man carrying a bucket of wild chestnuts. He was a hunter out gathering bait for wild pig traps. He said there were bears in the surrounding forests. Few people wanted to hunt anymore in Japan, he grumped. He didn’t want to be interviewed.
I imagined him an aged ronin, an unemployed samurai, with his unused katana balanced across his shoulders, the blade long-unused but still sharp. Then the path sidled next to a highway swooshing with car traffic, and all such romantic nonsense dissolved. I was glad I was alive now, not then.