HOW TO FISH AND HOW TO SAY GOODBYE

Although preoccupied with my own life, I was not oblivious to the global scene, and this was a particularly eventful year. Churchill's resignation as Prime Minister struck a chord: he had been my secret hero during the occupation days in Holland. His moist and compelling voice, heard scratchily over a homemade clandestine crystal radio contained in a matchbox, still rung in my ears.

The return of Germany to the ranks of sovereign states with the withdrawal of the four occupying powers also touched a nerve. The memories of the Wehrmacht marching through our quiet Dutch suburban streets singing songs of conquest were still fresh. As kids we had been at once frightened and fascinated by those confident legions laying claim to all we stood for, and promising to invade England next. T)enn wir fahren gegen Engeland! Engeland!’ Yeft-right, lejt-right. With such voices and such precision stepping it was a wonder they did not win the war.

My weekend forays to coast and countryside continued. One day I took the train west towards the wine growing area of Kofu, getting off at a small station to walk in the hills, alone. There, late in the afternoon, I discovered a hermit, a bearded man in his early fifties. He invited me into his little hut for tea and rice balls, and told me he used to work in a company but got disillusioned with urban life. He gathered berries, wild plants and roots, but also received gifts from visitors. He encouraged me to take his photo, which I did. I questioned him on his spiritual beliefs but did not get very far. Instead he boasted about the TV crew that had made a film about him, and about the attentions he got from passing women, fascinated by his lifestyle. A lusty wink confirmed what he was getting at. By this time he had opened a bottle of sake, which he shared with me. I accepted a small cup. But it was getting dark.

Leaving a small gift of my own, I bade goodbye to this worldly recluse, and in the fading light hurried down the mountain to the station.