A few people have asked how it was 

possible for me to make such a large 

volume of Cornish pasties, particular 

those who know that my oven is the 

about the size of a large rat trap.

Well, it wasn't easy.

So, I feel obliged to share my secrets 

to their production.

First you'll need to prepare about 24kg of malleable dough.

Of course, rolling so much dough could present a challenge. 

However, two ways have proved most effective. 

1) A labour intensive way is to form the dough into tennis size balls 

and flatten with a conventional rolling pin (one at a time). Takes ages.

However, for quick results, I recommend the following:

2) First,  knead into football-size lumps; then it's simply a 

matter of finding a large, clean, flat surface, and someone familiar 

with the operation of a garden lawn roller, and you're all set.

With time on my hands during 
the holidays I decided to make
a few Cornish Pasties.
The one second from the right, 
fourth row, was particularly 
scrumptious.

Antique seat for sale.

A rare example of island craftsmanship. 

In need of careful restoration but, with loving hands and a lot of rope, 

could serve a new owner for quite a while, perhaps even as long as a week.  Historical authenticity provided on request.

Not a mere chair, but a reflection on the tortured soul of it's previous owner

and his daily struggles with a heavy thesaurus.

Now at the bargain price of ¥357 o.n.o. (shipping not incl.).  
Hand crafted floor protectors extra.

Merry Christmas from Yoron















P.S.   My seaweed stuffing is out of this world.

Island Christmas tree. 

A bit ugly during the day,                       

but at night...                                      

Done with two small solar panels. 
Great way to go! 

It comes on automatically as the light fades. 

Stays lit until we're all asleep. 

Powers itself up during the day.

For past Christmas's I could take the top off a fir or pine 

but this year, after all the typhoons, there's not a tree left 

with a top!

BlogsnBooks: Almost Christmas and that time of the year for th...

BlogsnBooks:
Almost Christmas and that time of the year for th...: Almost Christmas and that time of the year for the annual meeting of the executive committee of the Yoron Brits Union and Allied Wor...

Almost Christmas and that time of the year for the annual meeting of

the executive committee of the Yoron Brits Union and Allied Worker.

   This year it was held in the island's notorious nightspot 'The Natural Beef' (oops,

sorry - Reef) and we are pleased to report an attendance of the full membership.

   This year we had the task of deciding whether membership in the coming year should be increased by 33.3 % with the influx to the island of an Oz claiming to be of Brit blood. His application for union membership is in abeyance pending validation of his claim - his accent displayed the characteristic twang of Oz gore.

Further developments on this will be given at the next meeting.

May we take this opportunity to extend seasons greetings to each union member

and to anyone who happens to nosy into this site.

At the half-way stage of this morning's walkies I was watching the sea 
trying to wet my feet on their rock perch, 

when I happened to look up. 

At that precise moment a meteor shot into the sky almost above me.

It was the most breathtaking thing I've seen since, since… well, I'll keep that to myself.

It blazed a path almost to the horizon- at least three glorious seconds. 

I fumbled for the camera but, of course, was too late.  

However I took this shot seconds after it had disappeared, hoping there'd be some smoke left. 

(please note: this is a re-enactment of the event)

The Yoronese show a great reverence toward their ancestors. Homes have lines of ancient photos  decorating the picture rails -  old faces from the past, many of them looking strikingly similar to Geronimo or Sitting Bull, even the females.

    A burial tradition, perhaps unique to this island and certainly to the rest of Japan (where it is illegal), is followed in Yoron.  After bodies are buried,  a small wooden house replica is erected at the graveside. This is a temporary residence for the soul of the departed.  Into this are placed a sampling of that person's daily life. Also his /her bad habits follow them to the hereafter as their favorite brand of cigarette and booze are also placed in and around the little house.

 The house remains in the burial plot for seven years while the nearby grave is covered with boulders (probably while the family saves up to afford one of the fancy granite tombs.) Fresh supplies of rice balls and other goodies are delivered periodically. 

    Now, here's the surprising bit.  At the end of seven years the house and its belongings are ceremoniously burned and the body dug up, or what's left of it.   A party ensues. Yes, a party.

    Family members sit around happily cleaning the bits and pieces of the deceased, at the same time swigging the local brew. (Few gatherings in Yoron are complete without it).  When bones are all spruced up they are returned to the earth and the departed is left to lie in peace and purity for the rest of eternity.

    Sadly, in this summer's historically bad typhoons most of these wooden miniature house were destroyed. Also, a couple of graveyards were inundated by high waves.  Ancestral remains were swept into a great drift at one end of a field.  The graveyard and its family  plots are being restored, but the problem for many people has been  - which bits belong to grandpa?

Bright lights have once more started to appear in the black distances of the sea.  

As bright as planets, they're a good sign - squid boats - and their presence means 

there are no storms in the offing.   

These boat lamps, used to attract the squid are huge, almost as big as American 

footballs. 

(Regrettably, used ones are discarded into the sea, the same fate as meets 

the fishermen's empty PET bottles and cigarette lighters, and wash up ashore.)

Squid is a local delicacy and apart from being fished commercially the wrigglies 

provide a lot of the old timers with useful activity.  Grandpa's and ma's, too old 

for the boats, splash around inside the reef often pushing a float carrying their 

keep net. Practically anything that moves goes into the net but the squid is the 

prized catch.  They are elusive creatures, perfectly camouflaged and able to 

seek refuge in the most inaccessible places.

 For most of the last few weeks Duke was unable to partake 

in his favorite sport -  crab hunting. 

He digs 'em up, then bounds around them as they scurry for the safety of the sea. 

He's never yet caught one. Probably a good thing, they have sharp little pincers.

However,  the typhoons  completely changed the nature of the beach during summer, 

bringing in large grained sand about the size of coffee sugar.  

Seems like the sand crabs couldn't make their tunnels in this new stuff as it 

collapsed easily, so abandoned us for weeks. 

On our morning walks a bewildered Duke searched in vain.  

But now the beach has gradually returned to its old style soft sand and the crabs are back, 

much to Duke's delight.    

Some strange things are found along the beach's tide marks, but nothing quite as fascinating as this.  

It could even change sports history -   all depends on how long it took those coral wrigglies to solidify around a golf ball.

I've always understood it takes hundreds of years for the tiny polyps to form into a rock. 

If that holds true then we may have proof here that golf was not invented in Scotland, as widely believed, but here on Yoron island. 

That would send shivers 
through a few sporrans.

It would also put our little nine-holer on the map, maybe even on the pro circuit?

But then we'd have all those fancy rules, and I doubt the club champ would want

to play in any footwear other than his flip-flops.

Living on an island often invites the question, "Do you like fish, then?"

My answer is always a clear cut - 'yep' and 'ugh!'

I like kippers sizzled in butter in the frying pan;  river trout baked with chopped almonds;  fresh salmon barbecued in tin foil, sprinkled with parsley and a squirt of lemon. (Aah… memories)

Unfortunately, none of these delights are available below the 28th parallel.

Even the fish which make up my favorite bits of sushi are alien to tropical waters.

Not that I haven't tried the local sea produce.  I'm always being goaded into taking a bite of some gunky looking marine creature with assurance of its deliciousness.  A polite belch is the usual result.

And, since the Ministry of Food for Foreigners has blacklisted Marmite my staple diet looks something like this...

                                                      In sharp contrast to the local delicacies.

There was a bite in the breeze on this morning's walkies. 

Autumn definitely creeping in,  a new purity to the air  - 

a mix of sea ozones and pine with just the faintest hint of cowshed.

While the terrible typhoons of the summer are now a distant memory,

their aftermath still haunts morning walks. 

Many of the large evergreens look like they're destined to be 

nevergreens.

Smaller trees, sheltered by the natural undergrowth survived,  

while the useless government fences they put all over the woods, 

were blown to smithereens. 

Good riddance,  (and good for barbecue starters).

Yoron's Yawns (2)

Another display of islanders' apathy was when I was mopeding home on  Christmas eve last year. I had been playing Santa Clause for the village junior school and, for a laugh, kept on my beard and red regalia as I passed through the village. 

I hardly earned a second glance. 

Undaunted, I rode by the golf course where I espied four locals, my regular playing pals, on the 2nd green. Creeping within 50 yards I leapt out into full view atop a hillock with a merry "Ho Ho Ho". 

One of them peered up without interest, murmured something to his companions, who gave me a brief glance and they all continued with their putts.  I slumped away, fighting paranoia.

I'm not sure what I expected. A laugh perhaps, at least a grin. Nothing. 

Maybe they don't believe in Santa.

Yoron's Yawns (1).

Islanders,  like denizens of small islands everywhere it seems, don't easily get roused to a state of excitement. Similarly, their sense of humour is an elusive quality. These traits may be due to heredity, but more likely to hangovers, which are almost generic on this island, at least among my local friends.

Many times has my own overzealous spirit been frustrated by their apathetic response.

I was once having a lone round of golf and, while teeing up on the cliff top of the 4th tee,  a whale blew less than a three-iron shot away. The great beast was so close I could hear the bubbly gush of its exhalation. It then dived with a mighty swish of its tail. It was a heart-stopping sight. 

Once over my stupefaction, and like most people who have just undergone an awe-inspiring experience, I looked around for someone with whom to share the moment. The course was deserted except for three locals approaching the 7th down in the little valley. I leaped over to them,  yelling "Kojira! Kojira! (whale! whale!).  

They looked up from their balls on the green, looked at each other, then looked back at their balls. Not a flicker of interest. 

I walked back to the 4th feeling like an idiot. 

I was rewarded, however.  It turned out to be not a single whale but a whole family - two parents and a cub - and for the next five minutes they gamboled and gushed before me in a private showing of their grace and beauty. 

A moment to last a lifetime.

At weekend I helped my Scot friend to move house to another part 
of the island. The big fridge was the biggest challenge.

One important tip I can pass along is to keep a fridge standing 
when transporting; something to do with the freon gas flowing 
the wrong way if it's laid down.

Another valuable learning experience. 

As they say, ' It's never too late to learn'.

Oops!

The older islanders engage each other in a language that could well be a mixture

of Maori and Martian.  It has no resemblance to Japanese, or to any other known lingo, and until recently no dictionary existed for their isolated tongue. 

Where Yoronese came from is a popular guessing game as it is alien even to nearby islands, and Googling it turns up nada.

Most words are completely undecipherable but others are easy to handle, such as 'Doka' (thanks) or, for the even more grateful - 'Doka Doka' (many thanks) and to express profuse thanks -  'Doka Doka , Doka Doka…'  ad infinitum.

But my favorite is a word, or words, which sound remarkably like 'White'n'Day!'.

It is always uttered accompanied by an exclamation mark and I often hear it used when someone's golf ball lands in the Pacific ocean.  So I assume it is the Yoronese equivalent of 'Good Grief!' , or something stronger.   It may even be the local version of the 'F'  word.  It always raises howls of mirth whenever I vocalize it.

Morning walkies with Duke take us past this interesting looking islet in the next-door bay. To the trained eye this islet looks like a lump of rock, but in l945 to the US Navy it looked like a Japanese frigate (possibly towing a dinghy).

According to local legend it is the one and only time Yoron came under attack during

the second world war, unlike its neighbour Okinawa which suffered mind-boggling casualties.

The US Navy didn't manage to sink the islet and no Yoronese were hurt in the bombardment, but  I suspect a few 'yadokari' (see blog of  Nov.14th) met their maker.

Since that time technology, binoculars and sea charts have no doubt improved. Let's hope so. One can't help but wonder what minds decided a 2000 ton frigate could seek refuge inside a ring of exposed reef and moor in 6 feet of water. 

Rumour has it that there are some two thousand cows on the island, 

most of them tucked away in ramshackle barns behind farmhouses.  

Others having the luxury of modern concrete block buildings.  

Despite this profusion of udders no Yoron milk appears in shops as 

these animals are purely to serve the meat industry, poor things.

A similar fate awaits the goats and locals register surprise when 

I inform them that goat milk is both tasty and nourishing, and also 

makes excellent cheese.  

Goat meat is a local delicacy and served up as a stew on festive occasions. 

From past experiences and hangovers I now I try to avoid such festivities.

Another lifeform in abundance here is the Yadokari (a big hermit crab) - 

one of  the luckiest  species on the island as the locals find it unappetizing. 

They're discreet little creatures but can be a bit of a nuisance in mating season if they decide to perform on the brick patio at 3.00am. 

Castanets is the closest parallel to describe the robust sound of their foreplay.

Looking at other blog sites I'm intrigued at how many 

people publish pictures of their dinners, lunches, etc. 

So, to join in this popular trend, here's a picture of my 

breakfast this morning - or some of it. 

Unfortunately, I had started eating it before the thought occurred that it might be nice to share the moment.  

It's a traditional dish known in France as  'Confiture d'oranges sur toast'.  

The recipe is fairly straightforward. You'll need a heating source of around 600 degrees centigrade to get the pain (or bread) to that toasty brown colour.

Then you simply apply margarine or butter across the surface and then the confiture d'orange.

One good tip I can pass along from my experience with 

this dish is that it is highly recommended to apply the 

margarine before the marma…. er, confiture d'orange.

It can get very messy otherwise.

Yoron island towers up to the imposing height of 98 meters, 

just a mere 40 meters lower than The Great Pyramid. 

The high school was cleverly located at the top of the island so 

that the kids could get plenty of morning exercise up the long curling road.  
It would make a very nice ski slope but it hasn't snowed on the island since
6547 BC, and that was very icy stuff.

When homeward bound, roller blades would get them back to the village fast 

but as many students would end up in the fishing harbor, they have been banned.

With an aging population, mostly farmers and fisherpeople, there is a general

relaxation of traffic laws that apply elsewhere in Japan. This is a common sight ...

                



And, although there used to be a police 
car around somewhere I haven't seen 
it for several years. 
It may have rusted away. 

To most islanders, like this lady(spotted 
last week on a typhoon clean-up 
mission), adhering to the rules of the
road can be an inconvenience.