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.

This little island was the victim of some horrendous typhoons during the

summer, none of which found the ears or interest of the international press.

For comparison, wind gusts in T15 were almost double the power of Sandy 

which hit the US west coast and caused such a fuss and mess.  

In all we were hit by five major storms one of which broke all records and 

a lot of buildings. Heavy ceramic tiles on our roof were tossed off like leaves 

and trees completely stripped of their branches.

Many pictures have been published on blogs and in local media so I won't 

show any more disaster scenes. But this one photo stirs my soul and, although 

only a small part of the overall damage, is symbolic of the winds that hit Yoron 

in October.

Before

Can you imagine what would happen if anyone was standing there waiting for a bus!?

(I can't, especially as buses don't go past there.)

In my very first blog I don't want to start by talking about me 

but about three very significant events that occurred one weekend 

in April 2011. 

First, Prince William spent his last night as a bachelor. 

Second, Duke spent his first night as a Brackin.  

And third, I won the Yoron Island Golf Championship.

How Duke (that's him in the cup) 

found us is an enduring mystery.

The nearest farm is half-a-click 
away and he could hardly walk.

Here's how he looked on that first night.

And now he seems to have settled in.

But enough about dogs.

Yoron Island - that's where I live. The only other 'foreigner' here is a friendly Scot

who set up this blog site for me, me being a computer hick.

"Don't make 'em too long', he advised, 'people get bored'.

Okay. Brevity.

Where was I ?

Ah, the island.  Here's Yoron from space 

And here's a close-up.

Yoron's main claim to fame is that it appeared in an award winning movie

called…(hang on a minute)….'Megane' (eyeglasses)

This brought a huge influx of 23 tourists, one of whom we met 

- a large German lady - wobbling down the lane in a bikini and with 

a carpet bag big enough to hold, er ... a carpet. 

She was looking for the beach. My wife kindly directed her and received 

a few umlauts as thanks.

But that's getting away from the subject, and I think you're getting bored.

So, I'll finish my first blog and ask my Scottish friend how I'm doin'.