Des gens pique-niquaient sur la terrasse surplombant la mer. Des corbeaux essayaient de leur chiper leur nourriture et des milans survolaient dangereusement la scène... En voyant la mer danser le long du golfe clair et ses blancs moutons – j’avais l’impression d’être sur les bords de la Méditerranée, au Balcón de Europa à Nerja par exemple - j’ai plié bagage et pris la direction d’Enoshima.
As we leave the temple of Kwannon behind us, there are no more dwellings visible along the road; the green slopes to left and right become steeper, and the shadows of the great trees deepen over us. But still, at intervals, some flight of venerable mossy steps, a carven Buddhist gateway, or a lofty torii, signals the presence of sanctuaries we have no time to visit: countless crumbling shrines are all around us, dumb witnesses to the antique splendour and vastness of the dead capital; and everywhere, mingled with perfume of blossoms, hovers the sweet, resinous smell of Japanese incense. Be-times we pass a scattered multitude of sculptured stones, the forgotten tombs of a long-abandoned cemetery; or the solitary image of some Buddhist deity--a dreaming Amida or faintly smiling Kwannon. All are ancient, time-discoloured, mutilated; a few have been weather-worn into unrecognisability.
Lafcadio Hearn, 1890
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