Black eggs and green tea

A little time has passed now since my Dad came to visit Japan for the second time. The cherry blossom front that sweeps up from the Ryukyu Islands on a diagonal to the furthest tip of Hokkaido and the disputed spits of land beyond has breached the eastern gate of Yamagata castle, as yet unfinished (both blossom and the resurrection of the castle). Purple tipped weeds or flowers or brush of some sort have sprung up in clumps, bunching on the banks of rice fields that as little as five weeks ago were levelled with the road for a blanket of snow piled on crop stubs. The light pools a little late afternoon in hills that glow vibrant, brown, new. The rains came, the season changed, my mum came and went and Fuji San streaked in the sun before haze shrouded over again one train ride by- all of these things happened more or less in reverse order, since my dad took his second trip to Japan.

Of that trip, black eggs and green tea stick in my mind. We moved room one night after the next for three in the Parkside Hotel, Tokyo, unprepared as they were for our sudden change of plan. Each time we returned I would brew a cup of green tea for Dad and me. Tea tea-bagged and water brought to the boil in a clever little thermos come kettle. And one day, one more black egg each from the sulpher springs of Owakudani, Hakone. There, I'd hoped we'd glimpse Fuji-San, basking in the fresh sunshine that would three weeks later hit Yamagata and breach those walls and tease out those delicate little pink and white wafers. As it turned out, that privilege was saved for Mum, that train ride we took by, on Mum's way to Tokyo, to the wrong terminal, to the right one and away from Japan.

Dad and I did see Fuji-San, but the crown nestled in a large, spongy cloud. Large enough for the largest mountain in Japan. I climbed Fuji-San seven years or so ago- that didn't provide too many problems, but the descent was quite another matter, in the dark, with nothing but an empty beer can and a spare jumper tugged tight over my body by interlocked crossed arms- my preparation for the hike. I told Dad that story as we descended another peak in Hakone, in the dark. Not as high as Fuji, this one, but just as dangerous and even more so, as things turned out. We'd misjudged the time and the view from the top was crap. Onsen and dinner in the hotel's reputable restaurant awaited and we descended briskly. A little too briskly, as it turned out.

Dad dropped one footfall into thin air where he had expected firm rock. He staggered on, seemed to regain his balance then tripped and stumbled a pace or two more in the gloomy dark ahead, before falling flat against the slope. I remember his speed scared me. Then when he didn't get up immediately, that was the next thing that scared me. The grunt of discomfort, muffled by the rock that now cushioned his face, next. And finally, the blood that Dad declared, 'There's blood', as he raised himself up, the blood that grew so sticky so quick in my hands and against my kei-tai phone as I realised I had spent a year in Japan without needing to know the telephone number for the emergency services. So why would I know it?

I called Akiyoshi first, because he always knows what to do. No answer. I called Justin next, because he always answers, or replies to mails within seconds. And when he answered, I realised I didn't know what I wanted to ask him. I think maybe I just needed to tell someone we were in trouble. Shouting help wouldn't have done it. In an hour and 45 minutes up and down, we hadn't passed a soul.

I really thought he could just drop and pass out at any point, blood gushing from his head. Along with Dad saying, 'There's blood', I remember the sound of it striking the rock he'd fallen onto as he lifted his head, like the sound you make pissing up a tree, I remember thinking fuck he's bleeding quickly, here in the dark, away from everyone else.

Ambulance (the first my Dad has ever been in), a needle prodded in a dozen times to anaesthetize, a difficult stitching job on a deep, jagged cut that went this way, tacked back and carried on it's original direction again. Swelling, slow moving, Dad shaking uncontrollably with a normal expression on his face in the car back from the hospital, and me feeling nauseous for an hour. Sugar in Dad's tea. A hot bath and a round of sandwiches in our room rather than the onsen and the French restaurant. Stares for the rest of the trip.

Next time no more hills.