This year, that is to say 1689, the thought suddenly entered my head to go on an aimless wandering throug distant provinces. I knew that the sufferings of travel are said to bring a fall of frost to one's head, like snow from a Chinese sky; still, there were places I had heard of but had not yet seen. To live long enough to arrive back home was a happiness I could not rely upon. With thoughts of such kinds occupying my mind, I found that at last I had made my way to the post station of Soka. The pack of things on my bony, thin shoulders was giving me pain. Setting out with nothing but what I could bear myself, I carried a stout paper raincoat to keep out the chill at night, a cotton kimono, raingear, something in the way of ink and brush - and various things given me as farewell presents and therefore difficult to dispose of. It was the traveler's dilemma, knowing them a hindrance and unable to throw them away.