(If you haven’t read the prologue yet, please start here)
On this day, I realized I had slightly misunderstood the nature of the Seto Inland Sea. The sea does not divide the islands. Rather, in this region, the water serves as the highway, the ultimate platform for specialization and collaboration.
Another early start today, rolling out at 5am before sunrise. This island region has very little flat land, meaning the available roads are limited. As a result, every highway experiences heavy traffic, packed with rumbling trucks. The asphalt was visibly worn, transferring the harsh reality of the road surface directly through my handlebars and saddle.
In a neighboring industrial city, I once again rode past yet another shipbuilding yard. Being the nation’s largest shipbuilder, their yards are dotted all across the inner sea region. Watching men in blue overalls being swallowed into the shipyard on their bicycles, I was reminded of the scenery from yesterday morning—massive industrial complexes abruptly appearing amidst tranquil, rural landscapes. Across the street from the shipyard stood the company dormitories, with laundry hanging from various windows. I imagined what it must be like to live and build ships there. It didn’t look like a place with many actions or entertainment. I pictured a life somewhat akin to that of a monk—spending time cheerfully with neighbors, gazing at the beautiful sea at dawn and dusk, and single-mindedly pursuing the perfection of one’s craft. Since it was early morning, there was no one around to confirm my imagination. Yet today, the very people from my thoughts were riding right in front of me in their blue overalls.
At that particular shipyard, they were simultaneously constructing three colossal, bright magenta container ships. A massive “ONE” logo was emblazoned on their hulls. Looking it up, I was fascinated to learn that this company was formed by merging the container shipping divisions of Japan’s three historical legacy shipping lines. The corporate color and the name just didn’t strike me as Japanese. Indeed HQ is in Singapore, yet the leadership team remains predominantly Japanese. I guess this is how Japanese industries have evolved to compete on the global stage. Yet, I also felt a bit of disappointment in seeing companies shed their traditional DNA seemingly as easily as changing clothes. To those who confront the vast ocean, national borders might just be a fiction invented by people confined to the land.
As I spent more time here, the administrative division between the mainland coast and this southern “Shikoku” island feels like a conceptual framework devised by the land people without actually knowing this place. When you navigate by boat, the inner sea connects everything into a single entity. The short distances between these islands, the sheer volume of maritime traffic, and the inadequacy of the onshore roads make this reality abundantly clear. In contrast, mountains have historically been insurmountable walls. Mountains block the weather, completely altering rainfall, vegetation, and consequently, agriculture and local cuisine. Therefore, the inner coast and the outer ocean coast of the mainland are entirely different worlds, just as the province on the Pacific side of this “Shikoku” island belongs to a completely different cultural sphere. I had never considered this while looking at a map of the Japanese archipelago, but it becomes instantly obvious when you cycle through the terrain.
Taking advantage of the straight road, I indulged in these daydreams as the coastal industrial zone continued to unfold beside me. I wondered just how many factories lined this shore. Even using the word “factory” feels too broad a stroke. Many facilities bore names that gave no hint as to their specific specialization, yet the sheer diversity was boundless. These hyper-specialized, highly divided industries are woven into a single network by the inner sea—the ultimate highway. This is the true essence of human activity in this region.
Passing a factory bearing the plaque of Sumitomo, one of the nation’s oldest industrial conglomerates, I remembered that a historic copper mine was located deep in the mountains nearby and decided to take a detour.
Leaving the coastal highway behind, I headed inland for my first real mountain climb in a while. The road was virtually empty, making for a serene ascent. Deep in the forest, I even crossed paths with a wild monkey. We startled each other, though the monkey seemed far more shocked than I was. Before long, I reached one of the entrances to the historic mountain copper mine.
Unfortunately, because it was Monday, the local museums were closed, but an old mining tunnel that had been converted into an exhibition space remained open for viewing. For 280 years, generations of proud men had confined themselves underground here, literally shedding sweat and blood. I was particularly moved by the stories from the pre-modern era, when human muscle provided the only power. As just one example, the ultimate nemesis of any mine is water. If the constantly seeping groundwater isn’t drained, the absolute depths of the mine will flood. Today, we simply turn on a pump, but back then, workers formed a human chain, operating a 24-hour bucket brigade in continuous shifts. The sheer scale of that repetitive labor and the staggering costs involved are unimaginable. Copper must have been an incredibly precious and expensive commodity back then. There was also archived footage from the mid-20th century showing miners crushing rock. The sheer grit and determination on their faces was striking. The workers sorting the crushed ore on conveyor belts were women. And then there were archival clips of children, likely on a school field trip, excitedly scrambling to be the first to board the narrow-gauge mine train.
This now-silent, abandoned mine was once a premier, highly prestigious workplace for proud men and women. The prosperity of this coastal industrial city, the rise of the industrial conglomerate, and indeed, the modernization of the entire nation were built upon the grit of these people. It was thrilling to contemplate. The company’s name, proudly inscribed on the entrance plaque, seemed to radiate that enduring pride. Yes, this is exactly what makes travel meaningful. My deepest gratitude goes to those who carried something far larger than just a corporate entity on their shoulders.
This copper mine was closed half a century ago, which naturally sparks curiosity about what modern mining looks like today. Computers, robotics, advanced communication networks… It reminded me of a visit I once made to a firm called New York Air Brake, which designs autonomous systems for freight trains; they mentioned their technology is heavily utilized in the massive automated mines of Australia. I have also seen photographs of ginormous dump trucks. Diving into that rabbit hole seems like it would be incredibly fascinating.
Musing over these thoughts, I stepped out of the chilly, damp mining tunnel back into the dazzling sunlight. I swiftly descended the mountain slopes, returning to the coastal road.
The procession of coastal factories seemed truly endless. In a city recognized as a major hub for paper production, I encountered a colossal paper mill. Its sheer scale completely blew away the shipyards I had seen earlier. Furthermore, the air was filled with the rich, pleasant aroma of wood. Efficiently converting timber into pulp requires massive machinery spanning kilometers. Pipes ran in every direction, echoing with the sound of materials moving through them at high speeds. I wanted to tour the facility so badly; I yearned to witness the absolute cutting edge of human engineering. Yet, all I could do was turn my pedals and glide past its immense exterior. What a shame.
For lunch, I stopped for local Udon noodles. In this region, self-service noodle shops are the norm, which always makes an outsider like me a bit nervous. Fortunately, the staff instantly recognized I was from out of town and kindly helped me navigate the process. Despite their help, I made a rookie mistake by pouring the broth directly over my brothless egg-and-noodle dish—a blunder no local would ever commit. I silently vowed to try again. However, by the time I began looking for a second lunch spot, every shop displayed a “sold out” sign. Regrettably, I could only manage one bowl today.
Bypassing a massive gridlock of cars completely paralyzed by an accident, I cruised smoothly along. Past a town known for its scenic coastal views, I left the main highway behind to enjoy the beautiful shoreline before slipping into a large waterfront hotel in Marugame. Right in front of the hotel was a hydroplane racing stadium! If a race had been underway, I would have loved to go in for an educational look.
Since the hotel was a bit removed from the main downtown area, I decided to dine at the in-house restaurant. The humble craft beer selection here turned out to be absolutely magnificent. Looking closely at the bottle I casually ordered, I noticed it was produced by a local industrial engineering firm—a remarkably hardcore company that usually has absolutely nothing to do with brewing. Intrigued, I looked it up and discovered that through their core business of LED development, they had engineered a device for aging foodstuffs. They realized the technology could be applied to hops, and as a creative side project, they brewed a craft beer utilizing local strawberries. It was a perfect collaboration made possible by highly specialized expertise intersecting with local roots. How profoundly characteristic of the Seto Inland Sea.
Feeling thoroughly impressed, I ordered a different craft beer. This time, the label bore the name of a domestic salt production company. They were brewing beer using the mineral-rich nigari (magnesium chloride solution) and pure water left over from the salt-making process. A witty side project by an electronics firm, and another by a salt company—plus the classy move of the restaurant to feature such hyper-local beers. There was simply too much narrative to ignore. I was moved to my core.
Sipping those four bottles of craft beer, feeling the profound human interconnectedness forged by the sea, I drifted off to sleep with a delightfully hazy mind.