Shh. Don't speak. You are entering the land of the dragonflies, and millions of vibrations are zinging through the air. Chatter, and you will miss the natural sounds of autumn in Japan.
Autumn is a glorious time to visit rural Japan. Not only to feast on mushrooms, chestnuts and juicy persimmons also to enjoy the six-legged wonders that leap, cheep and scatter at every step. In the flickering world of bell insects, cicadas and singing, ringing things, you can find a hidden gateway to the spirit of Japan.
Last autumn we visited a resort in the mountains of Niigata prefecture, a couple of hours from Tokyo on the shinkansen bullet train. There is nothing much to do in these hill resorts except eat, breathe and sleep. But that is the point: here you can stop thinking and simply start to be.
Hiring bicycles, we puffed past fields foaming with buckwheat flowers to a quiet pond. Enter the dragonflies: hundreds of aerial acrobats darting, hovering and wheeling about.
Long ago, Japan had a lyrical name: Akitsushima or "Island of the Dragonfly". The country was a paradise for insects, and people developed a remarkable degree of fellow feeling for their tiny compatriots. In the ancient imperial court, by the light of the moon, courtiers would accompany autumn crickets on their zithers and flutes. ToBuddhists, insects, with their mysterious transformations and brief lives, were vivid symbols of this evanescent world.
There are screeds of poems about insects. "Don't kill the fly! See how it wrings its hands, its feet!" is a famous haiku by arch-empathiser Kobayashi Issa. Grasping an elusive firefly, being driven mad by cicadas buzzing in the summer heat, wondering what the song of a silent spider would be - all these are important subjects. As Issa put it in another haiku: "Don't cry, insects, for that is a way we all must go."
We pushed on through acorns and golden leaves, while great dragonflies flashed about like living jewels. Their picturesque folk names speak of a vanished way of life: "spirit of the weeping willow", "the one who dies" and even "dragonfly of the dead". Catching insects was great sport for village children, but not at the Obon festival of the dead, for then, people believed, dragonflies offered a ghostly shuttle service: flying in spirits from the other world.
Cycling on we saw cottage gardens bright with chilli peppers and cosmos flowers. The village was deserted but a red dragonfly was perched on every stick, all facing the breeze like a flock of resting seagulls. When they first arrive, at the end of summer, everyone knows the longed-for coolness is finally on its way.
Near the graveyard, a golden dune of rice husks sifted in the wind and fallen leaves swirled beneath a lamp. But they were not leaves: looking closer I realised they were wings. Hugevelvety moths' wings, in birch green and gold, embroidered with delicate purple runes.
Next morning I found dozens of dazed moths fluttering about the paths. They were like flying teddy bears: fat and fluffy with bead-bright eyes. I adopted a perfect specimen with a six-inch wingspan.
Walking into the hills, through silvery plumes of pampas grass, we entered a shimmering world. Soft trills and clear silvery bells floated on the air and occasionally a startled performer hopped into view: an emerald green bush-cricket with impossibly long antennae or a drowsy cicada, like some late partygoer, trailing gorgeous wings.
The cries can seem passionate, wistful or downright wretched. As one neglected lover protested in an ancient verse: "Noisy insects, crying in the grass, what sorrow makes you cry out so while I bear mine in silence?"
A thousand years later, there is still a pitiful change as autumn turns to winter. Even in Tokyo, the evening trills become weaker, until one night, walking home in the dark, or closing a window, you suddenly realise they have faded entirely away.
But there was one sound we did not care for on our walk. Approaching some woods we saw a notice about bears. "Talk to your companions, ring a bell or sing a song," advised the sign. Naturally, we continued in silence, spotting berries and suspiciously cheerful mushrooms. Suddenly the undergrowth rustled and lurched.
"Quick," I telegraphed to my husband, "sing a song!" But not one tune came to mind. After a frozen minute I suddenly remembered a ditty and we left the woods bleating: "Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be." Luckily, the rustler didn't take us at our word.
That evening I visited the women's hot spring bath. Clutching a tiny towel I hopped naked into the frosty air and slid into an outdoor tub. Touched by the rising moon, the distant mountains were dissolving into watercolours: rose madder, violet, Prussian blue.
Somewhere, a cricket was tinkling a bell, hoping to pass the lonely night with a mate. It was wonderful. And I understood, in this beautiful, fleeting world, why every living thing is moved to song.
