I was the first to meet the threesome. I'm not sure who was more startled: me, at the sight of a woman holding two children in her arms, or them, at the sight of a sweaty gaijin, or foreigner.

The woman looked to be in her late 20s or early 30s, her hair dyed red in the current Japanese fashion. The little girl, who I guessed was about five, was crying, and the boy, who was perhaps eight, seemed close to tears. They stared goggle-eyed when they saw me. I bowed and said good morning and tried to explain I was a pilgrim.

"Chotto matte, kudasai," I said. "Wait a minute, please." I pointed back to where I could hear my companions. "Tomodachi." "Friends."

The woman seemed to understand because she fired back a jumble of Japanese. "Gomen nasai. Wakarimasen," I said. "I'm sorry. I don't understand." A few minutes later, Shuji and Jun joined us. While Jun chatted with the kids and offered them candy, Shuji talked to the woman. I understood nothing of what was said, but it was obvious she was lost.

The woman's name was Hidetaka Yasuda. The boy was Mizuki and the little girl Atsuko. They lived in Yokkaichi, a city south of Tokyo on the Honshu coast. She and the children were visiting the Shikoku temples, walking those parts of the trail the children could manage, while taking buses and trains to temples that were harder to reach. Like us, they had spent the night in the shukubo at Shosanji Temple. Women henro aren't unusual on Shikoku, and it is common to see families visiting temples. But this was the only time I saw children walking the route.

The family walked with us for almost 10 kilometres, the children laughing and running ahead. I bought them ice-cream cones when we stopped for a rest in Nabeiwa, a village at the foot of the mountain we had just descended. They left us in Hamyo, a village on the banks of a tributary of the Akui River. We waved goodbye as they boarded a bus and then found a restaurant where we ordered large bowls of udon noodles.

I asked Shuji why Yasuda-san was making the pilgrimage with her children. He tapped on the keys of the Casio electronic dictionary we used to communicate when we didn't know the words we needed. Then he said: "Her husband was killed in a car accident last year. They walk to honour his memory."

We still had about 16 kilometres to reach Temple 13 where we would spend the night. It was a lovely warm day and although my feet were starting to ache I enjoyed myself. I thought about the woman and her children and how they too took pleasure in the walking. Which got me thinking about why people undertake pilgrimages.

I've been reading about pilgrimages for several years, trying to understand what motivates people to undertake them. Pilgrimages are among the most universal of religious phenomena. The word "pilgrim" derives from the Latin peregrinus, and refers to those who wander beyond the security of the community. But I'm partial to anthropologist Alan Morinis's notion that the term "pilgrimage" can be applied "wherever journeying and some embodiment of the ideal intersect."

I can't think of a religion or a culture that doesn't feature some form of pilgrimage. Christians visit Rome and Jerusalem or, as I did five years ago, walk the 800-kilometre Camino de Santiago across northern Spain. Irish Catholics climb Croagh Patrick on their knees in hopes of salvation. Every August, on the Feast of the Assumption, thousands of Greek Orthodox worshippers travel to Timos to venerate a 19th-century icon of the Virgin Mary. They perform acts of self-flagellation as they approach the shrine. Jews seek out the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. Muslims perform the hajj to Mecca and Medina. Hindus wade in the shallow waters of the Ganges during the Kumbha Mela festival.

Secularists have shrines, too: Elvis Presley's Graceland mansion, Jim Morrison's grave in Paris, John Lennon's memorial in New York, Princess Diana's gravesite and, more recently, the World Trade Center site in New York. I'd even read of a shrine in Mexico where drug dealers offer prayers to a dead trafficker, lighting candles and seeking his blessings for the marijuana harvest.

The Shikoku pilgrimage is suffused with symbols of a spiritual journey and metaphors of death, rebirth and salvation. Everywhere along the route there are constant iconic references to a spiritual hero or saviour -- in this case, Kobo Daishi.

Kobo Daishi, who was born in northeastern Shikoku in 774, was introduced to Buddhism while training to become a court bureaucrat. A Buddhist monk inspired him to reject his family's wishes. He returned to Shikoku at the age of 24 to spend seven years visiting island temples. In 804, at the age of 31, the emperor asked him to join a Japanese diplomatic mission to China, where he met the Chinese master Huiko, the seventh patriarch of esoteric Buddhism. Huiko recognized that Kukai, as he was then known, would be his successor and set out to impart his teachings. Two years later, with the great transmission of knowledge complete, Kukai returned to Japan, establishing an esoteric version of Buddhism known as Shingon, that today is one of the main Buddhist sects in Japan.

However, unlike some sects, Shingon teaches that enlightenment may be achieved in this life, not after repeated cycles of birth and rebirth. Shingon teaches that the height of enlightenment is to attain knowledge of absolute reality, or Buddhahood, as an individual in this singular life.

At the core of Shingon Buddhism is Sokushin-jobutsu, "attaining enlightenment while still in the flesh." It may be extremely difficult and require decades of effort, but salvation through esoteric practices is available to anyone, rich or poor, samurai or peasant, open to the love of Buddha. And that includes women. In this regard, Shingon Buddhism was open to more than aristocrats who had been Buddhism's main followers once the religion reached Japan during the sixth century.

For 10 years after his return from China, Kukai worked to spread the word. In 816, Emperor Saga granted Kukai's request to establish the seat of Shingon Buddhism on the forested heights of Mount Koya, near the city of Osaka. Mount Koya is a large community even today, with 120 or so temple-monastery complexes. That's a far cry from the 1,500 temples that once spread across the mountaintop during the 17th century, but is still a stunning setting of beautiful buildings surrounded by cedar-covered mountain slopes.

I had to agree with Ed Readicker-Henderson, the author The Traveler's Guide to Japanese Pilgrimages, that if you can spend only one day in Japan, it should be at Mount Koya. A pilgrim, of course, is practically obliged to visit Koyasan, either before or after walking the Shikoku route, to pray at the mausoleum where Kobo Daishi is entombed.

According to legend, Kobo Daishi predicted the day on which he would die: April 22, 835. But his devotees do not believe he is dead. Instead, he entered into "eternal meditation," or nyujo, remaining alive at Mount Koya to act as a spiritual guide and to await the arrival of Miroku Bosatsu, the Buddha who is to appear to save those who could not achieve enlightenment during their lives. The belief that Kobo Daishi remains alive was reinforced in 921, the year the imperial court granted Kukai the title Kobo Daishi, which means "Great Teacher who spread the law of Buddhism across the country." When news of the honour reached Koyasan, priests entered Kukai's mausoleum. They found his hair growing and his body still warm. Holy men later calculated that the Daishi has "five billion, six hundred and seventy million years to wait for the rebirth of Miroku and the salvation of the world."

By the latter part of the 11th century, people were undertaking pilgrimages to Mount Koya. A huge necropolis -- which you can still see -- grew up around the inner sanctum where his body is interred. People sought to be buried nearby, believing that proximity to the saint would give them access to the future Buddha.

Some time after that, as Ian Reader relates in his 1993 essay, "Dead to the World: Pilgrims in Shikoku," Kobo Daishi came down the mountain, metaphorically speaking. Priests and religious ascetics trekked across Japan promoting Kobo Daishi "as a travelling pilgrim dressed in monks' robes, with a begging bowl, a staff, and a bamboo hat, wandering around Japan" to cure the sick, benefit the virtuous and punish the wicked.

Kobo Daishi's well-documented journeys around Shikoku provided the guide and inspiration for other Koya hijiri, or holy men from Mount Koya. Most temple visitors between the 12th and early 14th centuries were monks. But in the mid-1300s, at the beginning of what the Japanese refer to as the Muromachi era, between 1338 and 1573, people other than ascetics and religious mendicants began performing the pilgrimage.

By the early years of the Edo period, between 1603 and 1868, as roads and economic circumstances improved, the Shikoku pilgrimage became increasingly popular. "Common people began to follow the Shikoku pilgrimage, praying for the repose of their ancestors' souls, rich harvests, prosperity and recovery from disease," according to one account. By the late-17th century, the pilgrimage was so popular that a Buddhist monk named Shinnen, who spent much of his life walking the circuit, published a guidebook and erected dozens of stone markers to guide other pilgrims.

By mid-afternoon, my spirits were flagging. I tried to ignore the pain that knifed through my feet. With each step, it sliced into my left heel. The balls of each foot were hot and sore, a sure sign of blisters. My pace began to slow. I suggested a few moments rest to examine my feet. I didn't like what I found. The moleskin had bunched up against my toes, while the balls of my feet were red and sore looking. Blisters had formed on the pads of my toes and in between. A fat, thumb-length blister looped around the side and back of my left heel. The right heel was showing all the signs of blister formation.

I knew exactly what was causing the blisters. When you walk long distances, your feel swell. If your boots are too small your feet have no room to expand. I had bought my boots a half-size bigger than needed, assuming that would be sufficient. I should have bought them wider. I pulled out my medical kit and bandaged my feet even though I knew it wouldn't do any good. The rest of the afternoon -- 10 kilometres on asphalt -- was misery.

By late afternoon, I was walking on the sides of my feet and leaning heavily on my staff. It didn't do a lot of good. We had walked out of the narrow river valley into a wide plain filled with houses and factories. The trail had changed from a pleasant country lane into a highway, thick and noisy with traffic. I was constantly buffeted by passing cars and trucks as I limped along the shoulder of the road. I was sorely tempted to flag down a cab, but the sight of Shuji and Jun trudging ahead kept me going. I noticed Jun seemed to be struggling, too, but I figured if he could do it, so could I. At one point, he waited for me to catch up so that we could walk together. I appreciated the gesture, but I didn't want to learn any more Japanese words right then. "No talk, Jun," I said, "just walk."

We finally arrived at Dainichiji, the Temple of the Great Sun, shortly before 5 o'clock. I was weary, wiped out and wobbling when we climbed the flight of steps off the road and entered the temple's small, gateless courtyard. We had walked 26 kilometres. I had no inclination to perform the pilgrim rituals, but when I saw Shuji light a stick of incense and climb the steps of the hondo to perform prayers I was ashamed. What kind of pilgrim was I?

I hoisted myself to my feet and followed his example, even though

I was only going through the motions. Presumably, Kobo Daishi would understand. After getting our nokyo-chos, or stamp books, signed and inscribed at the temple office, we checked into the shukubo. Once in my room, I stripped off

my boots and soaking clothes, wrapped myself in a calf-length yukata and rushed as fast as my aching, blistered feet would carry me to the o-furo for a pre-supper soak. I postponed dealing with my feet, or even looking at them too closely, until after supper. I knew what I'd see and what I'd have to do.

Both feet had two-inch wide blisters running over the balls from behind the second and third toes to half-way down the soles. There were blisters on and between every toe, and fat sausage-like blisters curving around the sides and backs of each heel.

It took an hour to perform pilgrim surgery. I sterilized a needle with matches and pulled iodine-soaked thread through each blister. I left enough thread at each end to allow the blister to drain. I had performed this on-the-trail surgery before so I knew what to expect. Even so, by the time I finished my jaw ached from gritting my teeth. My feet looked a mess with two reddened, iodine-stained soles cross-hatched with lines of black thread. Still, I was lucky: The skin had not been torn away. When that happens even the slightest pressure can be excruciating. As long as the blistered skin could be kept from peeling until the skin underneath was ready for walking, I should be able to keep going. I could only wrap my feet in moleskin and bandages and hope they'd be OK by morning.

I was wrong. I should have reached Temple 17 in less than three hours. But not that day. We left Temple 13 at the usual hour of 7 a.m. I limped into the compound at Temple 17 just before noon. It was an awful morning. I had expected to hobble like an old man, but that day with every kilometre I felt new blisters forming. When I stopped to rest, my leg muscles seized. When I tried to walk they were as stiff as rusty machinery.

I forced myself to keep on keeping on. I barely noticed the countryside. At each temple, I rushed through the rituals so I could find a spot to rest as long as possible. I barely looked at the temples. And I know I missed much -- the undulating bedrock that makes up the courtyard of Jorakuji, Temple 14; Kokubunji, or Temple 15, with its sprawling compound and dignified halls; Temple 16, Kannonji, a compact temple behind an old gate and a wall of stone pillars carved with the names of donors; Idoji, Temple 17, with rock garden and Well of the Image, where, as legend has it, if you don't see your reflection you will have great misfortune. I let my aches and pains, and little miseries, distract me from paying attention to what was beyond myself.

I knew I was slowing down Shuji and Jun. They would disappear around some street corner or drop out of sight behind the curve of a hill and then they would pull up, walking slowly, looking back for me. Sometimes, they would stop and wait. At other times Jun walked behind me. I was touched and grateful. Knowing they were looking out for me let me to walk without having to check maps. They also let me to rest at each temple longer than usual.

I was all but done in by Temple 17. My legs were cramping and every step fired a jolt of pain from heel to knee. When it was time to go, I could barely move. My legs had seized tight. I used my walking stick to lever myself off the bench. I hobbled to a nearby restaurant for lunch. As we slurped our udon, Shuji and I looked over the maps: 18 kilometres remained.

"You should not walk, maybe," Shuji said.

Maybe I should have worked through the pain, but I didn't. I accepted Shuji's advice with relief. Right then, all I wanted was to take off my too-small boots and lie down and sleep. Shuji phoned for a cab and told the driver to take me to Minshuku Chibu, the guesthouse where we had booked rooms for the night. Taxis are expensive in Japan and the ride cost 5,500 yen, or about $65 Cdn. It was worth it. I arrived at the Minshuku Chibu, near Temple 18, at 1:30 p.m. The woman who ran the place was waiting for me with a welcoming bow. Shuji had phoned to let her know I was on the way. The futons in my room were spread out. As soon as I stripped off and put on the freshly laundered yukata, the okami-san, the house mistress, was sliding open the shoji to set a tea tray on the floor. Before I could say anything, she had grabbed my dirty laundry and took it away. Through it all, I didn't understand a word she spoke. I just kept bowing and saying "domo arrigato" and "otsukare samadeshita." "Thank you. Thank you for your trouble."

I hadn't finished the cup of tea before I fell asleep. When I woke, the room was awash with sunshine. The tatami mats glowed yellow in the bright light. I drew back the blinds and looked out across rice fields toward a copse of bamboo. The wind carried the scent of cedar and, I could swear, a whiff of incense. I looked at my watch. It was 4 p.m. I'd slept nearly three hours. I felt strangely light-headed, as if a fever had broken.

I looked up the road leading to Temple 18. I decided to go and get my nokyo-cho stamped. I probably looked a bit odd staggering up the hill with my boots and walking stick and the blue yukata flapping in the breeze, threatening to expose more than would have been socially acceptable, even in Japan, where you often see hotel guests walking the streets in the light cotton robes.

It seemed an afternoon off the trail had done me a world of good, although, perhaps, it had more to do with the fact I wasn't carrying an overweight pack. I decided to unload as much as possible at the next post office.

I lingered over my pilgrim rituals at the hondo and daishido, lighting a stick of incense in the big urns in front of each hall before getting my nokyo-cho signed. Afterward, I wandered around the temple compound, admiring the wall of miniature Jizo statues and the 10 disciples of Shakamuni Buddha, the enlightened one who founded Buddhism 2,600 years ago.

I moved slowly and cautiously, my feet tender and legs sore. Onzanji, the Temple of Gratitude Mountain, is a place where you can sit for a long time, soaking up the serenity. I parked myself on a bench beneath the cherry trees. The breeze carried scents of cedar and incense. Sometimes the wind blew stronger, showering me with cherry blossoms. I watched other pilgrims climb the stairs, ring the waniguchi bell and stand, head bowed, chanting the sutras. Many were women.

According to my guidebooks, women were once forbidden to enter the temple precincts because they were thought to be spiritually impure. Kobo Daishi changed that after his mother, Tamayori, was refused entrance during one of his stays at Onzanji. He spent 17 days performing esoteric rites at the temple gate, exorcising the prohibition against women. His mother eventually became a nun and Kobo Daishi changed the temple's name to Onzanji, which literally means "parental love as solid as a mountain."

On the left of the temple compound, next to the daishido, is a hall dedicated to Tamayori, where her bones are buried.

I was trying to convince myself -- or, rather, convince my legs -- to stand and trundle back to the minshuku when I spotted the banker from Sendai, Sayama-san, and the Hokkaido businessman, Takashi-san whom I'd last seen two days earlier.

"Genki desu ka?" said Sayama-san. "How are you?"

"Ma, ma," I said. "So, so." I pointed to my feet, remembering the word for blister. "Mizubukare," I said. "Tadareta ashi." "Sore feet." Or at least that's what I thought I said.

They seemed to understand. Sayama-san tapped his feet with his walking stick and said something which I interpreted to mean "me, too." They bowed and went about their henro duties. I forced myself to waddle down the hill to the minshuku, where, as it turned out, we were all staying. Just before I arrived I saw Shuji and Jun coming up the road. They looked exhausted and Jun was limping.

I felt ashamed; I should have walked with them.

Follow Robert Sibley's pilgrimage in coming weeks in the Weekly. Next episode, May 29.