Thoughts on Kihon by Stephan Phelan

In the Bujinkan, as in any martial art, or almost any other endeavour, it would seem that the best way to learn is by doing. But the only way to do is to see a demonstration first. Jock Brocas, who is nominally the sensei of the Shinshin Ichijo Dojo but prefers not to use that honorific, ran through several of the eight basic techniques that constitute the Kihon Happo – the physical fundaments of taijutsu – in order to remind his students, and myself, that the range of variations is infinite. Eight, indeed, is a number similar to zero when written as a figure, having no beginning and no end. "You can never go over the basics too many times," says John Knowles, a serving soldier who only began training in the art a few months ago, but is already so dedicated and adept that he is called on to play the part of the "attacker" in most of these demonstrations. Better him than me – Brocas uses a bare minimum of force to run through ichimonji, for example, but Knowles is still effectively knocked flat by the first and simplest variation, a sidestepping block followed by a strike to the neck. Later a jo-staff is used to show how the same basic movement – disabling the attacking arm before counter-attacking – can be adapted according to weapons and circumstances. We move on to locks and throws, and in each case the simple steps and actions involved open up a series of possibilities for what to do next, each one logical, and natural. Again and again, using wooden practice swords and knives, and at one point a length of rope (a substitute for the length of chain that might have been used in battles and melees of the past), it occurs to me that even the most subtle changes and variations in form have markedly different effects and outcomes. After several hours, we come full circle to ichimonji again, albeit with knives, and I am satisfied when the technique begins to feel natural. I am the opposite of bored – I want to go over it until it becomes instinct. Brocas warns against this. The Bujinkan does not rely on muscle memory. Techniques that become rote become set in stone, he explains. The point, it would seem – and maybe the real trick to survival – is to think and act in the present moment.

, and a range of variations, in showing me the physical fundamentals of ninjutsu. There are eight

Phelan's Quest

Last Sunday, I spent a long afternoon at Farr Community Hall, a small village leisure centre in the hills outside Inverness, in the company of four ninjas. Or, as they preferred to put it, "students of the Bujinkan". Even our instructor Jock Brochas, who has been training in the art for over 25 years, and teaching for more than a decade, refers to himself as "still learning". I had met Brochas for the first time in a Starbucks cafe at a retail park the night before, where he attempted to explain to me his philosophical approach to ninjutsu, which is based strongly on perception and intuition – particularly so in his case, as he also works as a practicing psychic medium. He gestured to the large round coffee table we were sitting at and said that the physical side of ninjutsu – technique – might be seen as a small circle of ash at the centre. The following morning, he arranged an all-day seminar mostly for my benefit, and showed me what he was talking about. Like many in the West, my lifelong fascination with "ninjas" is rooted in popular culture, and screen representations which have nothing to do with either history or reality. What little I know about the actual practice of ninjutsu I have read in books by Stephen K Hayes, Simon Yeo and Soke Hatsumi himself. As instructive as those books may be, they can't provide much more than theory, and are hardly a substitute for training. And it is becoming increasingly obvious that if I want to write my own book – an outsiders' perspective on ninjutsu – I will have to make my way inside the art as best I can. Jock Brochas quoted Hatsumi several times: "Shut up and train."

So we did. For six or seven hours straight, the members of the Shinshin Ichijo Dojo demonstrated the basics – beginning with the Ichimonji stance and defenses – and illustrated that the range of variations on each strike, lock and throw are almost infinite. I did my best to process this information physically, and made what I felt was pretty slow progress. My problem, which I am told is common to newcomers, is that I cannot yet strike a balance between over-thinking each move – to the point where I would stop half-way through a technique to ask myself if I was getting it "right" – and over-acting in terms of tension and aggression. Brochas and his students were extremely patient in explaining that I needed to think less and do less, that every action in the Bujinkan proceeds from nature, and allows the practitioner to move less like a boxer or a wrestler and more like wind or water.

This is what struck me most about what I saw and learned last Sunday: the sheer fluency of intention and movement. My fascination with this kept me going all day, and affected me in a way that I'm not quite able to articulate yet. I have been practicing ichimonji in my sleep since then, and having only just started training at this early stage of my research, I don't think I could stop if I wanted to. Brochas has told me that he knew I would feel this way. Perhaps because he's psychic. But more likely because he simply knows that feeling himself.