Our tale relates that Tripitaka took his leave of the king of Purpuria, put saddle and horse in order, and pressed on westward.

話表 is the storyteller clearing his throat. It is the set phrase that opens a chapter in this tradition — roughly "now the tale tells" — and it survives because these books grew out of performances given aloud, where somebody had to signal that the story was starting again. 朱紫國 is the kingdom the party has just left, and the four chapters before this one were spent there. 藏 is zàng in the master's name, the storehouse of scripture, never cáng, to hide.

They travelled over hills and plains past counting, wore their way through waterways without end, and before they knew it autumn had gone and winter worn thin, and the bright beauty of spring had come round once more.

A whole half-year disappears in one sentence. The pilgrimage runs on two clocks at once: episodes take days, and the road between them takes seasons. 不覺的 carries the trick — it means "without noticing," and the noticing that fails is the reader's as much as the travellers'. 歷盡 takes jìn, the fourth tone, to exhaust or use up, not jǐn, meaning merely. 覺 is jué, to be aware, not jiào, a stretch of sleep.

Master and disciples were walking the road, treading the green and taking in the view, when all at once a grove with a hermitage in it came into sight.

踏青, tà qīng, is "treading the green" — the spring walk out to see new grass, still the name of the custom Chinese families keep at the Qingming festival. Four characters of ordinary pleasure, and then the sentence turns: 忽見, all at once they saw.

Tripitaka rolled from the saddle, dismounted, and stood at the side of the highroad.

傍 is páng here, the position word "side" — the same word later written 旁. It is not bàng, to draw near to something. 滾鞍下馬 is a stock phrase for dismounting in a hurry, and it tells you Tripitaka has already decided something before he says a word.