Country number: 58
Territory number: 63
When? April 2017, first leg of Blossoms & Battleships Tour, going on to North Korea via Beijing
How? Overland tour mainly by shinkansen- bullet train -with some internal flights
‘Look at the cherry blossoms!
Their color and scent fall with them,
Are gone forever,
The spring comes again.’
I’m in Ishigakijima, one of the Yaeyama islands, Okinawa prefecture. Basically, this is about as far south as Japan goes. Japan here doesn’t seem to be as high tech as I remember it to be but that was 15 years ago. Yes, everyone is toting their gadgets but the stores are utilitarian and piled high with oddments, plastic toys and confectionery, which is annoying, as I’ve already lost all my electronic chargers. I left them on the last of the three planes I travelled on to get here. It took two days minus the time difference of eight hours and I was too drowsy to notice. The Japanese man next to me didn’t sleep well either. I accidentally kicked my bag onto him during the night and he threw it back shouting ‘ Over there!’ Surprisingly un-Japanese as everything here is so calm.
There’s also more English script around than I remember, which is helpful, as very few folk down here in the sticks speak English. The hotel manager was really surprised to see me. He says westerners don’t come to visit these parts. The only Japanese word I could remember before I set off was yes. It’s already been pointed out to me that no might be a safer option.
I feel like a gentle start food wise so I go for the Chinese restaurant. The smiling waiter brings me pickled jellyfish as a surprise appetiser. And so it goes on. One of the strangest meals I’ve ever eaten, everything is either slimy or bitter or spiky. It seems that Japanese Chinese food is not remotely like English Chinese. Or Chinese Chinese for that matter. And OMG is it expensive. The set menu is £40 and the man at the desk told me that this was the cheap restaurant.
Now a barbers’ quartet of waiters have brought out a ‘cake’ and are singing happy birthday to the family group at the adjacent table. The waitress says it’s their wedding anniversary….
Back in my room – it’s like a fridge the air conditioning is so over zealous. The bath plug is spherical and the toilet, with its gadgets and heated seat, is the warmest place to be. It’s quaintly called a shower toilet.
I wake with appalling jet lag and it takes sometime to orientate myself (see what I did there) but the sun is recalcitrant and I decide to step out and explore. I manage to acquire a ferry ticket and arrive on the tiny island of Taketomi. Well I thought I was disorientated before, but now I’m completely discombobulated. Everything is signed in Japanese script and there are a crowd of men with vans and unfathomable chalk boards. Some pictures would be helpful. I eventually find a wall map and work out how to walk into the central village, which takes ten minutes. There I hire a bike and obtain my own map, which I can’t read. And I discover that the vans were there to transport tourists to the bike hire shops.
The island is charming and well worth the trip. It is remote and traditional with red terracotta roofed houses and grey stone walls (these are the ishigaki of the island name). Bougainvillea and hibiscus spill over them in rampant abundance. Stone lanterns are pleasingly littered around and pop eyed baby dragons and lions roar from the tiles. Delightfully atmospheric. The other local transport possibility are the water buffalo carts. The huge beasts lumber along surprisingly rhythmically, heads swaying and the Japanese passengers vie for inclusion in the photos I’m trying to take. The buffalo need little guidance as they traverse the narrow coral sand lanes. I wish I was as sure of my route. Fortunately, the Japanese are helpful and polite as finding my way and returning my bike to the correct shop involves stopping at least a dozen different people. My vocabulary has expanded to yes, no, hello, good-bye and thank you and I’m already bowing my head automatically with the best of them.
The island is small, which is just as well as my first foray involves me emerging on completely the wrong side. Eventually I visit a beach famous for minuscule star shaped shells (I am happy to view the findings of others) and two other beaches renowned for their views over the reefs. The water is not emerald, as promised, today, but it’s still pretty.
Back at the port I wander in search of replacement chargers and find the expected warehouse with every possible gadget known to man in every possible shade of pink. I note that the Japanese are still keen on Hello Kitty. Ishigaki ‘city’ is very different to Taketomi and more the modern Japanese norm, a cluster of hotels and shops. I’ve already learned that the Japanese, like the Chinese, love shopping. ‘Why go somewhere if you can’t buy anything?’ someone says on the boat. I can’t work out how to get back to the hotel but a kind young man gives me a lift in his van. No charge no strings. Well that wouldn’t happen in England.
Dinner tonight is ostensibly a western buffet. But it’s Japanese Western. Sashimi, rice curry and various stir fry. And if my bedroom is a fridge this restaurant is the freezer.
I’m supposed to be snorkelling all day, lunch included. I’m hoping the trip will involve views of more of Ishigaki as there are supposed to be mantas and some beautiful bays. But the dive instructor tells me that they aren’t running day trips this season. And we head out for Taketomi Island…..
The reef is sadly all but dead but the fish are pretty and there are some gleaming shoals to swim with and a few clownfish spats to observe – Neemo re-enacted. We have wet suit issue (I’m grateful no photos are taken) but even so the water is unpleasantly cold. It’s still cloudy and early season and it doesn’t help that the instructors are very professional in their approach and want to keep everyone together, so it’s slow going. I reflect that a whole day might have been challenging.
There is a triathlon taking place in town and we weave our way through the runners back to the hotel where the sun has made a welcome resurgence. There are signs next to the pool forbidding people with exposed tattoos. (I read that body marking is associated with the Mafia here and is generally frowned on.) A sun bed seems a good option for a snooze. Except that a group of triathlon participants has arrived and are ear splittingly exuberant. They clearly haven’t tried hard enough if they are not exhausted. And I note that they all have their race numbers stuck on their forearms. It’s a shame the tattoo rule hasn’t been applied.
The hotel is very big on weddings. It has its own chapel on the shore, complete with stained glass. A considerable portion of the main wing is devoted to accoutrements. There’s a bridal suite to change in and a bridal salon to choose all the clothes
Lunch is again astronomically priced. Fish and chips turns out to be three bread crumbed and deep fried fingers of fish wrapped in ham and mint, accompanied by a mound of tortilla chips. I’ve discovered that the convenience store in the hotel sells beverages at one third of the price at the pool bar. So I run upstairs to buy my refreshments. I suppose it would be pushing my luck to ask the waiter for ice?
I’ve also discovered all the local shops and almost succumb to MacDonald’s as an easy option, but I’m deterred by the possibility of burger with more corn chips and cut price sushi from Hotto Motto (great name) prevails. When paying at the stores here you have to put your money into a little plastic dish and the cashier very painstakingly counts out all the change to ensure that it is correct. The more upmarket places like the hotels utilise a leather version on which to pop your credit card.
I’ve been told that Kabira Bay in the north is incredibly beautiful and I’m up for a little more adventure, so I hop on a bus. It’s all very civilised. You remove the proffered ticket from the little machine as you get on and an electronic board tells you how much each stage travelled so far has cost, running taxi meters for each passenger at the same time. The unfolding panorama as we traverse the island is typically tropical, lush green mountains surrounded by banana, sugar cane and pineapple plantations.
Finding the way to the sightseeing spots is a doddle as I just follow the streams of cruise ship passengers emerging from the lines of coaches and the bay lives up to its reputation. A host of leafy small karst islands ringed with white sand and floating in water that really is emerald green today. Well, in snatches. It’s windy and dark clouds are scudding across the bay, but there is enough intermittent sunshine to get the idea. I pile onto a glass bottomed boat with one flurry of tourists for the view from the water, as well as a look at some blue staghorn coral and a few fish as a bonus.
I will probably regret saying this but travelling alone with no Japanese isn’t that difficult, as everyone is so helpful. It’s not all sweetness and light however. Japan isn’t as modern as anticipated in other ways. This is still definitely a nation where women are secondary to men and are expected to defer to them, and it is women who do most of the helping. The men like to operate the buttons in the lifts, especially the close the door one. They race to hit it first. It’s also a place where smoking remains the norm. Cigarette stands are situated next to most of the general store and supermarket cash desks. The stations and airports all have glass smoking rooms and it’s another race to pile into them as the passengers disembark from trains or planes.
This was designated my blossom tour as later on today I’m travelling north via Tokyo and my next stops are all arranged around Japanese flower festivals. However, I’ve had to extend the title as I’ve discovered that Japan is involved in a skirmish with China over some of the small islands close to here. The Japanese fishermen have been chased out and Ishigaki harbour is bristling with coastal defence vessels. The newspapers say that tourists are staying away because they don’t want to get involved in the fighting. And my next stop after Japan is planned to be North Korea. Donald Trump has sent an aircraft carrier fleet, the Chinese are massing on the North Korean border and the Japanese are drawing up plans to evacuate their citizens from South Korea…
The forecast is confident it’s going to rain all day tomorrow so I postpone packing and faff for some hours before opening the curtains and discovering that, perversely, the weather is glorious. It’s been hot overcast and humid so far. I’ve given up trying to style my hair – bushy is in. The chapel bells are ringing. There must be another wedding imminent.
I’ve decided to wait for the airport to eat as food will almost certainly be cheaper. There’s a sentence I never thought I would write. Purchasing nourishment is still a mine field. The departure lounge looks a bit like a supermarket with stands and huge garish signs. Trying to find something that looks vaguely recognisable is the first problem, let alone ordering it. Eventually, I discover that some of the stalls have little picture book menus to point at. Though I still end up with pickled vegetable sushi rather than the salmon or tuna I was fondly imagining. It’s got sugar on it too. So much for healthy eating.
The boarding calls are made by a little man in a Hawaiian style shirt shouting through a megaphone. He’s bowing and smiling as he does it. And you are allowed to take water though security. They have a little machine to check that it really is water. How civilised is that?
I get views of Mount Fuji in full sun setting glory from the plane and I can still see the cone peeping round the corner of the control tower from my airport hotel window. This is tomorrow’s destination- I’m going to a flower festival called Shibasakura – phlox blossom. Sakura is cherry blossom and the act of blossom viewing is called hanami. You’re supposed to have a party under the trees. This festival promises hot pink carpets all round the bottom of Fuji. Meanwhile, I’m in search of more airport food. Forget cosmetics or designer bags. It’s all comestibles in the airports here. A fragrant blow of ramen noodles with vegetable tempura for three pounds -that’s a bit more like it. I’m not quite full but the smiling young ladies touting their wares give me free tastings of the huge variety of rice and ground bean based sweets and waffle cakes on offer. So that’s sorted that. Now I have to choose my pyjamas- they supply them in all the hotel rooms here. The Japanese wander round the hotels quite happily wearing them.
Today I’m trying out the long distance bus system. This time men with microphones wearing surgical face masks shepherd us into tidy numbered lines and onto the correct bus. (A large proportion of the Japanese wear face masks- sometime the women have blue ones. It’s ostensibly to prevent spreading or acquiring infection but it’s also a good way of avoiding social contact. ) I’m able to see something of the many canals around Tokyo harbour and the scrapers of high tech Shinjuku. It certainly seems far more sci-fi here and the elevated sections make London’s West Way look decrepit.
Finally, out of the city, the alpine scenery is extraordinarily pretty. There are wide valleys with little chalet houses, just like Switzerland. The mountains are covered in feathery greenery in a ravishing palette of fresh shades, the whole liberally sprinkled with sakura. But the efficiency of the transport even puts Switzerland to shame. Everything leaves on time, to the second, the microphone men bowing to the drivers.
Things go downhill when I arrive at Kawaguchigo. I dip into the tourist office, as I am not sure which bus to get to the festival and the lady there just looks at my waving leaflet and says don’t bother, there are no flowers. She takes great delight in showing me pictures of the site, which resembles a huge mudslide. It’s a glorious clear day. There are already tantalising views of Fuji towering above the station, so I decide to go to my hotel drop off my stuff, walk round the lake and search for sakura instead. I wait 45 mins for the hotel bus in the right place as instructed. I finally get to the hotel to be told I‘m not booked in there. My itinerary says one thing, the tour company boking another. So Fuji View Hotel get Fuji Lake Hotel to send a mini bus to pick me up -all very annoying and time consuming, especially as the Fuji Lake bus had come much earlier while I was waiting and the Fuji View is set in the most beautiful gardens with all the cherry trees in flower and great views of Fuji, as one might expect. I run around madly taking pictures and leaping in the lift to visit the panorama lounge before they throw me out.
My hotel proper thankfully also has Fuji views, though it is pretty dated in style- like a typical English caravan-but it’s also very Japanese. There are bedroom slippers, plastic toilet slippers and a tea set in glass and wooden box. Like many of the lavatories here you can set this one to make flushing or lapping noises while you are in there, to ‘cover your embarrassment’.
So not all is gloom and doom. Moreover, there is sakura, a memorable jaunt round the lake, though it’s a little blustery, and great views of Fuji, who has obligingly draped herself in fresh snow, for the iconic souvenir photographs- once you manage to navigate your way past all the tourists taking selfies and group pictures all along the path. Most of the blossom is creamy white, but from a distance, in the sun, it takes on a pinkish hue.
Back in my hotel room I have top floor views of the mountain. I can even see Fuji sitting in my bath. Well I could if they had thought to illuminate it. Filling the little tub is another aptitude test. The taps are on the windowsill and the shower is on the wall wet room style. Needless to say it spouts all over me as soon as I turn on the taps. And I’m not undressed yet. When I finish my bath and pull out the plug the water spurts out of the drain, all over the floor –and any part of my clothing that wasn’t already wet.
There is a Spartan resonance to this place. The wind has got more blustery all day and now it’s a howling gale. The bar area is chilly to say the least, but they resolutely refuse to light the fire that is set. The Japanese tourists have all donned the kimonos and over jackets that are provided in the rooms, so they all look as if they are in grey and maroon uniforms. Or prison garb. .Breakfast notices announce that no-one will be allowed entrance after 8.30 a.m. Eating at other times is another challenge. Unexpectedly, I’m finding it very hard to get fed. I didn’t get any lunch because of all the kerfuffle and thought I would wait till dinner to save some time so I could go walking. But you can’t have dinner here unless you reserve in advance and it’s a 10 course Japanese extravaganza anyway. The bar only does sandwiches in the evening and there isn’t anything else open in the vicinity. The staff speak hardly any English so can’t be any more helpful, though they are trying and so my main meal for today is a toasted ham and cheese! Maybe I will end up as slim as all the Japanese. The Japanese women are so elegant with such beautiful porcelain skin.
Breakfast today makes up for yesterday’s paucity on the nutrition front. It is a grand affair offering a conglomeration of everything Japanese and Japanese western. You can even have ice cream. Now I’m off to try my luck on the trains for the first time. The initial leg is easy enough, though it’s called an express (for which I’ve paid an extra 400 yen) and it chugs its way sleepily along the valleys. The scenery is so lovely it’s impossible to mind. Perhaps the driver is admiring it. The second leg to Tokyo, in a proper express, also goes off relatively smoothly. I’ve even worked out how to stand in the right place for my reserved carriage. The first and second lines painted on the platform alongside all the assorted carriage markings are a little misleading, until I realise that they signify the order of the trains and not the class of travel. There is plenty of room in the carriages and all the seats face forward. They swing them round at the termini. The next stage is Tokyo for the shinkansen (bullet train) to Tokyo. The carriage attendants here, male and female, have flowers in their caps and they even bow at the mighty trains as they sweep gracefully along the platform.
However, I should have known better than to write how wonderful and punctual it all is. Tokyo main station is in chaos. All the trains are delayed because there is something stuck in an overhead cable. I ask some little men where to go for my train and they haven’t a clue, fobbing me off with a guess at the wrong platform. Eventually, I work it out for myself and I end up on a train that will get me there earlier than my planned itinerary, even taking into account the delay. It’s just like London.
On the train I’m writing my blog, checking the weather forecast and trying to remember not to blow my nose. It’s considered very rude, especially when you’re eating. So everyone sniffs all the time, which is much less irritating, of course. The train has just slowed right down through Fukushima-site of the earthquake and nuclear leak. I’m wondering if I should hold my breath…Out of the left hand window I can see the snowy peaks of the mountains that form Japan’s spine. On the right there is still blossom on the little trees in the orchards. Fingers crossed.
I’m based at Sendai for three nights and here the sun is a little more elusive and it’s what we Brits would call chilly. It’s a very modern city and I scurry along the long avenues between the parks looking for sakura. There are lanterns in the trees, gay stalls and plenty of stalwarts out on blue plastic sheeting conducting hanami. It seems to me that for many of the men this means consuming as much beer as possible, but it’s all very good natured and everyone appears to be having fun. Some parties have gone to a great deal of trouble to pack hampers and even lay out coordinating place settings. The pinkish white blossom at Nishi Park has partially fallen. But two miles in the other direction at Tsutsujigaoka Park (try saying that after a beer) the candy floss pink weeping cherries are in full bloom with their long flailing tresses. The setting sun and the crowds make good photographs difficult, though you can’t help but smile at the antics under the trees.
I’m exhausted after tramping everywhere with my camera and getting up at silly o’clock to catch the trains. Back at my hotel the travel company have treated me to dinner tonight to make up for yesterday’s problems- Japanese Italian. It’s surprisingly good, as is the Negroni. Maybe I won’t be losing weight after all.
Everything is still organised to the nth detail. My toilet seat lifts itself up when I enter, though my capsule room is so small I probably couldn’t bend over to lift it up. No room to do your asanas in here. When you go to breakfast you are given a place card to reserve your space at a table while you get your food. You return it when you leave. Even the lift reads your room key card to take you briskly to the correct floor. Society goes to great lengths to make sure that everyone behaves fairly and politely. And no-one would dream of crossing the road before the little green man blinks. Is this overdoing things I wonder? Repression or the highest form of society?
I’m on a super express heading for the north of Honshu-mainland Japan- today. I’m still in search of cherry blossom, today combined with samurai houses at Kakunodate. It’s over 240 km, so it sounds mad for a day trip, but it’s only an hour and a half on these ultra efficient trains. This is the fastest shinkansen line in the country and it runs at up to 200 mph.
I catch a glimpse of a cherry blossom festival in an orchard with trees in full bloom but I can’t see which town we are in. I think it might be Kitikama where I’m due to go tomorrow- wow that was quick. The train is zipping along and most of the scenery is a blur.
At Morioka the train splits in two. One part heads northward to Hokkaido. My bit turns east and skirts the mountains all the way to my destination. They are white capped, the sky is blue and there are gushing streams and waterfalls. There are patches of snow right up to the line. It all promises a good day. But I’ve been tantalised again. There is a bank of cloud hovering over Kakunodate itself and the much anticipated weeping cherries are nowhere near ready to flower. There are tight buds on some of them and just two trees in blossom, outside the heritage centre. So naturally this whole walkway is full of tourists taking their photographs under them. There are posters everywhere depicting the carpets of blossom and flower tunnels when the sakura is in its full glory. The townspeople however are acting as if the blossom is already here. There are stalls lining the road, sprays of plastic blossom and car park attendants with batons ready for the onslaught. It will be glorious during Golden Week, the national holiday, in a fortnight’s time.
Meanwhile, the row of three hundred year old samurai houses is worth a wander and then I saunter down the river walkway imagining how lovely it is going to be when the flowers appear. Every so often I am besieged by groups of local school children excitedly carrying out surveys and practicing their English.
The forecast for tomorrow is less promising, so I change my ticket and take the slower train 100 km back to Kitikama. I’m hopeful that was the place where I saw the cherry blossom on the way up. And maybe the sun will come back. In any case it will free up tomorrow.
The sky is indeed properly azure at Kitikama and there is a two kilometre avenue of snowy cherry trees coming into full blossom along the banks of the river. I pop over on the ferry and join the ranks of the revellers taking carriage rides or boat tours. The sky is just clouding over as I finish and the first spots of rain pursue me back to the station. You win some and you lose some.
There’s a patch of clear sky wafting around Japan and I’ve been trying to match my expeditions to its presence. Today the weather map says it will be above Matsushima Bay. It’s half an hour on the train from Sendai and the guide book informs me it’s one of the three scenic must sees in Japan (the nihon sankei). Selected several centuries ago, they consist of Matsushima, Miyajima and Amanohashidate. Why isn’t Fuji on the list I wonder? Anyway, here I am.
A proper tourist today. I cruise round the bay admiring the 260 odd little limestone islands, amble round a temple or two and up an imposing avenue of cedar trees, enjoy a very pretty zen garden with a samurai mausoleum and a temple or two and cross a traditional red bridge to another of the islands. Exceptionally pleasant – and it’s sunny as promised. There’s even sakura. The Japanese tourists forgo the oohing and aahing at the islands. I’m not sure they even look at them. They spend most of the voyage rearranging themselves for group pictures against the rail. Then they go into the saloon, drink tea and look at their photographs.
This probably sounds crass and obvious but this is such a unique culture. There are very few recognisable western brands. The food is unlike anything anywhere else. There’s a faint whiff of sour frying (or is it sake brewing?) as I pass the restaurants. It’s not entirely pleasant.
Restrooms (as they are called in American fashion) are plentiful and even most of the public facilities are kitted out with all singing all dancing bowls and wall panel controls. It’s a peaceful warm place to sit and organise myself when I’m tired.
I’m saturated with Sakura now so I’m off in search of other blossom. A shinkansen back down south to Oyama and then a local train which chugs along excruciatingly slowly through low lying hills and paddy fields. The plants are very young and the shoots poke through the water in neat geometric patterns. There is still some ploughing too, the miniature tractors throwing up lines of spray.
The local trains are driven from the last car by earnest young men who act as guards, checking into electronic controls on each platform and also inspecting and issuing tickets. It crosses my mind that I should offer them work on the Brighton line. I’m still being kept in order. There are frequent announcements saying that mobile phones should be kept in silent mode.
Today’s destination is the Hitachi Seaside Park. Me and half of Japan. (I read that the population of Japan is reducing rapidly. It was 128 million but the birth rate is refusing so rapidly that it is projected to fall to 88 million eventually, with an ever aging top end to finance. I see very few Middle Eastern or African faces here. Maybe allowing some immigrants in is the answer?)
It’s a sunny spring Sunday and a whole hillside covered in blue nemophila is advertised. The site is swarming and the lines for food tickets and toilets alarming. The good news is that the flowers are almost completely in bloom and very pretty. There are four and half million of the ‘baby blue eyes’ spilling over the slopes. I’m not sure they are any more attractive than the fields of flax or lavender found closer to home, but somehow the ant like hordes crisscrossing the slopes add to the interest. There’s a good view of the sea at the top and a bell that the locals are queuing up to ring. A surfeit of standing and waiting going on here, but it’s all very orderly. Someone has thought it apposite to plant a field of rape at the bottom. It certainly contrasts well, but haven’t they heard of allergies? Added attractions are an egg forest that has flower beds of gorgeous tulips – a huge variety of species and colours and a narcissi garden that is still very fresh in parts, a sea of bobbing fried eggs. The advertised forest eggs I hasten to add, are metallic and large, designed for children to scramble in (sorry I can’t resist it). The Japanese seem very fond of small dogs, but the pampered canines seem reluctant to walk and are carried in arms or baskets. I’ve even noticed several being trundled in tartan prams.
My luggage is waiting for me when I get back to Oyama. This is yet another really neat piece of organisation. You can send your luggage on ahead, to save hefting it on the trains, for about ten pounds a time. So far it’s found its way to the correct location. So have I; I’m using a seven day tourist rail pass that is excellent value – as long as I don’t lose it. I’ve also now learned to use Google maps to plot all my walking, even in Japanese, Google translate to ask for what I want and a nifty website called HYPERDIA to plan all my train travel. I’m carrying a little router I rented on the internet to make sure I stay connected and. So I’m weighed down but not lost.
Oyama doesn’t promise to be the most exciting place I’ve ever stayed at, it was chosen for its convenience. The hotel is very brown, verging on dreary, with opaque bedroom windows and the streets are extraordinarily empty when I arrive. Maybe everyone has gone to the Seaside Park. Things have improved when I venture out for dinner. There is a main square around the station and some little spurs off it that boast some tempting little bistro type places lit with Japanese lanterns and decorated with banners. It’s all rather chichi.
I’m still at sea when it comes to knowing what to order. Purchasing edibles on the go is easier, I just buy sushi from one of the many convenience stores. At times I can be a little more adventurous, though it’s still fraught. There are usually cabinets of fried objects in batter so I point at three of those at random. Consumption reveals, a very spicy piece of chicken schnitzel, some chicken on a stick in crispy batter, which is tasty, and the piece de resistance- a frankfurter in a balloon shaped very sweet batter, which is interesting. Toad in the hole on a stick. My cider turns out to be a very synthetic fizzy soft drink with no apple in it at all and my sparkling mineral water is lychee flavoured. I’m still puzzled as to where the healthy bit comes in, but back to dinner. I can only work out what type of restaurant it is if they are kind enough to display photographs of the food and these can be misleading. Tonight, it turns out to be Japanese Indian.
Another interesting tiny bathroom to grapple with. In this one the same tap feeds both the bathtub and the sink. So I have to remember to swing it in the correct direction, or there are consequences.
The Japanese are such delightful considerate people -unless they’re taking photographs and then they’re schizophrenic. They dive in front of everything and everyone and pose. It’s really difficult to get an uncluttered view of the attractions, however insignificant.
Today, I’ve followed the good weather to Ashigake Flower Park which is world renowned for its wisteria. The gardens are absolutely exquisite, if a little over manicured at times. Thoughtfully organised with delightful seating areas in the midst of the banks of flowers, on little islands in ponds, by cafes with no queueing and there’s even a large ‘resting field’ with neatly lined up tables, chairs and parasols. It’s all incredibly relaxing, despite the photo bombing; there’s even Bach and Chopin tinkling away in the background. (The Japanese have piped classical music almost everywhere, including the restrooms).
There is more sakura, azalea, masses of annuals immaculately arranged in beds and fantastically tiered islands and two toned lupins in layered cones. How have they managed to get them all to grow to the required height like that?
Wisteria is called Fuji in Japanese and there are wisteria trees in blossom: pearly white, baby blanket pink and a little purple. There’s even a Monet style bridge with a pink fringe on top. One ‘but’ today is that the famous giant trees that provide the trellis blossoms are not yet in bloom.
I brought a selfie stick with me but I haven’t had the confidence to try it out yet. But if I can’t use a selfie here where can I? When in Japan….. where’s the best wisteria tree?
The other ‘but’ is that the rich wisteria scent that pervades the park has attracted some enormous hornet like insects that seem identical to killer bees. They are gliding down the paths hovering in and out of the ducking visitors. It could make for some interesting pictures.
And who knew that the iPhone automatically creates an album for your selfies?
More famous last words. My Brown Hotel staff informed me, on inquiry, that the highly efficient luggage transport service would take two days to send my luggage ahead to Fukuoka. Fair enough, I thought, it’s a long way, it’s on another island. Send it to Haneda Airport instead I suggested. No, that will also take two days. It’s projected to take me just under two hours this morning I hope, so the logic defies me. I suspect it may take me longer than two hours and some bad language now I have to propel my large case onto the trains and buses.
On arrival in Fukuoka, I’m told that the bucket list wisteria tunnel I’ve come all this way to see is not yet in bloom and it’s raining hard. I still have to go to Kokura tomorrow, near the wisteria garden, as my hotel has been booked. I’ve not heard anything about my North Korea trip being cancelled even though Trump’s aircraft carrier is now in position. It’s a little stressful. Also disappointingly, it seems that the Japanese do not pronounce Fukuoka anything like the way I have been saying it- with some relish.
One compensation is that I can have another Japanese massage. Little ladies wearing nurse style tunics turn up at my door, kneel on the bed and give all my pressure points a good pummelling. It’s all very proper. I’m not even allowed to take off my clothes.
It’s still raining whatever the Japanese equivalent of cats and dogs is and it’s set in for the day. Nevertheless, I feel I should see something of Kyushu Island so I set off for a Shinto shrine that’s dedicated to sailors. It’s early seventeenth entry the oldest and first of its kind in the country and its theme seems appropriate for today. Like most Japanese shrines it is rewardingly colourful and peaceful. The red walls are almost orange. There seems to be some equivalent ceremony to a christening going on – a baby wearing its best clothes is held by a robed priest, surrounded by adults, and drums are banging.
The shinkansen speeds me the 30 odd miles to Kokura in just over 15 minutes. My last night is to be spent in a fancy tower block hotel and my room has extensive views across the north of Kyushu over the harbour and up to Honshu. I can just make out the connecting suspension bridge in the distance. The green pin cushioned mountains are just visible through the clouds, forming a backdrop to the high rise blocks and I can see the trains arriving below me, like a Hornby OO railway. This is more fun than going out and getting soaked. A final Japanese buffet and breakfast. I’m still grappling with my chopsticks. Using them to eat scrambled egg and bacon like the Japanese is beyond my capabilities.
I am sorry to leave Japan. But it will be good to sit on a toilet that doesn’t make me jump by flushing ‘to prepare itself’ when I’m trying to relax.