You arrive at the Ryokan and the first thing that happens is that you take your shoes off. That’s a big thing in Japan anyway, but in the ‘old Japan’ ethos of a Ryokan, its a red line. At the door, off they come and they lend you some sandals. You get to choose. Small, medium or large. Cool. Then they take you to your room, which is basically made for someone with no legs. The table is 6 inches off the floor, the chairs have no legs either, the bed’s on the floor. And its spartan. But nice. In a very Japanese way. A massive suite with nothing in it (nothing with legs, anyway) and an outside bath.

Then you have to wear a kimono thing, as you can see. And if you laugh I will kill you. Because its in the rules. Ok, you don’t have to wear it all the time but I need to get in character.

We’re in a place called Hakoni which is in the national park by Mount Fuji. Which is actually a ‘Volc’ rather than a ‘mount’. So the whole area is one pit of seismic activity. Which is very interesting if you’re studying geography or geology, rather more worrying if you’re just cruising round. But it also means… hot springs! And we love hot springs. And our Ryokan has its own. Lots of them. And the idea is that you use them to boil your testicles. And when they’re cooked you get out and collapse because of the outrageous temperature your body has reached. It’s great fun.

In fact our ‘outside bath’ is our own mini hot tub, natural spring, in a gorgeous little secluded courtyard. Which is wonderful. Everything here’s wonderful; its fucking Japan, innit?

And then they bring you dinner. At 6. No negotiation. Rules. And its in your room. And you have your own ‘person’ in her own kimono, who brings you course after course of the most amazing looking, tasting wonderful things. Most of which, if you have eaten before, you don’t recognise. The rest you’ve just walked past in the forest, fish pond or Japanese supermarket with no English translations. And the level of intricacy with every tiny little side-dish, every minuscule decoration, is an art. Much better than those art installations I saw the other day. And a lot tastier. Amazing experience. Even if you look a bit of a twat doing it.

Yesterday when we approached Hakone on the bullet train, Mel said: ‘oh look, there’s Mount Fuji’. Because it was. Magnificent in the sunshine with just the merest halo of cloud around its very tip. And we watched it for 10 minutes thinking; we’ll see that tomorrow. Alas, tomorrow became today and we didn’t see it at all. Because it was cloudy. And we learned that to see the mountain at all is rare as fucking hen’s teeth. Rare as an Arsenal Champions League match.

Back to Tokyo tomorrow, then home Tuesday morning. Gonna miss it here.

Happy Sunday; now for the footy

A xxxx