When in Rome, as the saying goes, do like the Romans. But what do they mean? Eat an unborn baby? Shag a little boy? Fight a lion, kill a Christian or just eat pizza?

And how does that help me when I’m in Hakone, which is where I’m headed. To Mount Fuji. To stay in the national park. In a Ryokan. Which is a traditional Japanese Inn, where you sleep on a futon, wear something like a kimono, and drink tea that tastes like shit? It has to be done. And I presume you have to eat with chopsticks.

Which is the ‘when in Tokyo’ bit. When you’re here, you eat with chopsticks. Except Mel. Who is genetically challenged in that department. I say ‘genetically’ not with any scientific validation but merely because it may cause insult to her (genetically identical) twin sister. Who, I believe, has no such issues, but still. I personally like eating with those things, its fun. Mel always gets a spoon. Unlike the chap next to me at breakfast yesterday who had 2 fried eggs with his meal. Which was otherwise a traditional Japanese one. So I looked at his eggs and his chopsticks and thought: I wanna see this. I expected him to just pick the entire thing up and shove it in his mouth, with yolk dripping all over the place. But he didn’t. He cheated. He cut a lump off with his sticks and shoved it into his little bowl. I don’t know what else was in that bowl, but it all got thrown in together. I was so fascinated I went and ordered him a 12 ounce t-bone, cooked rare. Sort that out with yer fucking chopsticks, mate.

Then we went to Miyajima. A little island just a 10-minute ferry ride from a station that’s a 25-minute train ride from Hiroshima. Possibly the most lovely place on Earth. You climb to the top of the mountain there and what you see is breath-taking. But for so long you actually pass out and need oxygen and paramedics. Ok and breathe…

You go to Miyajima because you have to. It’s in your tourist contract. And there’s only 2 things to do there. Firstly you see the famous (round here) Torii gate, the ‘floating’ one. These are the gates at the shrines. So you know where to pray. And you see the shrine, which in Japan are not like a little Buddha with a candle and an incense stick, not here matey. Here, a Shinto shrine is fucking massive buildings, loads of them, statues, alters, the whole 9 yen. So you see the gate and you go ‘ooooohhhhh’ and tick the box in your guidebook. Though it is lovely and the setting its in is divine. And you head off to the other thing. The mountain. Because from the top of that is visions of heaven.

And then you come back. But we didn’t. Because Miyajima is one of those places that, particularly in the gorgeous sunshine, you just don’t want to leave. Why would you? There’s loads to eat, loads to drink, deer walking the streets, and it feels just wonderful. So we stayed all afternoon and got a late ferry back.

Another day, another bullet train. And that’s the beauty of Japan, the real magic. It works. Perfectly. All of it. All the time. There’s an effortless efficiency about absolutely everything here. So every time you wonder: ‘now where is *****?’ a sign will just appear and tell you precisely. Or something will take you there. Maybe all those prayers in all those shrines pay off?

Happy Penultimate Day of the Premier League Season

A xxxx