This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”

11 December 2023

• 10:20-10:23 Kawaramachi station to Ritsurin Koen station train (Kotohira line)
• Ritsurin garden (1h 15m)
• 12:37-13:30 Kotoden Kotohira station train (Kotohira line), 14:15-15:10 Kotohira station to Awa Ikeda station

Ritsurin Garden

After my sleepless nights in Shodoshima, I slept ten hours in Takamatsu. For breakfast, I walked to the best udon restaurant in town, incidentally very close to my hostel, recommended to me by two unrelated locals. Udon was the local specialty, and here a singular egg and butter variant was the obvious choice. Signatures of famous diners covered the walls.

Best udon ever.

By the end, however, I discovered heaps of unmixed black pepper in the bottom, and left the restaurant with my mouth burning.

I continued to Ritsurin Garden, Takamatsu’s only attraction. Created in the late 16th century, it was mostly green, with some remnants of orange. Carefully cultivated low trees, like oversized bonsai; palms trees; a nice pond, a teahouse, and an artificial waterfall. All very calm and curated.

Rain was drizzling softly. I ate an oiri ice cream, a Kagawa rice candy, and left. Like Okayama’s Korakuen, Ritsurin was not among my favourites. Both cities seemed lacklustre to me, explorable in mere hours.

Miyoshi

So I checked into my accommodation for tonight, a traditional home-turned-hostel deep in the countryside, as early as possible, at 16:00. Dragging 30 kilograms of luggage all the way through Ikeda town was a bit of a hassle, especially in the rain, but once there…

It was a large dwelling, with a kotatsu in the living room, a wide kitchen, traditional pottery, free washing machines, and futon beddings, all for a low price. For three hours, I was the only one there. I cooked rice, added my usual tofu and nattou, and used my privacy and leisure to make some phone calls.

But first, I texted the old couple from Iya Valley’s Ochiai village, who had hosted me on April 2^nd.

“I remember you winter in Kobe,” I wrote, “but if you’re still in town, I’d like to give you a present.”

They were.

After the Awa Ikeda tourist information lady had advised me not to return to Oku Iya in winter, I changed my schedule for tomorrow, to accommodate a return to Ochiai. An hour-long planning session of bus schedules ensued. Iya Valley was arguably the least traversable countryside in Japan.

Throughout all this, my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten lunch. The fridge in the kitchen was packed with expired food. I found non-rotten grated cheese and shoved it into my mouth in a fit of hunger while waiting for my rice.

At 19:00, I sat by the kotatsu with my dinner, when a guest arrived.

He was a young Japanese guy with a headband around his wavy hair. We exchanged a few words, until I offered him the second portion of rice left in the cooker. He prepared dinner in the kitchen, when he asked me if I’d eaten the grated cheese.

I hadn’t noticed his name on the package.

After this rocky start, we got around to talking. He was an 18-year-old soccer player from Hachinohe on a sabbatical from senior year in high school. Last year, he’d broken his ankle during a match. It hadn’t fully recovered, and it never would. He would never play soccer again.

Now, he was cycling across every prefecture in Japan, and, when not staying in Ikeda, camping in his tent: on a mission to see his home country, before the rest of this planet. It had been two months since he’d left Aomori prefecture.

We couldn’t stop talking. I’d wished to sleep by 22:00 again today, owing to tomorrow’s early start. Yet in no time at all, it was midnight.

He’d been staying here for several weeks, working in a nearby shop. Two weeks ago, a solo traveller from Israel had spent the night.

Near midnight, a Korean man arrived. He was a carpenter and longtime soldier with an uppercut ponytail, circling Japan on his Harley Davidson motorcycle and camping in his tent. He’d also brought his car, a stylish 4×4 wheeler, all the way from his city north of Seoul. No planes. Just ferries.

It was hard to announce bedtime, because the soccer player and I only had tonight. He kept inviting me to Hachinohe and bringing up recommendations. I’d only transferred trains there, and hadn’t seen it.

Today’s highlights: butter and egg udon; dinner at the guesthouse.

12 December 2023

• 8:20-9:25 Awa Ikeda station to Kazurabashi bus
• Kazurabashi (vine bridge) (20m)
• Onsen @ Hotel Kazurabashi (1.5h)
• 12:35-13:10 Kazurabashi to Ochiaibashi bus
• Lunch at the Ochiai couple’s home
• 14:30-15:35 Ochiaibashi to Oboke station bus, 17:15-19:05 local train to Kochi station (Dosan line)
• Hirome Market

Iya Valley

I slept six hours, made rice again for breakfast, and took the direct bus to Iya Valley. Last night’s guesthouse was cheap, traditional, and convenient. Another night here, especially with the soccer player, would’ve been great.

The least I could do after eating his leftover cheese was leave him more rice.

Iya Valley was shrouded in fog today. A cold winter day. I was the only passenger on the bus.

The driver and I crossed Oboke, a station full of memories for me, before making it to the vine bridge. It felt apt to return here in such unfavourable conditions. My first time was not so different.

On April 1, I’d visited the vine bridge, taken a bus up a mountain to the cliff with the Peeing Boy statue, ridden a private cable car down to a rotenburo in a valley by a river, taken a bus down to the vine bridge valley and tried to camp for the first time, failed to pitch up a tent during sunset, and slept alone in a dusty bungalow at the pitch-black Kazurabashi campground, which was located on the bank of a roaring river, in an area with more monkeys than humans, and had opened that day for the first time since winter. It was among the scariest nights of my life.

On April 2, I’d gotten a ride to Oku-Iya, which had opened the day before, from an Israeli couple I’d run into, despite the tourist information lady advising me not to venture there, because a week prior the road had collapsed and buses had ceased operation. I’d met an obaachan on her morning stroll in Ochiai village, probably the tiniest in Japan, where twenty elders had lived in traditional houses. I’d discovered there were no accommodations there (CONTRARY to information online) and received an invitation to crash at her house. Then I’d continued to the double vine bridges and scarecrow village, the latter being straight out of a horror movie, hitchhiked back to Ochiai, had my first bite in 18 hours (THERE WAS NO FOOD TO BUY BEFORE THAT), arrived at the obaachan’s house, soaked in a cauldron bath, wielded a katana sword, and got served too much food to finish my plate. The next morning, we’d watched the sunrise, and I’d taken a taxi to Kazurabashi, my only way out of Oku-Iya.

Not only had this weekend unfolded a week after my Shodoshima knee injury, right after two days of cycling in Shimanami Kaido – it was also my first time not booking an accommodation in advance, and winging it instead.

Iya Valley, for me, was no less than an adventure.

Now, on December 12, it was raining nonstop. I ditched my luggage near Kazurabashi bus stop and descended to the vine bridge.

Kazurabashi

Crossing it was even wilder this time, because the vines were wet and slippery. Very easly to miss a step and fall to the river.

I laughed out loud. Good to be back.

Hotel Kazurabashi’s Onsen

The cliff by the river toward Kazurabashi campground was a building site now, probably to renovate the staircase leading to the bank. The restaurant where I’d eaten wasn’t even open yet. As a matter of fact, nothing apart from the visitor center was open at 10:00.

The latter confirmed the bus schedule for me, and informed me that the onsen on my list didn’t open until 10:30. The schedule was just right then. I walked toward Hotel Kazurabashi for ten minutes. The valley was foggy and past foliage. Clear rivers streaming, rain pouring: mysterious and atmospheric.

The hotel was where the German family from Scarecrow Village had stayed. They had my phone number, but I didn’t have theirs. A shame.

The lobby featured more scarecrows than guests.

After last time’s cable car down a mountain to a rotenburo in a valley, this time I rode a cable car up a mountain to a rotenburo overlooking a valley.

Where else in the world could one find such onsens? I wondered. Needless to say, I was the only one there.

Tanooki were pouring spring water from pottery into baths. The weather was cold, and the water a tad too hot. When I grew dizzy, I lounged on the rocks on the edge and let goosebumps spread on my skin. I thought a lot about death and the possibility that I’d never be able to get over certain memories. Like the rotenburo with Cowboy on our last day together. When I longed to relive certain moments or worried about looming hardships, I forgot that I lived.

Reuniting with the Couple from Ochiai

I walked back to the bus stop and went to Ochiai. The dangerous, one-lane mountain road had been fixed. Like in Korea, I forgot a recently-bought UV umbrella inside the bus. The third one I’d purchased on this trip.

It rained nonstop as I climbed up the hill to the couple’s house, without the need to navigate or call them. I remembered where their house stood and what it looked like. The grandma was waiting by the window.

The grandpa, wearing warm clothes and a mask, had caught a cold. Again he reminded me of my late grandpa.

I gifted them souvenirs from Shodoshima. In no time at all, she served me lunch. Like last time, I couldn’t protest the meat on my plate. I thanked her and ate tonkatsu, sausages, some kind of a savoury pancake, pickled vegetables, and rice. No sooner had I finished my first serving of rice than she filled my bowl with a second helping. Then tea. Coffee. Chestnuts, choco-pie, and rice crackers.

We watched a K-drama. She was obsessed with them, but never visited to Korea, nor felt any inclination to. I recalled the couple of katana swords in the guest room, and got to play with one.

She brought up the question of accommodation. After realizing the uniqueness of this situation in the months since April, I wanted to crash here again, but felt bad asking. She invited me to Kobe in February instead.

“There’s nothing to do in Kobe, though,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”

She walked me to the bus stop.

「傘！」I exclaimed as the bus started moving and we waved goodbye. (“My umbrella!”)

I left Iya Valley with a smile on my face. My stomach was full of meat, and bag full of sweets.

Round two in both Shodoshima and Iya Valley wasn’t as tumultuous as the first. Both felt like a full circle moment, a dangerous place I’d returned to wiser and less inept.

It felt absurd to admit so, but I pouted at the lack of action. My future, I wanted to be secure, but my present, I encouraged to go astray. I ached to worry about food and accommodation for today. It negated all concern for tomorrow.

I bid the mini vine bridge inside Oboke station goodbye and realized that I’d become a thrill seeker. Chasing hurricanes, looking for rain, going from door to door – rejecting clear skies in favour of a storm –

Temerity clouded financial anxiety and unrequited emotions.

Someday, there would be a third time for me in the Valley. In warmer weather, preferably with a car. Even if it wasn’t until years to come.

Kochi

A girl checked in at the same time as me to my hostel in Kochi. She was an ALT (assistant language teacher) from Atlanta, Georgia, with the entertaining Southern accent. I thought I’d be alone in Kochi, the least visited prefecture in Japan – or at least the only foreigner. Then I discovered that out of eight beds in our hostel, seven were occupied by English teachers.

It was ALT night in Kochi. About 300 teachers from all over this massive prefecture were in town for a two-day conference.

My recently-established daily ritual repeated itself. Arriving at a new location, determined to go to bed early – meeting a fellow guest – and socializing instead getting adequate rest.

The Southern girl invited me to dinner in Hirome market with the other teachers. My plan was to visit the market tomorrow for katsuo no tataki, Kochi’s specialty. Yet beholding hundreds of ALTs in a sleepy, Japanese-only town sounded entertaining.

“It’s my favourite dish in Japan,” she said as we walked to the market. Such a proclamation surprised me.

Hirome Market

Hirome was less “market with fresh produce that closed after lunch” and more “dining area with alcohol that closed late at night”. The ALTs around were mostly white Americans. There was a Syrian-American girl and a Japanese-American guy, who I talked to the most. (First time meeting a Syrian.)

Then I ate katsuo no tataki, and ascended to heaven.

Slices of bonito, seared on charcoal. This granted raw sashimi, as buttery as tuna, the taste of smoked meat. With the perfectly astringent yuzu sauce, plus sprinkles of garlic, sea salt, and spring onion, everything slid down my throat, and immediately became the best, most unique fish I’d eaten.

I relished every bite. It was over too soon.

Today’s dinner turned out to be delicious, impromptu, and enjoyable, especially with the company of the latter two English teachers.

An Unexpected Encounter at the Karaoke Bar

They continued to a karaoke bar. I started mumbling something about falling asleep, when they convinced me to stop by only for a short while. Everything was a ten-minute walk from our hostel, anyway.

The bar, decorated with hammocks, was packed with foreigners. For countryside ALTs, this was less of a serious work night, and more of a chance to mingle and party. Alcohol, songs, late bedtime.

My group and I chatted for a short while. It was nice, but I felt a bit like the odd one out. I was about to excuse myself and finally go to bed, when a guy passing by stopped in front of me.

We locked eyes for a few seconds. They felt much longer.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said.

He seemed open to conversation. I found myself initiating it to prevent this moment from getting awkward. A glance had refused to remain a glance.

From here on, the two of us chatted in a corner. In his mid-twenties, originally from Melbourne, he’d moved to a tiny town in northern Kochi prefecture in August. Short hair, black frames, eyes like the sky; earrings and a stubble. Around my height.

He suggested getting drinks. I got a disgusting pineapple juice that tasted nothing like pineapple (alcohol wouldn’t assuage my level of fatigue) and noticed his tattered, frog-like coin bag. 

“That’s so obaachan,” I laughed.

“Obaachan?” he exclaimed, incredulous. “It’s not obaachan, it’s cute!”

“You’re like a grandma.”

“I’m kawaii,” he protested.

I almost blurted my agreement.

We returned to our corner. I maintained direct eye contact. His finger kept stabbing my arm and chest, which I found both inviting and confusing.

When the topic of partying came up, he said:

“I went out to the gay district in Osaka –”

“Higashi Umeda?” I asked.

“I don’t know where,” he said.

“That’s the only one.”

“Anyway, I went there, I’m no homo, it was with a gay friend, and it was a bit lame –”

I might’ve misheard him. The bar was loud with patrons and karaoke. But his words deepened my confusion.

“There’s nowhere like Tokyo,” I said.

We continued talking after this. It got late. He disappeared for a while; I stood by myslef, wondering whether to leave for my hostel. Then he asked me if I wanted to crash at his place.

His town was a forty-minute drive from Kochi, and only a fifteen-minute drive from Oboke. Closer to Iya Valley than to most of Kochi prefecture.

I said yes without hesitation. Even though a bed was waiting for me a ten-minute walk away, and I doubted his intentions.

At midnight, right before we left, the ALTs all broke into a song: Bohemian Rhapsody. It was a convivial moment, full of emotion and exhaustion. Both physical and social. How come I was again meeting potential friends a day after day?

Sam’s friend, another Australian ALT who lived in his apartment building, drove us. The car and its view turned almost pitch-black as we crossed a highway through valleys and mountains.

Sam dozed off. His head slowly dropped to my side.

He fell asleep on my shoulder. I had no problem with that. My head found its way to his.

Today had begun with a reservation at a hostel in Kochi. Lunch had almost changed this to a tiny, UNESCO village, at an old couple’s traditional house. Evening was supposed to be solitary and quiet, like yesterday afternoon. Night had led me back north to a small-town apartment.

My eyes drifted down as I mulled over this and noticed Sam’s hand. Lazily resting on the car seat, tumbling from the bumpy highway.

Then it tumbled in my direction.

It moved so slowly, that I wasn’t sure if the road was pushing it left. Until it intentionally touched my leg.

Inside a dark car, somewhere in nature on a dark highway, our heads rested on one another, while we locked fingers.

Today’s highlights: bumpy bus rides back to Iya Valley; the vine bridge; Hotel Kazurabashi’s onsen; lunch in Ochiai; katsuo no tataki; an ALT-filled karaoke bar; the car ride at night.

13 December 2023

• Hirome Market again
• Kochi castle (30m)
• 14:35-17:25 Kochi station to Kubokawa station local train, 17:35-20:15 transfer to Uwajima station

Kochi Castle

Sam’s apartment was large and tatami-matted. Spiders just as large were hanging on cobwebs in his building, even in winter. Summer in Shikoku was infamously worse, with cockroaches, venomous centipedes, typhoons, 90% humidity, 40 degrees heat, and rain.

Sam and his friend dropped me off in Kochi at 9:30 before their conference at 10:00. The seven girls at the hostel were just about to leave as well. They were all so nice, that I wanted to spend more time in this prefecture.

I hated saying goodbye. I detested it.

We only had like an hour and a half together, but once again, I found myself in another premature farewell.

He was someone I could see myself becoming friends with. Which was, what, the third time this week I’d felt this? It was almost like the universe was playing tricks on me. “Here, meet all these fantastic people at a dazzling rate, only to kiss tell them goodbye.”

I never expected for this sort of thing to happen over and over again. Travel was a double-edged sword: it led you to marvelous places, only to pull the rug from under your feet.

“Travel was a Double-Edged Sword” (16 April 2023)

In the weeks since leaving Hokkaido: the people from the language café in Tokyo; my hosts, the Greek girl, and couchsurfing couple in Kyoto; the ALTs and Native American guy in Osaka; Sky and Tiger in Shodoshima; the soccer player and Kochi ALTs in Shikoku. The fact that potential friends were everywhere buoyed me. The fact that I couldn’t see them again capsized me.

I cooked rice for breakfast and checked out at 11:30. The tiny yet famous Hariyama bridge. I returned to the market and savoured every bite of katsuo no tataki, until my eyes shut like in the climax of Ratatouile. Why did the least visited prefecture in Japan have its best meal?

Iya Valley, katsuo, the big Shikoku festivals, and the ALTs. I had all the reasons to return to Kochi in August.

Kochi castle, like Takamatsu’s Risturin garden, was its only attraction. One didn’t need an overnight stay to explore either “city”. There was one focal attraction, and one local specialty.

Towering 45 meters over Kochi, with a white exterior and a wide structure, the castle resembled a mini Himeji. The multi-building citadel was the only in Japan left in pristine condition. Like most castles, though, the interior was worth neither the time nor the money. I sat on a bench and enjoyed the tranquil grounds instead. Salary men in white dress shirts were eating lunch alone on benches as well.

Uwajima

At Kochi station, I bought the seasonal Seishun Juhachi ticket, which covered the cost of five days’ worth of time-consuming, long-distance, local JR trains. Today’s ride would take six hours: a single carriage slugging down the Kochi coast, followed by a Kappa-themed single carriage to Uwajima.

I checked in at 20:30. My hostel in Uwajima was tatami’d again. Huge kitchen, two huge living rooms, one with mock camping chairs and fireplace.

The owners were a young couple who had embarked on a “hitchhike wedding” in Hokkaido, going all over the island in a suit and a dress. What a fun concept.

Upon asking for recommendations, the guy created an itinerary for me, comprised of attractions unbeknownst to me from the internet. No sooner had he informed me of a nearby izakaya with several local specialties than I set off.

As I crossed dark and quiet streets, I heard an organ playing loudly from afar. Like Sunday at a cathedral.

At the izakaya, I ordered the three local specialties: jakoten (grilled fish paste steak – yum), taimeshi (cultured red sea bream sashimi, raw egg, and rice – YUM), and a mikan high ball. They threw in a complimentary blood orange cocktail as well.

Only later did I found out that fish bones were ground with flesh to create jakoten. Never again.

I returned tipsy to my hostel. Uwajima was the sleepiest of towns. The few guests were all Japanese guys. One of them greeted me, so I sat down next to him, not wanting to come across as rude. Thankfully, tonight broke the cycle, when I excused myself soon after and went to bed.

Today’s highlights: KATSUO NO TATAKI; dinner at the izakaya.

14 December 2023

• Uwajima castle (20m)
• Warei Park and shrine (10m)
• Taga shrine and museum (45m)
• 12:20-15:25 Uwajima station to Matsuyama station local train, 15:55-16:25 tram to Dogo Onsen station
• Dogo Onsen (45m)

Uwajima Castle

I woke earlier than I’d wanted and walked south for ten minutes to Uwajima castle while my rice was cooking. Following an unexpected ascent, I reached the castle, high on a hill. One of the original 12, it was small yet pretty, not unlike Hirosaki’s or Kaminoyama Onsen’s.

The view was nice as well. Mountains practically had a lock on Uwajima. A small port offered the sole refuge. In summer, this probably became a heat trap.

Taga Shrine

Breakfast at the hostel included fried shiitake mushrooms stuffed with squid and shrimp, half price from the enormous grocery store nearby. Then I checked out and walked north for ten minutes to Uwajima Park, where the largest stone torii in Japan led to Uwajima Shrine.

A swarm of kindergarteners leaving the shrine – small, short kids wearing the cutest little hats – greeted me good morning, waving and just being plain squishy.

Still, the most noteworthy detail about this shrine was the pile of yellow leaves arranged into hearts. So I walked for five minutes west to Taga Shrine, dedicated to fertility.

Both Taga and Tokyo’s Kanayama Shrine, which I’d visited in early May, featured phallic sculptures. While the latter was famous for its annual Penis Festival in early April, the former was known for a museum that stood on its premises.

Taga Museum

The kanji for the museum’s name included 凸凹, convex and conclave.

Three busy floors with floor-to-ceiling sexual art. Mostly heterosexual, with glimpses of same-sex. Not a square centimetre of this building’s interior was left innocent.

Sexual paintings, sculptures, photographs, posters, memorabilia, items, masks, chastity belts, from countries like China, India, Korea, Japan, Indonesia, Nepal, Papua New Guinea, Mexico, Peru, and Columbia.

It was the most deviant form of horror vacui I’d encountered. African statues depicting disembodied penises penetrating women; buddhas masturbating whilst meditating; women touching the phallic nose of a demon; Ancient Greek vases. Nihonga of orgies, manga of frogs with phalli, mandalas and statues of one-thousand-armed kannons having sex, plus caricatures of impossible, circus-like sexual positions. Who knew giant phalli could be brushed on a hanging scroll like calligraphy?

Even the ceilings were covered in drawings. Every inch of them. Pin unintended.

Freud’s idea of heaven.

It quickly forsook art in favour of voyeurism. There were photos of the founder posing next to phallic stones, cliffs, sculptures, and monuments from all over the world. Circa Showa 52-56, or late 1970s. A period when barely anyone was flying overseas. While he was on a worldwide mission to find dicks.

Right by the entrance to the museum hung photos of a sexual rock garden that seemed mighty familiar. A quick glance at the kanji for Korea made me realize… I’d visited this place in Jeju Island.

I wondered if such a similarity between us was a good thing.

A 20,000 yen fine forbade picture-taking. I frowned at this. If the founder had taken obsessive photos of this subject matter in order to share with the world, why shouldn’t visitors? This madness needed to be documented, both the actual imagery, and the owner’s relationship with it. I was the only visitor, and the ticket seller was glued to his phone. So I snuck dozens of photos.

At some point, I came across pictures of naked African girls and bloody close-ups of their private parts. Whether this was their first menstruation or mutilation, I didn’t want to decipher. A horrified glance was already too much.

By the third floor, the museum went from disturbingly entertaining to plain gross. This was extreme pornography. The final room provided the climax (pun unintended): a yard of sexual sculptures, huddled together in an orgy. Eerily, in the same style as on Jeju Island. I couldn’t even photograph the whole thing; it was that big. (Pun unintended.)

Matsuyama

Next on my Shikoku marathon: Matsuyama, the second biggest of Shikoku’s “cities”, which was still quite modest in its proportions. No skyscrapers or busy streets.

Unlike Takamatsu, Tokushima, and Kochi, Matsuyama featured more than one attraction. In addition to the castle, there was the famous Dogo Onsen.

So, two attractions.

I took the tram to my hostel near Dogo Onsen. My luggage wobbled all the way, until I noticed that one of its legs had come off. Where or when was a mystery. But a broken luggage was not on my wish-list.

An Israeli couple checked in at the same time as me. They’d boarded the last Israeli plane that had flown to Japan on October 31st.

Soon after depositing my new nuisance, I met my friend from Matsuyama. For six months, he’d been asking me to come visit. Today, I finally did.

Like in Osaka, we just sat on a bench and chatted for 2-3 hours. There wasn’t much for him to show me around on this rainy evening. The castle had closed. The L-shaped Dogo Arcade was two tiny shopping streets. We glimpsed Dogo Onsen, and made plans for tomorrow.

Dinner was a taimeshi and udon set, the local specialty. Different to the Uwajima variant. It was good, but paled in comparison. Literally – a cooked, white fish on rice, sans a raw egg or any sauce for that matter. Quite the plain dish. Uwajima was an unexpected delight.

Dogo Onsen

At night, I went to Dogo, the oldest onsen in Japan.

With a 3,000-year history, the current structure was rebuilt in 1894. The exterior was as traditional as one would expect from such a title. But it was undergoing renovations, and so an entry ticket granted one access only to the bath. I couldn’t explore the building that had famously provided inspiration for the Spirited Away bathhouse.

The men’s bath was located in a small basement. Unventilated and too hot for my liking. Ancient kanji was inscribed on the water fountains. Four ojiisans and I filled out the bath, until I quit, disappointed by this mundane soaking experience. My Matsuyama friend had never entered Dogo Onsen – and, in its current state, I saw no reason to.

Back in my hostel, all the guests were socializing. An Israeli couple, two Spanish guys who I’d recognized from my hostel in Takamatsu, a solo French girl, and a Tasmanian mother and daughter. All chatting around the kotatsu, well into the night.

I found myself engaging in conversations with each of them that were longer than my intention. It was nice, but I was falling asleep in front of them. Hostel gatherings had tired me out.

Enough meeting new people. I wanted to focus on the ones I’d already met.

I apologized and went to bed. The only guest who retired early. Interestingly enough, no one else was sleeping in my dorm.

Today’s highlights: breakfast at the hostel; Taga Shrine; the museum (well, at first); a Matsuyama reunion.

My picks for best places to eat Japanese dishes:

• Sushi: all of Hokkaido
• Ramen: Sapporo
• Udon: Takamatsu
• Soba: Matsumoto (bonus: soba tea, my favourite)
• Oden: Iya Valley
• Somen: Shodoshima
• Okonomiyaki: Hiroshima (my preference over the original from Osaka)
• Takoyaki: Osaka
• Amazake: Hakone
• Zunda: Sendai
• Baumkuchan: Otaru
• Matcha ice cream: Tokyo, Asakusa
• Katsuo: Kochi
• Taimeshi: Uwajima (over Matsuyama)
• Convenience store onigiri: Hokkaido
• Anything dairy: Hokkaido
• HOKKAIDO