World Traveller January 2020

JAPAN
crushing intersection at Shibuya and
the soaring Tokyo Skytree tower. It was
just as well, as that time was all I had
– after all, I wasn’t here for drizzle, but
for a taste of the real Japanese winter.
My journey northwest traversed a
dramatic shift in climate. The bullet
train rolled out of Tokyo Station 7.52am
precisely, under a grey haze, and sped
through boxy suburbs that melted into
open, flurry-brushed fields. Tokyo had
been heavy-sweater weather; when I
stepped out to change to a bus at Nagano
an hour and a half later, snowflakes
were dancing in the air. By the time I
hit Jigokudani in early afternoon, I had
ascended more than 800 metres and
the ground was covered in white drifts.
Comic-book icicles clung to stout old
homes by the park-entrance gate. It was
a half-hour trudge along that slippery,
alabaster path to the monkeys. It was
cold, but I felt a warm glow the moment
I saw those adorable, fluffy critters
dart excitedly into their onsen baths.
Onsen, if you didn’t know, is actually a
Japanese ritual for humans. Foreigners
can get nervous about the complex
‘
ON MY LAST
DAY, I SPENT THE
AFTERNOON IN
THE PARK. NOT
WANDERING, BUT
CROSS-COUNTRY
SKIING
’
etiquette – and the awkward nudity (hot
springs are entered strictly in the buff,
men and women segregated). But try an
alfresco dip in winter and you’ll be forever
converted: frosty air cooling your neck,
coddling, mineral-rich water soothing
your limbs – the chance to savour nature’s
stimulating contrasts at their best.
Stepping into the warm outdoor hot
spring at Hotakaso Sangetsu ryokan was
like getting a big hug. A bus had whisked
me here along icing-sugar roads from
Nagano to remote Hirayu Onsen town,
from which a silent taxi driver ferried me
up into the hills. Once in the still, steamcloaked
waters, with no other company
but a couple of whispering, wrinkly
old ladies, I knew the journey had been
worth it. Beyond my rock-studded pool
was a panorama of trees and a crinkle
of whitecapped mountain ranges: the
Japanese Alps. These folds of icy rock, a
seam 200km long and higher than 3,000
metres in places, hold many treasures.
When I finally emerged from the onsen,
pink as a peach, I pulled on my yukata
robe and slippers and made for my
tatami-mat-lined bedroom. Before long,
a knock at my door revealed a smiling
woman with a heaving tray. I ushered
her in, where she laid an elaborate
private banquet on a low table: sashimi
platters; pickles; marbled red beef for
a DIY hotpot; a flame-licked vessel of
slow-cooking mushroom rice. Settling
onto a cushion on the tatami mat floor,
I surveyed the feast before me, letting
her carefully explain each dish (in mime
– her English wasn’t great, my Japanese
worse). Then she bowed and shuffled
out the door, leaving me to devour my
gourmet meal in serenity (and, even
better, still in the comfort of my robe).
52 worldtravellermagazine.com