Tokyo is slowly coming out of another short but always delightful sakura season. The green leaves are already taking over the cherry trees, pushing their way through the blossoms, which have begun falling en masse, bringing the spectacle down to the sidewalks.

The sakura season, once again, brought many rainy days. It also felt a little less vivid, yet more chaotic this year. But I am grateful for the two full sunny days the Tokyo skies blessed us with, right at the tail end of the peak bloom, and on the weekend. What more could we ask for?

We are now in that sweet spot between seasons - air conditioners off, winter coats almost stored away, and the ever-present breeze switching between a wintry chill and that warm wash over your face.

The mountains are also warming up, with the snow getting a bit slushier each day, before the greenery and then the summer flowers take over.

The peak hiking season should already be underway in the southernmost regions, like Yakushima, with mainland Kyushu and its ever-gorgeous Kuju Mountains soon to follow. It is, however, still too early for the Japanese Alps, and of course, Hokkaido, where you can count on sakura well into May, and should not be surprised to encounter some snow on its mountains in July.

But in this land of mountains, known for their relatively modest height, there are also many trails that are not bound by the seasons and can be hiked year-round. And this month, I come bearing news from one of them: the dearly beloved Kumano Kodo, and more specifically, its Nakahechi Route, once the favored path of the imperial family for their pilgrimage from Kyoto to the sacred shrines of Kumano.1

The Nakahechi pilgrimage route, which I first hiked in 2018 with a guide and then again just a few weeks ago with two friends visiting from home, is the one destination in Japan that I receive the most emails about through the website or this newsletter (along with the Kerama Islands of Okinawa).

Kumano Kodo’s ever-growing popularity, supported by a well-developed tourism infrastructure, lies, I assume, in the experience it offers - combining a deeply cultural side with a nature-oriented one.

The region, comprising a network of ancient pilgrimage routes and the sacred sites they connect, has been recognized as a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage site since 2004, and is celebrated as a landscape shaped by the cooperation between nature and humans.

A visit to Kumano Kodo typically involves three to four days of hiking on its forest trails through the mountain passes, staying at small, family-run lodges along the way, and visiting the sacred sites comprised of shrines, temples, and the world’s largest torii gate. It is certainly one of the most fulfilling ways to experience Japan and observe how the country's spiritual backbone is deeply rooted in nature.

But while the Kumano Kodo is very much a spiritual experience, the planning part of it rarely feels like one. If anything, it can be a little spirit-breaking, with accommodation logistics, transport connections, and limited availability bringing you close to giving up - speaking from experience.

For that reason, this month’s letter will be a little different in tone and structure. Instead of the usual format, more like a real letter, heavier on impressions and lighter on logistics, it will, in structure, be a little closer to the travel diaries series available to monthly and annual subscribers, with more emphasis on planning and itinerary details, alongside the notes from the recent hike.

We will begin with what the Kumano Kodo is, then move on to the different route options (there are many), followed by notes and itinerary details from our recent hike, and finish with the FAQ section, which also addresses the increasingly tricky process of booking accommodation.

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What is Kumano Kodo?

Kumano Kodo – 熊野古道 – means the ancient roads of Kumano, referring to a network of pilgrimage routes across the southern part of the Kii Peninsula, mainly within Wakayama Prefecture, and extending into parts of Mie and Nara.

These routes connect the region’s sacred sites, most notably the Kumano Sanzan trio - Kumano Hongu Taisha, Kumano Nachi Taisha, and Kumano Hayatama Taisha - which are among the most important Shinto shrines in Japan, but also reflect strong Buddhist influence.

The pilgrimage routes that connect these shrines also lead to other major spiritual centers of the region, including Mount Koya, a more than 1,200-year-old monastic complex that has long served as the center of Shingon Buddhism in Japan, and the Yoshino-Omine mountains, associated with Shugendō, a tradition that blends Buddhism, Shinto, and mountain ascetic practices.

The Kumano region, with its sacred sites linked to different religious or spiritual traditions, and the surrounding nature, in which Japan's indigenous religion is rooted, is recognized as among the most distinctive displays of religious fusion - an aspect also strongly emphasized by UNESCO in its description of the region.

Kumano Kodo is, certainly, one of the places that clearly highlight what makes the hiking experience in Japan special.

While the country`s trails, purely from a scenic beauty perspective, may not feel as life-altering as those in places like New Zealand, Norway, or Switzerland, the cultural and spiritual elements that underpin the whole experience put it in its own league.

This unique dimension is more noticeable in trails like Kumano Kodo and Shikoku, which have long served as pilgrimage routes shaped by religious practices, or in Mount Fuji, one of Japan's three sacred mountains, parts of which are owned by a shrine. But it is also present, albeit in a less apparent way, on the country`s more ordinary trails, even those that do not benefit from centuries-long historical context.

Once you start to notice it, you see it everywhere: small shrines tucked into the forest, a Jizō statue - the protector of travelers and children - by the side of the path, or an unassuming torii gate that comes out of nowhere, just to lead the way to the sacred grounds that you did not know were there.

Then there is another cultural dimension - the very human, worldly one: a sense of camaraderie that you will notice on the country’s trails, one that reflects its understated yet sincerely felt hospitality just as much as a stay in an expensive ryokan, if not more.

I remember my first time hiking in Daisetsuzan, the vast and beautiful bear country, and overhearing the elderly Japanese couple decide to extend their hike until we came across other hikers, so that I would not have to continue alone. Or a hiker I had met only moments earlier, offering me half of their food, in case I had not packed any.

Even those quiet konnichiwas you often hear on the trails serve a moving purpose: to give each other the sense that you are not alone on the trail and that, should you need help, it is never far away.

So whenever I feel a bit disconnected from this country, a little disoriented about my purpose here, hiking trails are always a great way to remind me of its kindness and why I am here.

And I am, in many ways, grateful to the Kumano Kodo, my first introduction to hiking in Japan, for that initial sense of connection, possibly for igniting my move here, and for leading the way for many other experiences.

Routes of Kumano Kodo

That first visit to Kumano Kodo was in February 2018, more than a year before I moved to Japan. At that time, in the company of two wonderful guides (in different sections), I hiked parts of the most popular Nakahechi Route, following the more conventional route from Takijiri to Hongu/Yunomine Onsen, then spent two nights in Koyasan.

In February 2020, right before COVID shut down the world and very shortly after I moved to Japan, I returned to Kumano Kodo to explore sections of one of its less-visited trails - the Iseji Route, also known as the Eastern Route, which connects the Ise Shrine to Kumano Hongu Taisha.

And just last month, I was back in Kumano Kodo for the third time, this time to hike the Nakahechi Route in reverse order, starting at Nachi Falls and originally intending to finish at Takijiri (but ending it at Takahara).

While my experience with the Kumano Kodo is limited to the Nakahechi and Iseji Routes, the network includes two other main routes and a few lesser-known alternatives.2

For a bit more context, here is a brief overview of the four main routes, together with a map marking all the routes from the Kumano Kodo Tourism Office.

Nakahechi (Imperial Route) - 38 kilometers - 68 kilometers until Nachi Falls: the main inland pilgrimage path from Tanabe to Kumano Hongu Taisha, forested and well-preserved. This is by far the most popular route, thanks to the established tourism infrastructure, guided tours, and accommodation network. According to data from a few years ago, 80% of the travelers who visit Kumano Kodo hike the Nakahechi Route.

Iseji (Eastern Route) - 170 kilometers: the long approach from Ise Grand Shrine to Kumano Hayama Taisha, with varied terrain, (gorgeous) stone-paved paths like Magose Pass, and many coastal sections featuring small fishing villages. This is the best route to witness coastal rural village life in Japan and, in parts, sadly, to catch a glimpse of the country's semi-ghost towns, which are grappling with severe depopulation.

Kohechi (Mountain Route) - 70 kilometers: a demanding high-mountain traverse linking Mount Koya to Kumano Hongu Taisha, with steep passes and remote ridges.

Ohechi (Coastal Route) - 120 kilometers: a seaside route along the Kii Peninsula from Tanabe to Kumano Nachi Taisha, with ocean views but not as many well-maintained sections as in other routes.

Hiking Nakahechi: Nachi Falls to Takijiri

For our Nakahechi hike, due to accommodation constraints and the fact that I could take only one day off work to extend the long weekend, we had just four days.

Our original plan was to start at Nachi Falls and cover as much ground as possible toward Takijiri. We would stay in Koguchi for two nights to tackle the Ogumotori-goe and Kogumotori-goe sections, and then move on to Kiri no Sato in Takahara, one of the loveliest lodges on the route, for our final night, after completing the Hongu Taisha to Hosshinmon-oji section.

While the more common way to hike the Nakahechi Route is to start at Takijiri and finish either at Kumano Hongu Taisha, or at Nachi Falls, the difficulty of securing accommodation for three people (though we were also okay to split up to different lodges if needed), required us to reverse the route, starting at Nachi Falls, and aiming to finish at Takijiri.

I certainly get the appeal of finishing the hike at Nachi Falls. It is an iconic site featuring Japan`s highest single-drop waterfall, right next to one of the three sacred shrines of Kumano - Nachi Taisha. The scenery, depending on the waterfall’s strength that day, serves as a visual crescendo, a perfect way to mark the end of the journey.

Walking the route in reverse, however, also had its advantages. First and foremost, I loved the idea of staying at Kiri no Sato Lodge in Takahara on the last night of the hike, rather than on the first, with many kilometers left to cover and long before the celebratory mood kicks in. It is a lodge to relax in and take your time at, rather than merely a place to sleep before moving on.

This time, it felt especially nice to arrive in Takahara early in the afternoon, settle into our comfortable rooms, enjoy the lovely bath, the private decks overlooking the mountain range, and, of course, the excellent food prepared and served by the lovely family running the entire operation.

Starting at Nachi also reduced the total elevation gain for the notoriously difficult Ogumotori-goe section we covered on the first day, bringing it down by about 330 meters, to around 930 meters. The stretch connecting Nachi Falls to Koguchi, once known as the body-breaking route, is still considered the most difficult part of the Nakahechi Route.

Looking back, if I revisit the Nakahechi, I would - accommodation permitting - hike it in this reverse order again.

Below is how we planned the hike, and how it unfolded in practice.

Day 0: Tokyo to Shingu

To start as early as possible on the first day of the hike, the longest of the whole trip, we left Tokyo a little after 5 p.m. We first took the Shinkansen to Nagoya, then switched to the Nanki limited express for the 3.5-hour ride to Shingu, our destination for the night.

We booked the private room on the top floor of Ajito Hostel, which I can highly recommend should you end up in Shingu. They offer automatic check-in, allowing for late-night arrival, which can otherwise be difficult to arrange in rural Japan.

Day 1: Hiking the Ogumotori-goe - the trail of the “big clouds” connecting Nachi Falls to Koguchi (14 kilometers)

On our first real trail day, we took the earliest bus to Nachi Falls, arriving at the foot of Daimon Zaka at around 8 a.m.

This first section, a 600-meter-long cobblestone, moss-covered staircase guarded by centuries-old cedar trees, is one of the scenic highlights of the trail and an attraction in its own right, drawing hundreds of visitors every day.

The stone stairs immediately convey a sense of “ancientness” and perfectly set the mood and visual tone for the experience ahead for those about to wander deeper into Kumano Kodo.

Knowing that we would likely have at least 6-7 hours of hiking ahead of us, and that the sunset would be a little before 6 p.m. in late March, we spent minimal time at the waterfall area, which is about a 30-minute walk from Daimon Zaka, and started the hike at around 9.30 a.m.

Ogumotori-goe, which literally means “big clouds gathering slope”, true to the centuries-old rumors, turned out to be the most decisively steep section of all the trails I hiked in Kumano Kodo, including another notoriously difficult one, Yakiyama Pass along the Iseji Route.

But if you are familiar with Japan’s hiking trails, you will be mentally ready for the trail’s offerings, including the steep climb thrown your way right out of the gate. You will also not be surprised how depressingly short the flat sections are before you need to make another steep ascent or descent. That is, unfortunately, the story of hiking in Japan, the trails of which are often keen on not giving you any meaningful break.

But, do not be discouraged, as the trail of “big clouds,” despite its challenges, is also known as the most beautiful section of the entire Kumano Kodo network.

This is the one section of Nakahechi where you get the feeling of a deep-forest hike, deliciously spooky in certain light. As the sun starts gently going down, the atmosphere starts feeling a little bit eerie, not the kind that makes you feel nervous, but helps you better connect to the thousand-year-old history of the forest.

There are several “landmarks” on the trail, including the remains of the old tea houses and lodges once used by the pilgrims, as well as viewpoints. Funami-toge Pass, with views of the ocean and the seaside village of Katsuura, is the most popular and serves as an ideal lunch stop for those starting the hike at Nachi Falls, including us.

Dogiri-zaka, the most infamous or beloved section of the hike, depending on which side you start from and otherwise known as the “body-breaking slope,” involves 800 meters of elevation gain over 5 kilometers (if you begin from the Koguchi side). It is one of those segments where mossy paths and a river running alongside try their best to lure you with remarkable beauty, to distract you from the challenge they present.

Admittedly, coming from the Nachi Falls side, we did not have to face the crueler side of this climb, which was a descent in our case. But judging from the faces of the hikers coming up from the Koguchi side, beauty may not have been the answer to all the world’s troubles. They looked as though they would wholeheartedly agree with the 12th-century poet Fujiwara no Teika, who described (or not described) the trail as follows: “This route is very tough and difficult; it is impossible to precisely describe how tough it is.”

We ended the first day’s hike, which took us around 7 hours, at the Koguchi trailhead, where our host for the next two nights kindly picked us up (there is also a public bus). There is a general store a few minutes off the trail exit, which is your only option for some food and drinks in the area.

We stayed at Satsuki Apartments, which offer clean, basic, standard Japanese-style two-bedroom apartments with a kitchenette, a dining table, and a bathroom. A simple breakfast, including bread, cheese, salami, coffee, and cereal, is also provided and stored in your fridge daily.

In addition to the unatmospheric but highly functional apartment, one other thing that made our stay in Koguchi worthwhile was the local onsen, which was just a few minutes’ walk from our accommodation. It was one of those very local but extremely well-managed community onsen, with spacious indoor and outdoor bathing areas. For 500 Yen per visit, it was wonderful to know that we could wash off the day’s hike in such a cozy environment.

Day 2: Kogumotori-goe: the trail of small clouds connecting Koguchi to Ukegawa (13 kilometers)

Kogumotori-goe, which we covered on the second day and which connects Koguchi to Ukegawa, was the most pleasant surprise of the hike.

I was already aware of Ogumotori-goe`s scenic fame, and previously hiked the third day’s segment - the short trek between Hongu Taisha and Hosshinmon-oji. As for Kogumotori-goe, however, I had only a vague assumption that it would be a shorter, slightly easier version of Ogumotori-goe, based loosely on its name - “small cloud gathering pass,” as opposed to Ogumotori’s “big cloud gathering” version.

The trail, fortunately, offered a significantly different experience, packing in a wide variety of landscapes in its relatively short 3- to 4-hour duration.

Starting with a striking cobblestone section, the path gently climbs towards a ridge, then alternates between open, fern-dense sections and deep-forest walks, before reaching Hyakken-gura, the viewpoint overlooking the expansive mountain ranges of Kumano. This is the point from which many of the iconic Kumano Kodo shots are taken by those who make the effort to hike up to it at around sunset.

During our hike, which happened to be on a Saturday, we ran into many hikers, and everyone seemed in a good mood, with the ratio of smiling faces to those questioning the very meaning of life far exceeding what we encountered on the Ogumotori-goe.

There was, of course, a valid reason. In terms of difficulty, Kogumotori-goe is significantly gentler than its big brother, as there are long stretches of entirely flat sections, with the occasional climbs that are nowhere near as steep to be described as a “body-breaker”.

It took us somewhere between 3 and 4 hours to cover the section before we landed in Ukegawa, a very small town with a sparsely stocked convenience store, a tiny general store also stocking some fresh vegetables, and a surprisingly high number of bus stops.

While we had the option to extend the walk to Hongu Taisha by following a main road for about 50 minutes, we decided to take the bus.

The afternoon was spent in Hongu, visiting the shrine, taking a walk towards the world’s largest torii gate, Oyunohara Otorii, which we would be looking down on from above the next day, and stopping by the Kumano Kodo Information Center, famously built with locally sourced wood and featuring a number of video and photographic exhibits, before taking the bus back to Koguchi.

Day 3: Hongu Taisha Shrine to Hosshinmon-oji (7.5 kilometers)

Our original plan for the third day was to cover two short sections: first, the Dainichi-goe, connecting Yunomine Onsen town to Oyunohara in 1-2 hours; and then the section connecting Oyunohara, via Hongu Taisha, to Hosshinmon-oji in 2-3 hours.

However, given the infrequency of bus service to Takahara, our destination for the night, we decided to allow ourselves plenty of time to catch the noon bus and avoid a late arrival. So we skipped Dainichi and did only the Hongu Taisha to Hosshinmon-oji section.

This 7.5-kilometer hike of very gentle climbs - possibly the gentlest trail of the entire route- is one of those sections where Japan throws hikers a rare bit of mercy, giving access to magnificent scenery without demanding much physical effort in return.

There is only one steep climb, but a very short one, that makes a detour to the viewpoint halfway between Hongu Taisha and Sangen-jaya, offering the view of the giant Oyunohara Otorii against the silhouette of the Kumano mountain range.

The majority of the trail runs through forests, with occasional dips into tiny settlements. We also came across a small coffee house, serving snacks and coffee made with onsen water.

It took us around two hours to reach Hosshinmon-oji, which is one of the major “side” shrines along the Nakahechi Route.

Oji are the subsidiary shrines of the three main shrines of Kumano, the Kumano Sanzan, that line the route to protect the pilgrims. Hosshinmon-oji - 発心門王子 - meaning the gate of spiritual awakening, marks the outermost entrance to Kumano Kodo’s sacred grounds.

Given the significance of this unassuming but beautifully colored oji, the section of the trail connecting Hongu Taisha to Hosshinmon-oji is also very popular with day hikers. So, if you visit the area and do not wish to commit to a full-day hike, this short but memorable section is a great way to get a quick sense of the Kumano Kodo experience.

We ended the third day at Kiri No Sato Lodge in Takahara, after a 1.5-hour bus ride from Hosshinmon-oji.

The afternoon and evening were spent enjoying the view, the relaxing music, the bath, and the wonderful food, while mingling with another group of hikers who were fortunate to stay at the lodge for two nights.

Day 4: Takahara to Chikatsuyu (aborted), and back to Osaka/Tokyo

Our plan for the final day of our hike before traveling to Osaka, where my friends would stay the night, while I would take the Shinkansen back to Tokyo, was to walk the section between Takahara and Chikatsuyu.

After a roughly four-hour hike, we would take the bus to Tanabe on the western coast of Wakayama, then the Kuroshio Express Train to Osaka. Following one final meal together, we would part ways until my friends returned to Tokyo for their last leg of the trip two weeks later.

Well, we managed to stick to our original plan for a good portion of it, including the mandatory trip to Osaka via Tanabe, and one last meal before goodbye, with one minor exception: the hike itself.

Due to an unrelated and unforeseen development in the morning (and no, we did not get into a fight), we decided to forgo the day`s walk and travel to Osaka soon after breakfast.

So, the end of our hike was rather unceremonious, but we were glad to have a night of relaxation, and even a bit of celebration, evidenced by the number of empty wine bottles at the end of the meal, at Kiri no Sato to mark the end of the trip, not knowing that we would have to leave the trail earlier than intended the following day.

Throughout the three days we were on the trail, we had the benefit of sunny skies, allowing us many moments of komorebi. The only thing I regret is not being able to stay in Yunomine for one night, instead of a second night in Koguchi.

Yunomine would not only make perfect sense logistically (we would not have to skip the Dainichi-goe), but it is also a lovely town to stay in, adding a bit of an additional rural touch to the whole experience. My friends would also get to experience Japan's reportedly oldest onsen, Tsuboyu, and its cobalt-blue water, which I previously visited twice.

Kumano Kodo - Quick FAQ

While the FAQ below is by no means comprehensive, it brings together some of the common and a few anticipated questions about hiking the Kumano Kodo. For non-destination-specific planning sources, you can refer to the Japan Trip Planning Index and the Frequently Asked Questions section on my website.

#1 How to book the Kumano Kodo hike?

There is no permit requirement for the Kumano Kodo, or a specific booking process for the hike. So you can basically get to the trailhead and start walking.

However, since it is a multi-day trail, with free camping along the route not being allowed (more on this below), and with no designated hikers huts like you can find in New Zealand, you will need to book accommodation at several different places, ideally at different towns/locations following the trajectory of your hike, or commit to one place, and use public or private transportation to get back from and back to where you left off the trail each day. And that is the increasingly challenging part, addressed below.

#2 Is there a centralized accommodation/service booking website?

The question is, I suppose, a bit too specific for the answer to be “no”, so yes, there is one.

The community-run Kumano Travel website is the one-stop shop where you can technically arrange all services related to your hike, including accommodation, guide arrangements, luggage forwarding, guidebook purchases, taxis, etc.

The site was already in operation when I first hiked Nakahechi in 2018. At that time, I could arrange everything fairly swiftly through the site. But this time, no such luck.

While we did not use luggage forwarding or arrange a taxi, I still tried to use the site to book accommodation. However, after a few tries, I quickly gave up. There is no instant booking system. You need to send a request to each accommodation based on the availability calendar, and then wait to hear back from them. In my case, despite the calendar showing availability, I received my rejections within a few days of sending the request. I hear the reply period may take even longer, leaving you in limbo, unable to finalize the itinerary.

There is also a limited time window during which you can submit booking requests through the website - daily 7:00–9:30 and 19:00–22:00 (Japan Standard Time), which can also be a little challenging.

So how did we book the accommodation?

#3 How to book accommodation for Kumano Kodo?

Now, that is the discouraging part. While Kumano Kodo, especially Nakahechi, is, along with Shimanami Kaido Cycling Route, one of the most organized outdoor/culture tourism experiences Japan has to offer, supported by a resourceful tourism office behind, I found the accommodation booking experience for this recent Nakahechi outing one of the most challenging booking experiences I have had in Japan.

Admittedly, we did the hike on a long weekend in late March, one of Japan's peak travel seasons, driving up the domestic demand alongside the international one, but I hear the situation isn’t much different during the shoulder months.

While the number of accommodations along the route has increased over the years, demand is so high that it is usually advisable to book accommodation months in advance. Also, there is the issue of bulk room bookings by walking-focused tourism companies based in Japan, leaving independent travelers with very limited options.

So, in the end, I simply used a combination of conventional methods: Booking.com, Rakuten Travel Japan, Jalan, direct emails, and phone calls to the accommodation providers. Fortunately, many of the lodges are not exclusively listed on Kumano Travel's website and can also be booked independently through other websites. I, however, had to modify our itinerary significantly and try to make it work not the way we would prefer, but around what we could find.

Honestly, if I did not have two friends traveling all the way from Turkey for the hike, I would probably give up and choose another trail.

#4 Is camping allowed in Kumano Kodo?

Yes, and no. Free camping along the trails is strictly prohibited. However, there are several designated camping grounds in the towns along the Nakahechi Route, including one in Chikatsuyu, Kawayu Onsen, Watase Onsen, and Koguchi.

Tanabe/Takijiri and Nachi Falls, the starting points of the hikes, have no designated campgrounds.

For more information about camping, you can refer to the camping section of the Kumano Travel website.

#5 Which Kumano Kodo route to choose

My Kumano Kodo experience is limited to the Nakahechi and Ise-ji Routes. And among the two, my suggestion - quoting from February`s Hiking Japan letter, would be as follows:

“Nakahechi offers a more digestible, compact pilgrimage experience, while Iseji feels a little more secluded and offers greater landscape diversity, with more local life woven into it.

For first-time visitors, Nakahechi is probably the better fit. Iseji, on the other hand, may be better enjoyed on subsequent visits, when a bit more familiarity with Japan may help you to appreciate the deeply rural and sometimes ghostly scenery in a more generous context.”

#6 Is there a luggage forwarding service?

Yes. This is the one aspect that the Kumano Travel website makes very easy to arrange.

Though a little more expensive than the nationwide used TA-Q-BIN luggage forwarding services, Kumano Kodo has its own network of dedicated transportation and luggage forwarding service providers. Pricing is quoted per piece of luggage and starts at around 4,000 Yen. You can check out the options here: Kumano Kodo Luggage Forwarding.

#7 Should I add Koyasan to my itinerary?

If you hike the Kohechi Route, you will inevitably end up in Koyasan, the mountaintop temple village of Mount Koya, long considered one of the most important centers of Buddhism in the country, home to over a hundred temples and the atmospheric Okunoin cemetery, where the founder of Shingon Buddhism, Kukai, is said to rest.

It is also not uncommon for those who hike the other routes to take a bus to Koyasan at the end of the hike and wrap up the whole experience with a temple stay. And if you had asked me a few years ago whether this addition to the itinerary would be worth the trouble, I would have said definitely yes, when temple accommodation was still relatively reasonably priced, offering a relatively affordable and wonderful end to an already spiritually charged experience.

This time around, we also considered ending our hike with a one-night stay in Koyasan, but over the years, the cost of a temple stay there has become so discouragingly expensive. I remember paying around USD 150–200 a night back in 2018 at Joki-in Temple, whereas now we could not get any quote lower than USD 700–800. So it remained just an idea rather than becoming a reality.

If cost is not an issue, I would say the experience, joining the monks for 5 a.m. morning prayers, enjoying shōjin ryōri (Buddhist cuisine) prepared with seasonal ingredients and served in your room, and having easy access to dozens of significant landmarks just outside the temple, would make for a memorable addition to the whole journey. But whether it is worth nearly a thousand dollars, I’m not so sure.

While most temples are also listed on other common booking sites, this site lists them all together: the Koyasan Temple Lodging Association.

#8 Any other trip planning sources you can recommend?

Many. I would highly recommend the Kumano Kodo Official Guide, which you can order through the Kumano Travel website (international shipping available). The guide offers a great overview of the trails, with a focus on Nakahechi, and the historical context for a more informed hike. The whole package comes with a map and other helpful brochures. It is, however, a relatively heavy book, so it is more useful for pre-trip research and preparation than as an on-trail guide.

The Kumano Travel website also offers helpful PDF maps, along with elevation info and average trail times: Kumano Kodo Nakahechi Elevation Chart.

There are also many wonderful blogs and articles online that offer a comprehensive overview of the Nakahechi and Iseji Routes. For the latter, Craig Mod`s Ise-ji Walk With Me is a very useful source, while AFAR's Kumano Kodo - Nakahechi story is one great source of inspiration. For other routes, David of Random Wire offers a detailed diary of the Kohechi Route.

If you would like to get a visual sense of the Nakahechi trail, Chris and Danya`s Nakahechi vlog is a wonderful option (their other hiking videos are also very helpful and exceptionally soothing. I immensely benefited from their channel when planning my hiking trip to New Zealand a few years ago.)

#9 Is a guide necessary to hike the Kumano Kodo?

The short answer is no. The Nakahechi Route of the Kumano Kodo is one of the best-marked routes I hiked in Japan. The signposts are abundant along the entire route, and you can also rely on Japan hiking map apps like YAMAP for route finding should you need one.

However, when I first hiked the trail in 2018, I had the wonderful company of two different guides at different sections. Their knowledge of the region, companionship, and the historical and local context they provided were a wonderful addition to the trip. I am still in touch with them and consulted them while planning this recent hike.

Should you prefer to hike in the company of a local guide, here is the booking page: Kumano Kodo Local Guides.

So, this wraps up this month’s letter, or the blog post, which feels like the more accurate description this time around.

As always, thank you for being here and for your interest in this newsletter. I will be back in the usual letter format with the May edition, which will likely focus on Amakusa, the islands of prayer, the Shimabara Peninsula just to the north, and the ever-lovely Nagasaki.

Until then,
Burcu

P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers.

Shibu Onsen and the Snow Monkeys of Nagano (February 2026)

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

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Just a few days ago, snow was falling in Tokyo, possibly making the experts at the Japan Meteorological Agency rush back to their desks to update the sakura forecast. Only last week, the latest predictions had pointed to March 18th as the start of the season in Tokyo, earlier than usual. But after weeks of uninterrupted sunshine, mid-March has brought not only the expected moody, cloudy skies but also low single-digit temperatures, which may push the cherry blossoms well into April, as it did last year.1

The sakura season and the rush it brings will soon be followed by Golden Week in early May, marking the country’s busiest period for domestic travel.

Things will then slow down a little, starting in June with the arrival of the rainy season, which will be despised at first but then dearly missed once the real summer begins, brutal in the cities but a little more tolerable up in the mountains.

But despite all this seasonal talk, and after last month’s letter, Hiking Japan: From Okinawa to Hokkaido, which covered some scenically rewarding trails across the country before the hiking season begins in late spring, this month’s letter turns to a topic, an activity, an experience, perhaps even the very meaning of life itself (certainly for the Japanese), that is largely independent of the calendar, the seasons, and even the weather: hot springs, in other words, onsen experiences in Japan.

We will begin with a bit of background on Japan`s favorite national activity and then move on to some of my favorite onsen experiences across the country, from wild hot springs and rustic baths to onsen villages and resort-style retreats.

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One of the most thrilling aspects of living in Japan has, somewhat ironically, been the mundanity of everyday life and the ritual-driven rhythm that brings a great deal of calm with it. And when it comes to everyday rituals in Japan, few things are more defining than its onsen and sento culture, the latter of which was recently in the spotlight with its striking appearance in Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days.

Before we go any further, it may help to briefly clarify the distinction between the two. Sento refers to public bathhouses served by heated tap water, and it is written using the kanji for “coin” (銭) and “hot water” (湯). These neighborhood baths can be found in abundance across the country, including many here in Tokyo. What separates them from the onsen is not only the source of the water used but also the distinct aesthetic, with tiled bathing halls and large painted murals, most famously of Mount Fuji, behind the baths.

Onsen, the topic of this month’s letter, literally means “hot spring” in Japanese (it uses the kanji for “hot/warm” (温) and “spring/water source” (泉)) and refers to naturally heated spring water that meets criteria set by the country’s Hot Springs Act.2 While some may have aesthetics similar to a sento with painted tiles, the visual atmosphere usually relies more on the surrounding nature than on the interior design. The term onsen is used rather generously in travel writing and may refer to the hot spring itself, a bathing facility, an entire village, or even a simple natural pool filled with hot spring water.

It is difficult to overstate the role of onsen in Japanese culture. Strongly linked to many of its defining aspects, such as omotenashi, the unique form of Japanese hospitality, and ideas of purification rooted in Shinto and Buddhism, references to onsen can be found everywhere in the country, including in literature and even anime, such as Spirited Away, which takes place in a haunted old bathhouse.

Perhaps the most captivating, and for many visitors, a little intimidating element of the onsen experience is the notion of “naked communication” - hadaka no tsukiai - that these facilities gently reinforce.

You might have heard that a visit to a Japanese onsen requires one to strip off all clothes (most are gender-segregated, with a few exceptions, more on that below). It can feel a little daunting at first, but not too hard to get used to (speaking from personal experience as a rather shy person).

In addition to hygienic considerations, the concept of naked communication is based on the idea of leaving all signs of social status at the door and sharing the space on equal footing, often leading to more open and meaningful conversations. And I have rarely felt as welcome in this country as during the quiet early morning hours in a rural onsen, where elderly ladies often show nothing but adorable enthusiasm at seeing a foreigner enjoying a part of their culture, even if that foreigner sometimes looks as though she is sitting in fire rather than in hot water3.

Celebrating public baths as communal bonding spaces is, in fact, not entirely unfamiliar to someone from my culture, which has its own hamam - better known globally as the Turkish bath tradition. While the practice differs in the details4 (you are expected to wear a peshtemal in a Turkish bath, the marble interiors are quite magnificent, and a vigorous body scrub is part of the ritual, highly recommended), hamams have also long served as communal spaces of relaxation and socialization, dating back to Byzantine and later Ottoman times, and are now going through quite a revival period with some astonishing renovation work. Yet in my country, the experience is often approached more like a treat, something akin to an occasional day at the spa, rather than a weekly, and for some even daily habit, as it is in Japan.

After all this talk of communal nakedness, in the service of barrierless communication, let’s turn to some specific destinations across the country where you can experience the ritual for yourself.

Situated in one of the most volcanically active zones on earth and home to 111 active volcanoes, Japan’s onsen menu is extensive. With around 27,000 hot spring sources across the country, serving about 3,000 onsen areas, these healing baths, in addition to daily use, also remain one of the leading drivers of domestic tourism.

“Onsen-hopping” trips, covering several hot springs in a single trip, are a beloved concept that has also been lovingly adopted by many of the country’s foreign residents.

Kyushu Island, the “hottest” island in this land of fire, is home to roughly 35% of Japan’s hot springs. But with more than 27,000 sources nationwide, you are rarely far from one wherever you are in Japan, and below are some of my favorites, grouped by category: wild onsen, rustic baths, onsen villages, and resort-style retreats.

Wild wild onsen

Wild onsen - known as notenburo in Japanese - are natural, undeveloped hot springs that you can find in nature areas like riverbeds, mountains, and even oceansides. With minimal infrastructure around those and certainly not a resort-type development, you will often need to hike to reach one.

Among the wild onsen experiences I had in Japan, one of the most visually striking ones was Hirauchi Onsen in Yakushima. Sitting right inside the ocean on the southern coast of the island, the hot water in Hirauchi flows up from under the sea into natural rock pools. Accessible only twice a day, during low tide, the atmosphere becomes particularly gorgeous around sunset. Stargazing at night, listening to the ocean, while the hot water warms your body, is another option that will likely turn you into an onsen maniac immediately.

Moving far up north to Hokkaido and then climbing towards its highest mountain, another wild onsen sits in the middle of one of the most mesmerizing high-altitude valleys in Japan - Susoaidaira Valley in Daisetsuzan National Park.

Requiring substantially more effort to reach than Hirauchi, Nakadake Onsen is a spot accessible only to hikers, which certainly adds to its allure. While you may hesitate to touch the water at first, let alone bathe in it, given its proximity to the infamously poisonous Yudoku Onsen just ten minutes away in the Ohachidaira Caldera, rest assured that the water is perfectly safe. This very small but certainly memorable onsen, about as wild as it gets, serves as a perfect place to rest your legs in the middle of a long day of hiking. A full-body soak is also encouraged, as many hikers seemed happy to do so.

While this last one may not qualify as a “wild onsen” in the strict sense of the term, it is another hiker's only one, and among my favorites for the atmosphere it offers. The small onsen bath of Hokkein Sanso, an all-wooden mountain lodge up in the Kuju Mountains in Kyushu, may not look too special at first, but it certainly feels that way after a day of hiking, offering you the comfort of a warm bath before a good night’s sleep, with another day of hiking to follow.

Onsen villages

Then there are “onsen villages” - the towns blessed with generous hot spring sources, leading to the formation of a cluster of facilities and businesses around them. The term “onsen resort” is also often used to describe these hot-spring-inn dense areas.

In some of these towns, facilities draw their water from the same hot spring source, while in others, as they very much love to tell you, there are multiple sources, giving you the chance to have a different “bathing” experience at each facility. One may offer milky blue waters; another, an iron-rich source; some may come with very clear, lake-like waters, whereas others may have muddy waters on their menu (I always feel like these ones should offer the best health value, given all the trouble).

To be honest, I am always a bit wary of onsen villages, as they can sometimes be a little too developed, dominated by concrete buildings and prioritizing functionality over atmosphere. Some onsen resorts can also feel too old, unfortunately, without the retro charm attached to it, more like a place that felt possibly very modern when first built, but without the sense of timeless design, condemning it to feel outdated very quickly. In those towns, the promise is more about the quality of the onsen water, rather than the atmosphere.

But there are also some that offer an almost perfect visual coherence, and therefore truly feel like they're out of an Edo-period novel, without even a touch of tackiness.

In this category, among the places I've visited so far, Nyuto Onsen village in Akita Prefecture is my favorite. Tucked away in the tree-dense (and bear-filled) mountains of Tohoku, each of the seven facilities enjoys its unique location and, yes, draws its water from a different source. A shuttle bus travels all day between the inns, making it easy to experience multiple baths in a day.

The range of facilities in Nyuto is also quite interesting, including very old, rustic ones - like Tsurunoyu; ones that look anything but appealing from the outside while hiding one of the most picturesque onsen baths in all of Japan inside - like Ganiba, or even more eclectic ones, like Okama converted from an old school building.

Kurokawa Village, on Kyushu Island, is another favorite. While it is a little less well-known than the famous Yufuin, sitting a few hours away by car, Kurokawa is, in my view, the quieter and much more charming one in a rather elegant way. Home to more than twenty onsen ryokan spread across a mountainous area, Kurokawa, with its large outdoor baths, perfectly fits the description of a “relaxing weekend getaway surrounded by nature”, and it is a place I would visit far more often if it were closer to Tokyo.

Another onsen village I visited recently and wrote about in February for the Travel Diaries series is Shibu Onsen in Nagano, known for its nine baths and proximity to the famous snow monkeys, who are also fond of hot springs.

Similar to Nyuto and Kurokawa, Shibu, if you do not let the sight of the first set of buildings that welcome you discourage you (which you never have to see again once you enter the village), is one of the onsen towns where there is a strong aesthetic consistency dominating its streets, allowing you, in that cliché-for-a-reason way, to feel pleasantly removed from the modern world.

The interiors of the individual baths in Shibu can feel a little less exciting than their facades, but the fact that they are accessible only to locals and overnight guests with a special key makes the experience still special.

While Kurokawa and Nyuto stand out as nature retreats, Shibu offers small-town charm, with narrow cobblestone streets and cozy cafés and restaurants scattered throughout.

Historical onsen ryokan

Another type of onsen experience, my favorite kind, is the independent onsen facilities that are not part of an onsen village. These inns are often found in secluded locations and have a historical aura, both in their background and in the nature of their facilities.

But one quick note before we get into the specific facilities: you will often read descriptions rooting the establishment of these types of onsen ryokan to centuries ago - like “established in the 17th century.” But this rather catchy date reference is often used to indicate the discovery of the hot spring source in that area rather than the establishment date of the specific inn. So you will, in most cases, not be staying in a centuries-old building, though the experience can sometimes feel like you are.

Tohoku is one region where you can count on finding some of the best independent onsen experiences across the country. Aomori alone, the region's northernmost prefecture, hosts several of the country's most beloved historical facilities. And this year, I had a chance to experience three of them in a single trip when I went on an onsen-hopping trip to Tohoku.

These included the undeservedly (exaggerating, of course) scandalous Sukayu Onsen - with its large mixed-gender pool - konyoku in Japanese - Yachi Onsen, which felt like staying in a welcoming family home, along with Aoni Onsen - frequently featured in this newsletter, before heading down to Akita, for a one-night stay in Nyuto Onsen. You can read more about each one of these facilities in this post: Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Different Onsen.

Modern facilities

In addition to nature-dominated, simple yet atmospheric onsen experiences at understated facilities, there are also plenty of more comfortable, modern options across Japan.5

KAI is the onsen sub-brand of Hoshino Resort Group, which does a fairly good job offering upscale facilities, with a fairly convincing local touch. I had stayed in several of their resorts as part of writing & photography assignments, and KAI Kirishima, located in the lovely Kagoshima Prefecture and overlooking the mighty Sakurajima, an active volcano sitting in the ocean, was among my favorites. I was put up in a room with its own onsen balcony, making me wish I could stay for an extra night after the assignment.

Another comfortable yet unique facility I got to stay in was Gosoku no Kutsu on Amakusa Island in Kyushu, where each one of the fifteen villas has its own large rotenburo (outdoor bath). Dinner and breakfast are served in private rooms detached from the villas. The hosts are very friendly, and the island is also a very worthy destination, with its captivating history as the site of one of the largest public rebellions in Japan, and a refuge for the Hidden Christians of Japan, as well as its geological features and outdoor beauty.

Tohoku, in addition to its many rustic inns, also has many upscale, modern ryokan or resort-type facilities. Among the ones I stayed in, Yukemuri no Yado Izumi Onsen in Akita, a little hard to get to but well worth the trip, is the one that I remember most fondly. It had stylish, very comfortable rooms, even more atmospheric dining areas, and wooden onsen baths overlooking the forest, as well as a private one in each room.

So, this wraps up this month’s letter, hopefully offering a few ideas if you are looking to add an onsen experience to your travels in Japan. There will be one more post in late March in the Travel Diaries series about the Nakahechi Route of the Kumano Kodo, which I will re-hike with two friends next week.

As always, thank you for being here.

Until next time,

Burcu

P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.

Shibu Onsen and the Snow Monkeys of Nagano (February 2026)

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

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According to Japan’s traditional micro-season calendar, which divides the year into 24 solar terms and then into 72 micro-seasons, each marked by adorably descriptive natural events such as “fish emerging from the ice,” spring has already begun.

Yet last Sunday, just as “the east wind was melting the ice” and “bush warblers were about to start singing in the mountains,” with plum blossoms already out across the city, Tokyo seemed to defy these seasonal signs, crowning this much colder-than-usual winter with a snowstorm.

Snow is rare in Tokyo and, fearing it might disappear at any moment, I went out at 3 a.m., moving from one neighbourhood to another, struggling to decide which ones to cover, aware that the show could end at any second.

Apart from the joy of experiencing the city at such a slow pace, this was also my first time seeing plum blossoms in the snow. I was glad for the scenery, though worried the petals might not survive the weight (they did). It was certainly a beautiful day, one that gave me new reasons to appreciate this wonderful city.

Snow, after all, always seems to bring out the soft side of big cities, even when it may not truly exist. My hometown, Istanbul, adopts a timid aura the moment the first flakes begin to fall, becoming unusually approachable. For a while, you forget the intense chaos and demands it throws at you on any other day. It lets you engage with it differently, even feel a little in charge, setting aside its otherwise commanding presence, the one that otherwise dominates your days and, if you let it, would happily take over your entire life.

In Tokyo’s case, though, snow works a little differently. It strips the city of its excuses for hiding its true self. It puts everything into slow motion, making it easier to see it for what it really is, beneath the fast pace and high-tech image amplified by that big façade: the world’s largest small town disguised as a metropolis.

It is like a little boy wearing his father’s jacket - a city made of thousands of tiny villages that together feel much larger, and a little scarier, than they are individually. But the experience of living in this surprisingly gentle city is better reflected in one of those tiny villages than in its grander, slightly intimidating outer shell.

So, on that fine Sunday, I thought how lucky passersby were to experience Tokyo at its softest, which is, in fact, its truest self.

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Unless Tokyo has another surprise in store for us, this was likely my last snow encounter of the year, and therefore the last snowy edition of Letters from Japan for a while, after January’s Snow Country and, more recently, early February’s Shibu Onsen and the Snow Monkeys.

But now, if we trust Japan’s micro-season calendar, which says that “the grass will soon sprout, and trees bud”, it may be a good time to start imagining warmer days and to delve a little deeper into one of the main underlying themes of this newsletter: hiking in Japan.

So, in this month’s letter, I come to you with the geographical breakdown of some of my favorite trails in the country, covering peak hunts, island traverses, mangrove kayaking routes, pilgrimage paths, and a few entirely DIY walks.

Naturally, the list includes only the trails I have personally experienced1 and is therefore far from comprehensive. You will notice that the country’s hiking mecca, the Japanese Alps, known for its hair-raisingly exposed trails, is represented with only a few routes. For those looking for a much more exhaustive list and technical guidance, David Lowe’s thoughtful blog, Ridgelineimages, is a wonderful resource that will have you safely covered.

The format of this letter will be similar to September’s Reading Japan: From Hokkaido to Okinawa, jumping between regions and offering brief mentions of the trails I love in each one, but this time in reverse order.

We will start in Okinawa, on one of its southernmost islands, Iriomote; move on to another island destination, Yakushima; cross the mainland slowly with various stops along the way, occasionally leaving it again for smaller islands; and finish in Hokkaido, first exploring the mainland and then crossing to one of its farthest islands.

Okinawa is not one of the first destinations that come to mind when one thinks about hiking in Japan. The islands are better known for their swimming waters, some of the best in the world, and their locals, who long ago unlocked the secret to the “eternal youth”, which, in their own words, has more to do with the diet than hiking.

Yet the archipelago, consisting of 160 islands, is also blessed with subtropical rainforests and mangrove fields that you can kayak through, offering a jungle-like hiking experience - complete with hidden waterfalls - that cannot be found on the mainland.

I don’t think I fully appreciated the climatic diversity this long, skinny country harbors until I visited Iriomote Island, one of the southernmost islands in the Okinawa chain, in January. While Hokkaido, with its subarctic climate, was in the harshest phase of its endless winter, we were kayaking and hiking through the jungles of Iriomote, as if it were a summer day.

Iriomote, the second-largest of the Okinawa islands, is almost entirely covered by forest and mangroves and is home to the endemic Iriomote cat, a nocturnal species found nowhere else in the world. With only around ten percent of its land devoted to urban development, it is no surprise that the island, albeit a little late, was added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021.

The Pinaisara Falls and Sangara Falls trails, both beginning with a kayak journey through mangrove forests and ending at a waterfall after a dense climb through the jungle, were two routes I got to experience - both making me feel a little ashamed that I had, until then, only visited Okinawa for its beaches and its otherworldly swimming waters.

Moving north from Okinawa, but not quite yet on the mainland, we arrive at another island whose hiking-related reputation extends far beyond Japan. Some call it the place where it rains thirty-five days a month. “The Alps of the Ocean” is another nickname favored by travel brochures.

These cheesy descriptions point to two essential truths about Yakushima, which, in fact, is one of the least cheesy places I have been to in Japan. It is rainy, the wettest place in the country, and home to an unusually diverse climate, where, on the same day, you can move from a subtropical coast to near-subarctic peaks, including Kyushu’s highest mountain, Mount Miyanoura.

The heart-shaped island, also on the UNESCO World Heritage list, owes much of its global fame to Hayao Miyazaki, who reportedly drew inspiration from its moss forests for Princess Mononoke. While Shiratani Unsuikyo, home to Miyazaki’s moss forest, is a beautiful trail, the island traverse hike, ideally done over two days, offers a more memorable chance to experience Yakushima’s unique ecosystem and climate.

The traverse, despite its intimidating name, is not especially challenging, particularly when paired with a stay at one of the mountain huts along the way. While it is served by numerous trailheads, the more common route, which I also followed, starts at Yodogawa, crosses the river in the early morning light (the eternal kind on a sunny day), climbs to Mount Miyanoura by around noon, and then descends through a dark, deliciously spooky forest to one of the huts.

The next day takes you to Jomon Sugi, the oldest tree in Japan, with the option to finish either at Arakawa by following old train tracks for the final two hours, or via a detour to Shiratani Unsuikyo for a longer but visually more rewarding ending.

Now taking a little break from the small islands off the mainland, we move to a much larger main one: Kyushu, also known as the land of fire.

Among the various trails that I got to experience on this highly volcanic island, the one that I repeatedly return to is the Kuju Mountains.

Kuju is the neighbour of the better-known Mount Aso, with which it shares the national park’s name: Aso-Kuju National Park.

While Aso, one of the world’s largest and most active volcanoes, with a massive caldera, is geologically the more interesting of the two, the Kuju side of the park always feels scenically more enticing to me, especially in late May, when its various peaks bloom with azaleas. It is also one of the rare mountain regions in a country famous for brutally steep trails, where the effort you put in feels almost too small for the scenery you are rewarded with.

The Kuju range is home to various trails. One can easily spend a week up there, exploring a new route each day. So, if you have time, staying in the mountains for a few nights is a great option, either at the ever-welcoming Hokkein Sanso or at one of the campgrounds. But if time is tight, the day hikes are also worth the trip.

Just north of Kyushu lies Japan’s most rural main island, Shikoku. Best known for the Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage Route, the island is, in my view, also one of the best places for DIY walks.

With its 1,200-kilometer-long pilgrimage route, the 1,500-kilometer-long Nature Trail, and scenic coastal routes connecting small fishing towns, Shikoku, which is fortunately also a little short on bears, presents many options to simply get out there and walk.

And last May, I did exactly that. I flew to Kochi, took the local train south, then a bus, and simply started walking, following the coastal route down to Cape Ashizuri. There was not much route planning involved, beyond following the coastline and giving my walk the made-up title of “Southern Shikoku Coastal Walk.”

The route, covering half the coast of Kochi Prefecture over four days, took me past surfing beaches, gorgeous lighthouses, small fishing villages, seaside shrines, and the iconic Cape Ashizuri, among many other sights, including plant-covered abandoned houses, a signature scene on the island.

It is a walk I would happily do again in a heartbeat, if I find the time, as it offered such an unfiltered glimpse into the deeply rural side of Japan.

The 88-Temple Pilgrimage Route, spanning 1,200 kilometers and typically completed in six to eight weeks, also offers ample opportunities to observe the countryside, alongside its main feature: temple stays. I have hiked only certain sections of this long trail, as you might guess, choosing the most scenic ones. But for a more complete account, David Gilbert’s 52-day journey on the route remains one of the best blog accounts I have read about the full experience.

One of the most enjoyable ways to leave Shikoku behind and cross over to Honshu is to cycle across the seven bridges that span the Seto Inland Sea. The route can be done in a single day, but it works better as a more leisurely two-day journey.

Shimanami Kaido may not be an exceptionally scenic route, but it is a wonderfully enjoyable way to spend a few days getting to know the small islands of the inland sea, which often feel even more isolated than those farther off the mainland, maybe because they have the luxury to remain underdeveloped, being so close to the mainland.

Now on Honshu, we take a sharp detour to the east and reach the Kansai region, blessed with, and for some cursed, some of the most visited destinations in Japan.

Kii Peninsula, located in southern Kansai, may not immediately ring a bell until I mention the Kumano Kodo, a network of pilgrimage routes connecting Kumano’s three sacred shrines - known as Kumano Sanzan - as well as Koyasan, the center of Shingon Buddhism.

Nakahechi, the Imperial Route, connects Takijiri in the west to Nachi Falls in the east, the country’s tallest, standing right next to Kumano Nachi Taisha Shrine, one of the Kumano Sanzan. The route is typically walked in four to six days, making it the shortest and the most visited of the seven routes that form the Kumano Kodo pilgrimage network.

The roughly 70-kilometer route benefits from well-established visitor infrastructure, which makes logistics easier to organize (though harder to book due to high demand) than on alternative routes. I first walked it in 2018, before moving to Japan, and will walk it again next month with two friends, with a detailed account to follow in the travel diaries series.

Another Kumano route I have partially experienced is the 170-kilometer Iseji Route, which connects Ise Shrine with Kumano Hayatama Taisha, passing through coastal towns, picturesque mountain passes, rice fields, and beaches.

Between the two, I think Nakahechi offers a more digestible, compact pilgrimage experience, while Iseji feels a little more secluded and offers greater landscape diversity, with more local life woven into it.

For first-time visitors, Nakahechi is probably the better fit. Iseji, on the other hand, may be better enjoyed on subsequent visits, when a bit more familiarity with Japan may help you to appreciate the deeply rural, and sometimes ghostly scenery, in a more generous context.

Further north, but still in Kansai, sits a lovely little city that I will always have a soft spot for.

As with Okinawa, hiking is probably not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Kyoto. But when you look up, you realise that the city and its thousands of temples are scattered along three mountain ranges: Kitayama, Higashiyama, and Nishiyama.

The Kyoto Trail, an 80-kilometer route that circles the city through these mountains, sneaks right behind some of its most visited sites, such as Kiyomizu-dera, and offers a much more secluded, behind-the-scenes look at its wonders.

The trail that I covered last year in the travel diaries series can be walked in four to five days. Thanks to its many trailheads within the city or easily accessible from it, weaving shorter sections into even a brief Kyoto itinerary is also very doable.

The northern neighbour of Kansai is the Chubu region, known as the “spine of Japan” and home to many of the country’s heavyweights in high-altitude hiking.

This is where you’ll find some of Japan’s most technical alpine routes, including Daikiretto and the Gendarme, with exposed ridges and steep drops on both sides (judging by the photos - as you might have guessed - not from personal experience).

The region, fortunately, also has more than a few non-hair-raising trails that still give you a taste of Alpine scenery, albeit without the extreme thrill.

In Nagano, Karasawa Cirque, one of the most popular autumn color hikes in the country, is accessible from the Kamikochi Valley and can be done as a day hike if started very (very) early. The more enjoyable option, though, is to turn it into a two-day affair with a stay up in the mountain in one of the always fully booked huts, or at the wonderful Tokusawa Lodge down in the valley.

Another good introduction hike to the Japanese Alps is Yake Dake, located on the border of Nagano and Gifu prefectures, with a picturesque crater pond accessible from either the Kamikochi side or the Nakanoyou trailhead. I did the Nakanoyou option, which takes around six hours. The Kamikochi side involves some chain sections, but I’ve read that they are fairly manageable.

Nagano and Gifu are also both blessed with a large portion of the Nakasendo Trail - the historical Edo period route that connected 52 postal towns of Japan. The short 2-3-hour hike between Magome and Tsumago is a very popular option for getting a taste of the route, even on a day trip.

The western neighbour of Nagano Prefecture, Toyama, is known not only for its seafood and for having made the New York Times’ 52 Places to Go list in 2025, but also for the Tateyama Mountain Range.

Known for its patchwork-like facade, the mountain range owes its instantly striking beauty to distinct geological and ecological features that sit unusually close to one another and put on a spectacularly colorful show, particularly in autumn.

Similar to Kamikochi Valley, the base of the Tateyama Mountain Range, accessible from Tokyo via a combination of Shinkansen, local train, cable car, and bus, is a gateway to a wide variety of hikes, ranging from easy strolls around ponds to some of the most challenging in the country, including Mount Tsurugi. There are numerous huts in the area that are great options for longer hikes that require an early start.

At the far northwestern end of the Chubu region lies Niigata Prefecture, which hosts several famous trails in Myoko-Togakushi Renzan National Park.

The hike I want to introduce here, however, requires us to step off the mainland and take the ferry to Sadogashima, which was featured on AFAR Magazine’s 2026 list of places to visit, making me appreciate this inspiring travel magazine even more.

I visited Sadogashima a few years ago, almost by accident, when I had to cancel my Daisetsuzan trip at the last minute because of heavy rain, and the island seemed to be the only sunny place in the country at the time.

During a short three-day stay, which I would happily have extended had I found a room, I hiked the Sadogashima Island Traverse, which connects Donden Highlands to the Hakkundai viewpoint.

Taking around five to six hours, the trail encompasses a surprisingly diverse range of landscapes and even a few unexpected man-made scenes. You begin in dense, mossy forests, move on to tolerably exposed rocky ridges with views of the Sea of Japan, and, in summer, walk through fields of alpine flowers, before reaching an ending that feels like stepping into an alternative reality.

The final section of the Sadogashima Island Traverse follows a paved road operated by the Japan Self-Defense Forces to monitor maritime traffic and air defence radar operations. Lined with strange structures, this last stretch of the hike made me feel as though I had wandered into an apocalyptic science-fiction film, albeit one likely shot in the 1980s, which, in retrospect, felt very on brand for Japan.

Crossing back over the mainland and quickly leaving Chubu behind, let’s make a short but personally meaningful stop in Tochigi Prefecture, home to Nikko National Park.

The area I visit every October, sometimes twice, is the one place I would choose if I had only one option for enjoying autumn foliage in Japan, for the variety of scenery it offers.

In the span of just three hours, you can walk past three waterfalls and two marshlands, each with a distinct character, one vast and seemingly endless, the other more private and secluded, surrounded by thick trees. Along the way, there are various small ponds, all tucked between two of Japan’s most picturesque lakes, Chuzenji and Yunoko.

But beyond all of this, what really draws me to Nikko is its forests, which may not be as striking at first sight, yet pull you in slowly, offering colourful surprises at every turn. The area is so vast that you can, if you wish, spend hours within that beauty without a single sign of civilisation, feeling a little like Alice in Wonderland every autumn.

As we near the end, we move on to Tohoku, but we will spend an unexpectedly short time there.

Despite being one of the regions in Japan I love the most, and one that is frequently featured in this newsletter, it is also the one whose hiking trails I am least familiar with.

While Tohoku is home to wonderful routes, including the 1,000-kilometer-long Michinoku Coastal Trail, created as part of the region’s post-disaster revitalisation efforts, my own walks there usually consist of easy strolls between onsen towns or well-visited short routes such as Oirase Gorge or Yamadera.

Part of the reason is that, while Hokkaido has a denser bear population, many of its trails, especially around Daisetsuzan National Park, tend to attract more visitors, creating at least a small, if sometimes misleading, sense of safety for an often solo hiker like me. In Tohoku, however, you are far more likely to find yourself entirely alone on the trail, and that is something I find very difficult to manage psychologically, in a bear territory.

So, let’s move on to Hokkaido, with its bears, but also its more populated hiking trails.

If, for some strange reason, there were a rule that I could only pick one main island of Japan for this hiking letter, I would probably have to choose Hokkaido.

Japan’s second-largest island hosts an extraordinary diversity of landscapes and outdoor experiences. This is where you will find some of the country’s most gorgeous trails, reminiscent of Switzerland, alongside routes that feel unmistakably domestic, shaped by active volcanoes, poisonous calderas, and dramatic cliffs.

One could easily spend weeks in Daisetsuzan National Park, Japan’s oldest and largest national park, doing day hikes or exploring more deeply through a multi-day traverse.

One of my favourite routes in the park connects Asahidake Onsen to Sounkyo, passing either over Mount Asahidake, Hokkaido`s highest peak, or through the Susoidaira Valley, which bursts with colour in July and early August when alpine flowers blanket the valley.

One particularly enjoyable way to do the hike is to spend the night at Asahidake Onsen, as I did, and have your luggage forwarded to Sounkyo. You can then walk through the mountains the following day and end at one of the ryokans in Sounkyo Onsen, where your luggage will, hopefully, be waiting for you.

Yet Hokkaido’s appeal is not limited to its vast inland mountain ranges. The island’s northern and coastal landscapes offer a very different kind of beauty, softened by the turquoise waters that surround them.

Rebun Island, with its summer wildflowers and, mercifully, no bears, is another deeply rewarding destination. Like Daisetsuzan and Nikko National Park, it is one of those places that sometimes makes me think I might have been a little unfair to this country and its beauty in my previous letter, a little provocatively titled - The Very Questionable Beauty of Japan.

Among the island’s many trails, the Momoiwa Trail, which follows the rugged coastline along a high ridge, is the most visually memorable one. A close second is the Cape Course, which connects the island’s three picturesque capes: Sukuton, Gorota, and Sukai.

In the DIY walks department, my favourite in Hokkaido was recently featured in the January edition, along with more extensive diary-style coverage last year. Unlike the other hikes listed here, this is a winter walk that follows narrow country roads around Biei in central Hokkaido, introducing you to one of the most strikingly minimalist snowscapes our planet has to offer. You could easily spend a week in the area, setting off in a different direction each day and adding a few side trips along the way.

So this wraps up this hiking-heavy edition of the newsletter, which began at 24°N in the subtropical south, in Iriomote, and ended at 45°N in the near-subarctic north, in Rebun.

Shortly after I push the send button, I will head to Haneda Airport, not for a hiking trip this time, but to welcome two of my closest friends for their week-long first visit to Japan.

As always, thank you for being here, for your time, your interest, and, more importantly, your kindness.

I will be back in March.

Until then,

Burcu

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P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.

Shibu Onsen and the Snow Monkeys of Nagano (February 2026)

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

Despite the blue skies, the city has been much colder than usual this winter1 and is now bracing for a weekend of snow. Meanwhile, many other regions of the country are already deep in snow, causing transportation disruptions that could impact the outcome of this weekend`s general elections.

And this past weekend, I was in one of the country`s snowiest prefectures, once the proud host of the 1998 Winter Olympics, an event that put the region’s ski resorts on the international radar and brought almost rock-star fame to its furry inhabitants.2

From my not-so-subtle entry, and of course the photo, you might have guessed that this month’s extra post for paid subscribers is about Nagano Prefecture. It covers a recent weekend stay in the small onsen town of Shibu, and a brief but memorable encounter with the prefecture's most famous residents: the snow monkeys.

But before delving into the Nagano weekend, a quick note on what’s coming up next in the newsletter.

After this monthly/annual subscriber-only post, the monthly letter, scheduled for mid-February, will focus on my favorite hiking trails in Japan, starting in Hokkaido and going all the way down to the southernmost islands of Okinawa, including Iriomote. It will follow a format similar to Reading Japan: From Hokkaido to Okinawa, with quick jumps between regions and brief mentions of the trails I love in each one.

Going forward, now that I have my Saturdays back and can travel outside Tokyo on weekends, the extra posts will shift back toward rural Japan, hiking trails, and smaller cities beyond the capital. In March, I’ll be re-walking the Nakahechi Route of the Kumano Kodo with friends visiting from Turkey, and that month’s paid subscibers post will be a detailed guide to a trail I first walked eight years ago and still get the most questions about.

There will also be a few more One Fine Day–style, city-focused posts in the spring, including one on Nagasaki, one of my favorite cities in Japan that I never get tired of revisiting, as well as another on Matsumoto, one of the most strategically located mid-sized towns in the country and an ideal base for a stay combining urban wonders with nature-focused day trips.

You can find a full list of currently available paid-subscriber-only posts here, with links to both the Substack and website versions. Monthly letters, available to all subscribers, will also continue as usual.

As always, thank you for your interest in this newsletter and for the kindness with which you engage with the stories. It means the world to me.

If you wrote to me with a question, I replied to every email I received. If my reply did not reach you, it may have ended up in your spam folder (I also moved my email to a more reliable host a while ago, to minimize delivery issues). If you reach out again, I will do my best to reply as quickly as possible.

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A weekend trip to Shibu Onsen and Jigokudani Valley

Now on to our topic.

While I had long been curious about Shibu Onsen, located in the Yamanouchi area of Nagano Prefecture and far more easily accessible from Tokyo than many of the Tohoku onsen I regularly visit, I was more hesitant about its better-known neighbour, Jigokudani Valley, home to a large colony of wild Japanese macaques known for their fondness for the natural hot springs.

I had no doubt the experience would be visually and emotionally moving, but I tend to feel uneasy about trips built around a single focus (hence my complicated relationship with sakura), which made it easy for me to keep pushing Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park further down my never-ending running list of weekend trips from Tokyo.

The area, however, came back on my radar recently after two well-traveled friends included it in their two-week Japan itinerary and found the experience well worth the effort. Around the same time, I was also looking for a quick, easy-to-plan snowy weekend escape from Tokyo, before the next few weekends filled up with trips to Kyoto, where I would be happily accompanying different groups of close friends on their first visits to Japan.

So that is the rather unexciting background to this otherwise fairly satisfying trip, which makes up the topic of this month’s extra post.

Keys to the Onsen Kingdom

The hot spring village of Shibu, reportedly discovered more than 1,300 years ago, features narrow cobblestone streets lined with several ryokan, including Kanaguya, which may or may not have inspired the visuals for Miyazaki`s Spirited Away.

The small town is home to nine community-run historic hot spring baths scattered along its narrow streets. What makes a stay here special is the “key” each ryokan provides to overnight guests, granting exclusive access to all nine baths, which are otherwise closed to day visitors.

This creates a very different atmosphere from many other hot spring towns, where each facility is entered through a reception area and a ticket counter. In Shibu, by contrast, you simply unlock the door to a semi-private bathhouse, shared with other overnight guests and, of course, with locals.

While the village itself is already attractive enough to warrant a visit on its own, Shibu also has the blessing, or the burden, of being within easy walking distance of one of Japan`s most famous winter sights: the snow monkeys of Jigokudani Valley.

Shiga Kogen, one of the venues of the 1998 Winter Olympics, is also just a 20-minute drive away, meaning this part of Nagano is rarely short of visitors, especially in winter.

While a day trip to Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park from Tokyo is possible, most visitors choose to stay overnight, either in Shibu Onsen, the neighbouring and larger onsen town of Yudanaka Onsen, or up in Shiga Kogen. Nagano City, less than an hour`s drive away, is also an option, especially for its more affordable and wider range of accommodation.

For a more relaxed schedule, I decided to make it a two-night, two-day trip, leaving Tokyo on Friday evening right after work and spending the night in Nagano City. Thanks to the Shinkansen, which took me there in under an hour and a half, I arrived at my hotel just before 9 p.m.3

The overnight stay in Nagano allowed me to take the earliest train on Saturday morning4, bound for Yudanaka Onsen area,5 which is then connected to Jigokudani’s entrance by public bus. I wanted to arrive at the park right around the opening, leaving time for other activities (which, as it turned out, were fairly limited).

Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park

I was, to my surprise, among the very few people who got off the bus at Jigokudani's entrance, while most of the others, along with their skis and snowboards, stayed on for the final stop, Shiga Kogen.

The first part of the visit to the snow monkey park, a gentle, mandatory 30–35-minute walk through the forest, was also unexpectedly quiet.6 I had the trail entirely to myself at around 8 a.m., as most people were probably sensible enough not to brave the freezing cold by standing motionless in front of the ticket office7 for 30 minutes before opening, choosing to arrive a little later in the day.

At that early hour, around 9 a.m., when Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park opens, the small hot spring area where the monkeys gather and are fed by staff had only fifteen to twenty visitors. Despite the below-zero temperatures, we seemed to share an unspoken, collective childlike excitement at witnessing such a surreal and heartwarming scene.

I know there is much to say about overtourism and its impact on the environment, but sharing in that kind of beauty and being momentarily bound together by that joy can also be something to write home about, especially in a world that often feels divided and intentionally unkind.

In this age of travel writing shaped by the pursuit of moral high ground, a certain amount of lecturing, and an endless search for ever more “unique” experiences, it is easy to forget that most of us, more often than not and with good intentions, are simply looking to add a little joy to our everyday lives through travel, whether by visiting well-trodden landmarks or less-visited places. In one sense, it is a big deal; in another, it really isn’t.

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Despite all that is going on in the world, I hope the new year brings us all some level of personal peace and things to look forward to.

This is the first Letter from Japan of the year, delivered to you from windy Tokyo, which feels much colder than usual this winter. This raises my hopes for some snowfall this year, not the usual slashy, but the real kind. If that relatively rare event happens, I will make sure to cover it in one of the future newsletters. But before that, this month, I bring you snow, lots of it, complete with icy waterfalls, from somewhere else: the northern country, otherwise known as the Savage Island or more descriptively as Hokkaido.

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What took me to −10 °C Hokkaido this time, right after a grueling 13-hour flight back to Tokyo from Istanbul, was, among several other tangible and intangible reasons (all outlined below), the need to escape the depressive mood that hangs over Tokyo in the first few days of the new year, a city I otherwise find surprisingly soothing, despite its size.

Most people leave town or stay home with their families; all the museums and shops, including grocery stores, close; and streets outside the temple areas1 become ghostly empty, testing the limits of even the most introverted among us, including me. To make things worse, there is also always deceptively inviting sunshine and blue skies, which creates a Pluribus-like anxiety, with all the possibilities outside, yet something deeply missing. While this all on paper sounds like a good excuse to relax at home and indulge in endless streaming, reading, or itinerary planning before getting back to work, I had never managed to make good use of that time in the past.

So instead of kicking off the new year in an uninspired mood in Tokyo, I now spend those first few days in a tiny town called Biei, located in central Hokkaido.

The town offers the perfect antidote to the depressive mood of Tokyo: a cozy hotel, a few restaurants that gracefully remain open even on the first few days of the new year, a web of easily walkable country roads surrounding the town and cutting through endless snow fields, and, more importantly, perfectly calibrated street lighting that Edward Hopper would approve of - adding a great deal of charm to the town`s often empty streets. There is still a sense of solitude, but an impressively deep and pleasurable one, and one that comes with one of the most distinctive winter landscapes one can find.

Biei, home to fewer than 10,000 residents, and not modestly but rightfully named as “beautiful crystal” in Japanese (美瑛町), remains reliably covered in snow for almost half of the year, starting in November.

The area, as rural as Japan gets, is surprisingly rich in landmarks, the number of which could easily rival those of midsize cities like Kanazawa. But there is a twist: the majority of Biei`s landmarks are trees, which the tourism office promotes with a helpful map and affectionate names like “Puffy” or “Parent and Child”. There is also, of course, the famous Christmas Tree, the Mona Lisa of the Biei area - a lone spruce which, I believe, attracts hundreds of visitors every day in the winter season, leading to strict traffic control in the area.

Some of these trees are instantly striking at first sight, standing in solitude against endless snow fields. There are also a few that don't feel very special at first, making you wonder how they made the “landmark list” - until you realize that they owe their “fame” to pop culture by virtue of being featured on Japanese TV shows or in commercials, such as the Ken & Mary Tree and the Seven Stars Tree.

I am definitely not the only one enamored with the region’s minimalist winter landscape and, therefore, willing to brave consistently below-zero temperatures. There is no shortage of visitors year-round. But despite the cluster of visitors you encounter right outside the train station and the surrounding area, as predictably picturesque as a Hallmark-style Christmas movie, you are guaranteed long stretches of solitude as soon as you wander outside of town on foot, following the narrow roads where you are likely to run into only a handful of people and cars, and perhaps even a lovely group of deer if lucky.

While what attracts me to Biei is its walkability, there is also a frequent public bus service that allows access to the wider area and sights that loudly demand attention, in sharp contrast to the very quiet, minimalist beauty of the immediate Biei area.

Shiragane Waterfall, with the turquoise waters of the Biei River and icicles hanging above, or Asahidake - the active volcano and the highest peak in Hokkaido, which can feel as intimidating as the moon on a snow blizzard day - are equally worth visiting. They feel much more majestic, almost in a fantastical way, and perfectly complete any trip in search of arresting winter scenery.

Asahikawa, the mid-size city that I always find modestly enjoyable, is also a mere 30-minute train ride away, for a quick urban escape should you need one.

Asahikawa's main allure is not so much the town itself as the easy access it offers to Japan’s largest national park, Daisetsuzan, the Biei area, and the famous ski resort Furano. But I still love spending a few hours in the city on every visit, wandering its streets, which in winter look more enticing than they actually are, with the help of snow and classical music coming from the town speakers, and an array of cozy restaurants with large windows overlooking the snowy streets.

Given my frequent visits, this is not the first time Biei has been featured in this newsletter; last year’s first travel diaries series covered a week-long stay in the area.

Having been there so many times, I would like to say that I now feel a little less urgency around photographic opportunities and am able to more fully enjoy the experience and atmosphere, but that would be a slight white lie. Still, every year, perhaps with five percent less urgency than before if I am lucky, I find myself drawn back to the area at a time when Tokyo, and much of the country, feels a little less inviting.

As always, thank you for being here and for your interest in this newsletter. I will be back in February with a more urban-oriented edition.

Until then,

Burcu

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P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

I hope you are having a lovely December. Tokyo is just coming out of a spectacular fall-colors season (one of the most vivid we have experienced in recent years) and easing into the Jingle Bells time of year, with the tune on repeat play in almost every restaurant and store across the country. Despite the country’s cheerful devotion to celebrating what is otherwise a religious holiday as a cultural event, the overall mood can sometimes feel a little too forced, but it is December after all, the one and only festive season, and I’ll take it in any form.

This is the eleventh and final monthly letter of 2025 (for the avoidance of doubt, the months do not work differently in Japan; I just combined the June/July letter into one). Over the past year, there were also a number of additional posts for monthly and annual subscribers, including multi-day itineraries, the One Fine Day city series, and Japan trip-planning guides, all outlined here. As always, thank you for your interest in this newsletter and for reading along this year. Sharing this space with you all has been a truly meaningful experience.

In this final letter of 2025, I come with a quick round-up of the year through four photos paired with the four most-read letters of the year, a brief section on my favorite travel reads of the year (and an invitation to share yours to inspire 2026 reading lists), and the results of the annual nonsensical travel poll from the November letter, which you can still vote for.1 The usual once-a-year holiday discount is also now available until the end of the year.

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The Year in Photos

Despite the lack of big trips like last year’s Great Ocean Walk in Australia or 2023’s Great Walks of New Zealand, 2025 ended up being the year I took the most photos. In addition to some truly awe-inspiring scenery, courtesy of Japan’s nature, I think there was also a technical reason behind it.

I had been in a bit of a limbo with my camera equipment for the past few years. After saying a final goodbye to my beloved 12-year-old Canon 5D Mark II in early 2023, I switched to Sony’s highly praised mirrorless system, drawn by its lighter weight. But despite giving the Sony A7II nearly two years, I simply couldn’t get used to the feel of the camera in my hands or to Sony’s cooler color palette. Late last year, I returned to Canon with the R6, one of their more affordable full-frame mirrorless cameras, and immediately remembered the joy of taking photos and the comfort of using a camera that fits like a glove rather than a joystick (sorry, Sony). It’s a system that works better for me, and I don’t plan to leave it again.

So after this unsolicited behind-the-scenes section, on to this year’s recap, with four photos from four seasons, each accompanying one of the four most-read letters of the year.

Winter - the Snow Country

Snow does look good on Japan, especially at night under those glowing, dense signboard lights, which make snowy cities almost as appealing as mountain or onsen getaways.

The best winter moment of this year came on one of those urban stays during a four-day trip I took with my mother to the Kanazawa-Shirakawa-Takayama area. It was early February, and all three of our stops were entirely covered with snow, skilfully hiding any aesthetic shortcomings these destinations may or may not have and delivering the perfect winter scenery that Japan is rightfully famous for.

During our stay in Kanazawa, after a full day visiting Kenrokuen Garden with its frozen ponds, the city’s museums, and the Omicho fish market, we headed to Il Mare in the Katamachi district for dinner. On the way, we were caught in a sudden snowstorm that, to my surprise - given how common snow is in Kanazawa - filled the main streets with a kind of joyous chaos, while the narrow side streets stayed quiet and wonderfully cinematic. The whole atmosphere felt like a movie set, with color tones that reminded me of the TV show Midnight Diner (perfect comfort watching), so soothing that you want to be part of the frame.

I was very happy to experience such a warm and picture-perfect moment with my mother. Our restaurant was right on the street featured in the above photo, and we watched the snowstorm outside while enjoying a feast served by a lovely chef–assistant duo in a counter-style setting. It was a beautiful night, and in so many different ways, uniquely Japanese (despite the Italian food).

The trip, along with a few other winter destination suggestions in Japan, was the focus of the February Letter - Snow Falling on Cedars, which became the most-read post of this newsletter since its launch. I think we all love winter landscapes, in whichever form they come.

Spring - a Complicated Matter

Spring, as it tends to do, came a little too suddenly, when I could have used a few more weeks of winter to stay in my cocoon.

But I live in Japan, a country that worships the spring and the pink petals it brings, and I was determined to play my part this year and embrace the season properly. In all my five years here, this was the first time I traveled outside Tokyo during the sakura season, adding one more head to the crowds in Kyoto that the city is infamous for, especially at that time of year.

On the three-day trip, I stayed in the city for only one full day and used the other two for side trips: to re-walk some sections of the Kyoto Trail that I first hiked in November 2024, and to visit Mount Yoshino, famous for its tens of thousands of sakura trees.

Despite seeing numerous photographs, I was a little skeptical about the scenery at Mount Yoshino. It looked almost too flawless, too good to be true, and I assumed there would be a catch (like a concrete, abandoned building (not exactly rare in Japan) sitting in the middle of otherwise spectacular scenery). But no: Mount Yoshino, with its tens of thousands of cherry trees, was even more spectacular than in the photos and offered one of the most surreal visual experiences of the year. I was honestly a little too star-struck to enjoy it fully on my first visit, so I hope to return next year and take it all in a little more calmly.

This three-day sakura trip was the subject of the April letter — Sakura in Bloom, Spring in Waiting — which became the third most-read post of the year. Sakura is, and will probably always be, a compelling subject that readers expect to find in a newsletter devoted to travel in Japan - even when it ironically appears alongside the political heartbreak my country experienced this past spring, as it did in that letter.

Summer - the Islands of Confinement

December is the month of joy and gratitude, so I don’t want to bring down the mood of this letter by talking too much about summers in Japan, which have only two redeeming qualities: one is called Hokkaido, and the other is Okinawa, two nature-dominated destinations that shine in the summer.

This year, like every summer, I had one long-weekend escape to my favorite small Okinawan island, Tokashiki, where the humidity was far from pleasant but somehow emotionally tolerable, thanks to the endlessly swimmable and kayakable Kerama Blue waters. July’s letter, a love letter to this tiny island of 700 residents, too cool to care about its own objectively gorgeous scenery, Okinawa: The Reluctant Paradise, was the fourth most-read post of the year.

Small island destinations in Japan are always an adventure. They are not necessarily idyllic in the way one might expect from summer heavens; the architectural choices, shaped by the reality of typhoons, are often rather bland. Over the years, though, I’ve grown to appreciate the contrast between the uninspiring built environment, the residents’ wonderfully unbothered attitude toward the beauty around them, and the truly outstanding nature that surrounds it all.

Autumn - a New Chapter

Then came the autumn season, which I always declare as my favorite in Japan, even though I am possibly just as enamored with the country’s winter.

On a personal level, autumn brought one of the most meaningful experiences of my year - despite being a very anti-travel one. I was offered the opportunity to teach a law class in the English program of the graduate school connected to the research institute where I work. Being able to share a space every Saturday morning with JICA scholars from various governments across Asia and Africa has been a truly rewarding experience, and I am immensely grateful for the opportunity.2 Learning from their perspectives and sharing mine have genuinely been a highlight of my year (and perhaps of this decade of my life, which will reach its first half in less than two weeks), and I honestly had no idea how nourishing such an opportunity could be when I was first offered the position last year. I am still terrified before every class, but the experience continues to feel deeply worthwhile.

As I needed to be in Tokyo every Saturday throughout the autumn except for one weekend, I did not take as many fall-colors trips as usual. And since the season was already heavily covered in previous years, I didn’t structure any of this year’s monthly letters around it either. The second most-read post of this year, and the most-read of the autumn season, therefore ended up being more of a stay-at-home piece: the September letter, Reading Japan: From Hokkaido to Okinawa, where I listed some of my favorite Japan-related reads in a loosely geographical order.

With so many weekends spent in Tokyo, I also put together a One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo post for monthly and annual subscribers, to accompany last year’s One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto, a one-day walking itinerary covering some of the city’s most beloved foliage spots. The only weekend we didn’t have class was the first week of November, which allowed me to take my usual fall trip to Tohoku, this time focusing on onsen stays, with four different hot springs in four nights (Tohoku Onsen Hopping).

When I look at the year purely from the perspective of my life in Japan, it was a beautiful one, a year when I felt more settled than before, a little calmer about my travel rhythm, and, helped in part by a work schedule that kept me in the city on most weekends, able to enjoy Tokyo more deeply.

Favorite Travel Reads of the Year

While I adore traveling in Japan, and this year’s travels were mainly domestic, I still miss the centrality of Istanbul and the quick trips that location allowed. So, to stay connected to other places and keep the inspiration alive, I lean on a lot of travel reading, even for places I will probably never visit.

The first book I read this year was one of the best destination-related reads I’ve come across in a long time. Memoirs of Stockholm Sven by Nathaniel Ian Miller tells the fictional story of a recluse from Stockholm who moves to one of the world’s remotest northern settlements, Svalbard, a place I once visited during its 24-hour daylight season and which also appeared in this year’s Travel Poll. The book is a beautiful ode to the pull of dark nature and to a community of misfits. It was one of those books I genuinely didn’t want to end (even though the ending slightly betrayed the understated tone of the rest).

Right after finishing it, I picked up another Svalbard story recommended by a fellow Substacker: A Woman in the Polar Night by Christiane Ritter. A first-person, real-life account of an Austrian woman who spent the winter of 1934–35 on the island to accompany her husband. It is a beautifully and humbly told story of both physical and emotional endurance, with a deeply felt affection for remote destinations.

Another travel-adjacent book I enjoyed this year was Everest, Inc.: The Renegades and Rogues Who Built an Industry at the Top of the World, a recent addition to the many Everest books, but this time focusing not on individual journeys or expeditions, but on the mountain’s commercialization. The book telling the history of guided expeditions to the world's highest peak was quite a page-turner, and I thought it handled both sides of the argument fairly.

What were some of your favorite travel-related reads this year?

Travel Poll 2025 Results

Now on to our last topic. November’s letter took a very sharp diversion from our regular programming and came with a travel poll of 15 absolutely nonsensical (and extremely hypothetical) questions. The poll has been open since November 12th. Some of the results, which you can review here, were expected, like the very close call between East and West if one had to choose only one for the rest of their travels, or choosing the Louvre over the Pyramids to save if we were going to lose one forever (with the Louvre perhaps benefiting from its recent mishap).

Among all the results, though, the one that surprised me the most was how few votes a week on the Moon received compared to a two-year free travel pass on Earth. When I first drafted that question, I was convinced the Moon would be the absolute winner, so I increased the free-travel option from one year to two to give it a bit of a fighting chance. But with 90% choosing the travel pass, I suspect the Moon wouldn’t stand a chance even against a six-month option on Earth. I honestly blame the billionaires for this one; with their self-entitled approach to space, they seem to have turned many of us off the idea entirely.

You can still vote (since, for reasons still unclear, this poll will remain open in perpetuity) or review the results here: Travel Poll 2025.

And that brings us to the end of this year’s, possibly, last letter. I hope you have a lovely holiday season.

We’re lucky to have two weeks off from work, so I will visit Istanbul for one of them, and hopefully spend the other in Hokkaido for some winter walks. I always plan to send an Istanbul-focused letter, but never got to it, so perhaps there may be one final photo-only dispatch toward the end of the year, combining Istanbul and Hokkaido, two of the most contrasting places on earth. As always, thank you for being here. It truly means the world to me.

Until next time,

Burcu

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P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

Good morning,

This is Burcu from Letters from Japan. Thank you for your interest in my Japan-travel-focused newsletter.

Below is a quick overview of the subscription plans and a breakdown of the extra posts available to monthly and annual subscribers, in addition to the monthly letters that are open to everyone.

As explained on the subscription page, the newsletter includes one monthly letter, featuring travel stories and destinations from Japan, available to all subscribers, free or paid.

In addition, monthly and annual paid subscribers receive one extra monthly post, typically more itinerary-focused (such as a four-day autumn-colors trip to Aomori).

Annual subscribers also have access to a personal Zoom call to discuss their Japan travel plans, or, if preferred, a series of email exchanges.

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Overview of the Paid Content

This page offers an overview of the paid content, organized by category, and is updated periodically as the archive grows. For convenience, you can also access the full archive on my website, where all subscriber-only posts are organized by category (including the five-part Kyoto Trail series): Letters from Japan: Resource Page.

The idea is simply to make browsing easier, especially if you’re planning a trip to Japan. For example, Substack requires multi-day travel diaries to be published as separate posts, whereas on the website, you can read them as single, complete entries with a table of contents.

The resource page itself is public, and the individual posts become accessible with the subscriber password (sent automatically upon joining), after a short preview section.

Below is a categorical overview of the archive, with links to both the website and Substack versions.

Travel diaries - as single posts, with a table of contents

Since the travel diaries are posted on Substack as separate entries—sometimes up to eight, as in the Walking Goto Islands series—they can be challenging to review for trip planning. You can review them as a single post on the webpage (complete with a table of contents) or as separate posts on Substack.

So far, there are three sets of travel diaries available as single posts:

Winter Trip to Hokkaido + Substack link (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail + Substack link (November 2024)

Walking Goto Islands + Substack link (March 2024)

The pages are mobile-friendly, but if you have the option, the desktop version on the website is custom-designed to make these lengthy diaries easier to read. While I will continue posting the travel diary series on Substack, once completed, they will also be continually added to the website as a single post.

Destination Itineraries

These are itinerary-focused posts, offering suggestions for planning a day or multi-day trip, depending on the destination.

A Weekend Trip to Shibu Onsen and Jigokudani Valley + Substack Link (February 2026)

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo + Substack link (December 2025)

Onsen Hopping Through Tohoku: Four Nights, Four Hot Springs + Substack Link (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version + Substack link (October 2025)

Fall Colors Trip to Aomori + Substack link (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa + Substack link (July 2025)

Biking the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days + Substack link (June 2025)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto + Substack link (September 2024)

Japan Trip Planning Series

These are logistics-heavy posts, independent of destination, aiming to bring a bit of clarity to Japan trip planning, which often feels unnecessarily confusing (even to me, despite living here).

Japan Trip Planning Q&A: Transportation + Susbtack link (February 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A: Accommodation + Substack link (March 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A: Miscellaneous + Substack link (April 2025)

Whenever I publish on Substack, I also upload the same content to my website (for the security of hosting it myself), and you can find the paid-subscriber posts appear on the relevant page just a few hours after they’re emailed. I hope you find this feature helpful and that it makes browsing the content a bit easier. The page also displays, at the bottom, all the monthly letters available to all subscribers, regardless of their subscription plan, in chronological order.

Before I go, one more thing (as it always seems to be the case with my e-mails). It has now been a year since I launched the paid option for my newsletter. While I had previously engaged in paid travel writing and photography work for magazines, websites, and tourism offices, this was the first time I had a direct payment relationship with the content’s ultimate audience, and I’m tremendously grateful to all of you who subscribed to a paid plan, especially in this first year, for giving me the courage to continue. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Until next time,

Burcu

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We are in the last stretch of the fall-colors season in Japan, which seems to have reached its peak in Tokyo a little earlier this year due to colder-than-usual temperatures. This past weekend brought two days of clear skies and sunshine, arriving right on time for the peak, giving Tokyo the chance to shine for the scenic beauty it offers, despite its somewhat underrated position in that department. And it certainly shone beautifully, even Kyoto might feel a little jealous.

The peak of the fall colors usually arrives in Japan’s two most visited cities, Tokyo and Kyoto, at around the same time each year, creating a very hedonistic first-world dilemma: having to choose one if your travels are limited to weekends. In the past few years, I’ve always chosen Kyoto (One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto), tempted by the allure of being a tourist once again on a quick weekend getaway to one of the most walkable cities in the world, whose compact size allows you to cover countless foliage spots on foot in a single day. But this year, due to work and a few unexpected life events, the choice wasn’t mine to make, and I ended up spending all my autumn weekends in Tokyo, including the peak-colors weekend we just had.

This gave me the opportunity to play tourist in Tokyo for one weekend and put together a walking itinerary similar to the one I always follow in Kyoto, aiming to cover as many fall-colors viewing spots as possible in a single day. Given Tokyo’s giant size, the experience was certainly different from Kyoto, where you would have to try hard not to bump into a temple with glowing fall colors at every turn, as the city as a whole acts like an open-air museum. Yet it was still a satisfying one, thanks to the many gorgeous gardens within “reasonable” (in Tokyo terms) distance of each other, which made a fairly coherent, albeit a little rushed, one-day walking itinerary possible.

So this month’s extra post for paid subscribers is a diary-style, one-day piece, One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo, sharing a fall-colors itinerary that, provided you start early and keep a brisk walking pace between the major stops, can be done entirely on foot. That said, if you aren’t short on time (or aren’t trying to justify a post titled One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo), splitting it over two days would undoubtedly be the more sane and enjoyable option.

We will start at 9 a.m. (when most of the gardens open their doors) in one of the city's northern wards and slowly make our way towards the town's central parts.1 There is room for one quick lunch break, but you may have to order your coffee to go.

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9 a.m. - Kyu-Furukawa Gardens

Our first stop of the day is Kyu-Furukawa Gardens, located in Kita Ward of Tokyo, offering something quite different from the other spots on the day’s itinerary.

Built in 1917, the estate features a Western-style mansion and a hilltop garden designed by British architect Josiah Conder. From there, you overlook a Japanese-style stroll garden completed in 1919, the work of Ogawa Jihei VII, responsible for many gardens in Kyoto, including the East Gardens of Heian Shrine. While there are plenty of Western-style mansions and gardens in the country, and, of course, many Japanese ones, the blend of the two in a relatively compact setting is rather rare.

The mansion and the gardens, commissioned by the Furukawa family, who owned one of Japan’s largest industrial conglomerates at the time, survived both the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 and the bombings of World War II. After briefly being used by the Allied Forces following the war, the estate was turned into a public garden in 1956.

Kyu-Furukawa Gardens is the lesser-known one among the “superstar” Tokyo gardens and parks that we will cover in this itinerary. I’m not sure I would go out of my way to visit it on its own, but it made perfect logistical sense as a starting point, and even if it didn’t, it’s still worth finding your way there, now speaking from experience.

Even though I didn’t visit this time due to my self-imposed schedule, the mansion's interior, which now serves as a small museum, can also be visited. But during the autumn colors season, you will, just as I did, likely spend most of your time outside, wandering through the beautiful Japanese garden centered around a mid-size pond, with narrow walking paths, magnificent maple trees, and even a small waterfall, which was pleasantly unexpected.

After spending about forty minutes in the gardens, my next stop, after a 20-minute walk, was Tokyo’s arguably most beautiful garden. It’s a place you may want to visit before noon during the foliage season to avoid the not-insubstantial afternoon crowds, which can give even Kyoto’s temples a run for their money during the season.

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We are in the midst of autumn, one of the loveliest times to travel in Japan. Most destinations are putting on their best selves to apologize for their summer behavior - mild weather, colorful trees, and the first hints of the upcoming festive season, with, I suppose, a sense of joy gradually building toward the new year. Normally, this November edition of Letters from Japan would be all about fall color destinations.

But this month, I’m not here to write about Japan, or my home, Oceania, or Southeast Asia, the three regions that sometimes appear in this newsletter as geographical diversions, or about my recent travels.

After two very lengthy monthly letters, Reading Japan in September and Seasons of Japan in October, followed by an extra post, Onsen Hopping Trip to Tohoku, in early November, the tables are fully turned this time, for something shorter, lighter, and a little more interactive (as I’m equally tired of my own voice).

This month, I have something different: a travel poll, the kind I used to post on Instagram at year’s end, back when I was younger (well, not that much younger, ten years ago, when I was 35 and already too old for this kind of thing), mostly for friends. It is not the kind where I ask what you’d like to see more of in this newsletter or whether travel makes you a better person, but rather an excuse to reflect on our travel habits, and on the concept itself, a little lightly, or perhaps even a bit too seriously, in a way that somewhat mocks the whole thing. This is not a serious poll at all, as you’ll see right from the first question, where I offer you a trade to forgo a world-famous landmark.

The poll is open to all subscribers, and entirely anonymous, so no one, including me, will see the individual votes.1 We will all only see the percentages. I initially considered saving this for the year-end December letter and turning it into an annual tradition as it used to be, but I think it will be more fun to share it now, keep it open until the end of the month, and post the results in the December letter, when the newsletter will, I promise, return to its roots and talk about travels in Japan.

Before we start this poll of mostly extremely hypothetical questions, just one photo, in honor of the main theme of this newsletter, from the recent trip to Tohoku - one of the visually most satisfying trips I’ve taken in recent years, which was, despite the heavy storm, truly delightful.

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Letters from Japan Annual Travel Poll of 2025 (which has nothing to do with Japan)

Below are some truly nonsensical questions, inspired by the games we used to play while traveling with friends in high school and college. The road trip kind of question: Would you spend a night alone in a thousand-year-old cave in Cappadocia, full of ancient and religious carvings, with no electricity and no one around for a kilometer, if we paid you USD 10,000? I’d instantly turn down the money, not because I’m not materialistic, but because I used to be utterly terrified of the dark (just a little less so now) and could not and still cannot imagine anything scarier.

In terms of the more extreme hypothetical scenarios below, the only question I already know my answer to, with 100% certainty, is #3. For the rest, I’ll be deciding and voting along with everyone else until the end of November, and if you would care to know, I’ll be transparent about my own votes, possibly even for question #10.

As always, thank you for being here and for bearing with me through this very strange diversion from our regular programme. I will be back with Japan-focused content in December.

Until then,

Burcu

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This autumn, cloudy and rainy weekends have far outnumbered the sunny ones in Tokyo. It is also noticeably colder than the previous autumns. While I hope late November will bring sunnier days to accompany the peak fall colors, I don`t mind this moody Tokyo weather, especially on this rainy Sunday, which set the perfect atmosphere for a cozy stay at home and finish this post, mentioned in last month’s letter, Seasons of Japan, which covers a recent onsen hopping trip through Tohoku, for monthly and annual subscribers.

During the five-day trip,1 I stayed at four different onsen ryokan located in Aomori and Akita Prefectures. There were also visits to the region’s famous foliage spots, all conveniently scattered between each inn.

This recent Tohoku trip was visually one of the most satisfying trips that I`ve taken in recent years. It offered many moments of soothing beauty - the expected and delightfully clichéd version of autumnal scenery - “elevated” by uniquely Japanese features.

But there were also moments of almost violent beauty, the kind you don’t quite know what to do with, the sort of beauty that makes you worry you’ll never be able to take it all in, a panic-inducing sort of way. A kind of beauty that I consider myself lucky to encounter once every five years, as its impact tends to stay with you for a lifetime, once initial anxiety is replaced with an inspiring sense of awe.

The weather in Tohoku was, as expected, much colder than in Tokyo, and quite action-packed. The meteorological menu commanding the five-day period included a heavy rain that partially flooded the bus stops and shut down stream-side trails, strong winds of the umbrella-stealing kind, and Blair Witch-level spooky but photogenic fog. The sun had also made occasional, very brief appearances. But those appearances felt almost divinely timed, as if someone had suddenly turned up the lights, to brighten up the most deserving scenery at the perfect moment, as if to say, “Here is your moment, don`t bother me for another five years.”

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Following the same itinerary, and getting a little closer to sunnier days with each step, we’ll below first start with a tiny onsen facility in the Hakkoda Mountains that has that secret cabin-in-the-woods feel (without the eeriness), move on to a famous, or maybe a little infamous, one known for its vast bath, renowned as much for its milky-blue waters as for its mixed-gender bathing policy. Then we’ll spend a night at an electricity-free onsen that has often appeared in this newsletter, and finish the trip at another small inn converted from a former school in one of my favorite hot spring villages in Japan. Logistics-related details will be provided in the footnotes in relevant sections.2

Day 1 – Oirase Stream + Onsen Stay: Yachi

The first day of the trip, which started with the earliest Shinkansen departing from Tokyo bound for Tohoku, took me first to the Oirase Stream near Towada and then to a 400-year-old Yachi Onsen, tucked away in the dense woods of the Hakkoda Mountains in Aomori Prefecture.3

I had, a few autumns ago, already visited Oirase Stream for a two-day trip, and I would, honestly, not have included it in this trip’s itinerary if it weren’t already on the way to Yachi Onsen. While I do love the concept of repeat travels, as evidenced by the recurring appearances of certain locations in the newsletter, I never felt the urge to return to Oirase Stream for a second visit, for a rather strange reason: it felt too beautiful for its own good.

The stream and the hiking trail that accompany it is for sure an objectively (which may be the keyword here) stunning sight. I attempted to describe the beauty of this famous rocky and narrow stream nestled between dense forests of Aomori, home to approximately 14 different waterfalls, and which flows out to the equally picturesque Lake Towada as follows in one of the previous letters: “I never truly understood what “romantic scenery” actually means, but I suppose Oirase Stream in the fall must be as close as it gets.”

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Autumn is in full swing here in Tokyo. We’re already deep into the merino sweater phase of the year, and I suspect that in a week’s time, those thin yet mighty Uniqlo winter coats (the nationwide uniform) will make their first seasonal debut.

As the weeks go by, new versions of those coats will surely appear, announced by Uniqlo with the kind of urgency that will once again make me feel I must buy one to stay alive, or at least to keep my visa intact. Yet they’ll all look so similar to the previous ones that telling them apart would attest not to one’s sense of fashion but rather to an engineering degree. Honestly, with names like BlockTech, HeatTech, Dry-Ex, Airism, and PuffTech, if it weren’t for the adorable colors and visuals, one could easily mistake Uniqlo’s product launches for those of a semiconductor company.

But despite the over-the-top jargon, it’s always encouraging to see Uniqlo’s webpage open with PuffTech, offering ultra-fine hollow synthetic fibers that trap air for lightweight warmth, quick-drying, washable, water-repellent, and anti-static performance for cool conditions, and replacing the Airism line and its comfort-conditioning, moisture-wicking, and miraculous capillary effect (otherwise known as the “if you need to wear this, you’d better stay indoors” technology). This shift, both on the webpage and on the colorful racks of Uniqlo, means summer is officially over, and we’re now as far from it, and all its misery, as we’ll ever be this year.

So, this particular time of the year is possibly the safest time to cover this month’s topic: the seasons of Japan and the eternal question of “when is the best time to visit?”- a question that, if asked during the summer, when in the throes of humidity-induced trauma and unable to imagine that better days would eventually come, would surely be met with a very firm “never.”

But now, with a sweater on, the air conditioner on heating mode, still dark outside at 4:30 a.m., and two cups of coffee in, I could perhaps not only over-romanticize Japan’s touristic allure but even find it in my heart to write one or two kind sentences in favor of Japanese summers.

So here we go: first, a few general remarks, followed by a season-by-season review, and, finally, a brief fake mea culpa section on over-tourism discussions in the context of Japan.

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Where there’s a will, there’s a way

Two of the main drivers of international tourism in Japan are nature-related seasonal events: the fall colors, known as kōyō, and the cherry blossoms, the famous sakura. (So yes, brace yourself - this post will be full of truly shocking, never-before-heard revelations and secret tips like this.)

The sakura is a famously short-lived event, lasting only about a week at its peak, which I suppose is part of its appeal. Kōyō is a bit kinder in that respect, with a window of roughly three weeks in each location, during which the leaves' colors progress from green to yellow/orange and then red before turning brown and finally falling off the trees.

The Japan Meteorological Agency publishes an excellent fall colors forecast map each year, tracking the progress of autumn foliage at more than 700 locations across Japan throughout the season, along with a similar map for cherry blossoms in spring.

But since trips often need to be planned far in advance and the forecasts have a habit of changing (increasingly so in recent years), planning a trip around these natural events for a specific city can be a little anxiety-inducing.

There is, however, and fortunately, another “but” to all of this: if your main goal is to experience the kōyō or sakura and you’re flexible about where to go, Japan’s tall, narrow shape, dominated by mountains and stretching from 46°N in Hokkaido to 24°N in Okinawa, works in your favor, offering a remarkable range of seasonal contrasts, and a generous window of time to catch these seasonal events with a bit of moving around.

Fall colors begin in the peaks of Hokkaido as early as mid-September, then gradually move south through mountain ranges and northern cities, reaching the gardens and temples of Tokyo and Kyoto by late November. They then move to the southern regions such as Kyushu, before making their rather sad exit around mid-December. During this three-month stretch, you can either head higher into the mountains or travel from north to south to catch the colors at their peak.

Similarly, while you can encounter the cherry blossoms as early as mid-January in Okinawa, they won’t grace Hokkaido with their fleeting beauty until May, with Kyoto and Tokyo experiencing Japan’s most beloved natural spectacle from late March to early April. There are also early-blooming varieties, such as kawazu-sakura in the Izu Peninsula, that appear in February. In other words, from mid-January to mid-May, it will not be too hard to find somewhere in Japan to see for yourself whether those pink and white flowers live up to the hype.

So when it comes to kōyō and sakura, it’s a little bit of a “where there’s a will, there’s a way” situation.

This seasonal contrast, and the flexibility it brings, also makes it possible to design a trip that includes the usual suspects like Tokyo, Kyoto, or Kanazawa during their quieter shoulder seasons (mainly October, January, and February), while still leaving room for an awe-inducing, scenery-focused escape to a rural area, whether for kōyō, sakura, or Japan’s ever-spectacular snowy landscapes.

For instance, a late-October visit to Tokyo can be paired with a fall-colors getaway to Tohoku. Likewise, a relatively less expensive February stay in Kyoto can be complemented by a snowy onsen retreat in the easily accessible prefectures of Gifu or Nagano. This way, you can enjoy the main city destinations with fewer crowds while still getting to experience some version of iconic landscape scenery elsewhere.

The same logic tied to seasonal contrasts even applies to Japan’s otherwise dreadful summers: you may combine a hiking trip in Hokkaido (where breathing in summer still feels like a normal human function, unlike on the mainland) with a hot but undeniably beautiful beach stay in Okinawa, and you can skip the mainland altogether while still experiencing two of Japan’s most rewarding landscapes.

After this long introductory section, which the Japan National Tourism Organization would probably approve of, since it reads a little like a cheesy travel brochure titled Enjoy Japan: Anytime, Anywhere, let’s move on and take a closer look at the four seasons Japan is so famously proud of, even though it probably shouldn’t be (because one of those seasons really doesn’t deserve to be listed among the regular human-friendly ones).

Autumn: Who Does Not Love One

Except for Hokkaido, September is still essentially part of the summer season in Japan: beaches in Okinawa remain busy, while cities on the mainland stay grudgingly hostile to humankind.

But come October, the weather cools down substantially. The month, however, still falls under the typhoon season, which starts in May. So, if your plans include island destinations such as Okinawa or Yakushima, it is always good to have a backup plan, as transportation disruptions due to weather are not uncommon.

The impact of typhoons on mainland cities, while not nonexistent, is usually far less severe than on the smaller islands, making October an ideal time for walking-heavy urban adventures. It’s also, from an event-driven tourism perspective, one of the quieter months in Japan. There are no major holidays other than the Sports Day long weekend (on the second Monday of the month), so the hotel rates tend to be a little more reasonable across most destinations.

Early October (except in Hokkaido) is also still a good time for some mountain hiking before the snow takes over, and, with a little bit of traveling, you can even catch the fall colors in all their glory as they make their descent much earlier to some high altitude places like Karasawa1 in Kamikochi, the Tateyama Mountains, or Oku-Nikko2—three magnificent nature spots, each perfect for an overnight trip if you’re departing from Tokyo.

By early November, with the footsteps of autumn growing louder, things start to get a little busier. Around this time, carving out a few days in your itinerary for a Tohoku add-on will almost guarantee some fall color viewing without the need to hike up the mountains, as this is when the leaves reach their peak at easily accessible iconic spots like Oirase Stream in Aomori.

Late November marks a sharp turn toward the high season. The peak fall colors descend almost simultaneously on Tokyo, Kyoto, and Kanazawa. Accommodation bookings for this period require not only early attention but also noticeably higher budgets than in other seasons. Booking restaurants in advance is also highly recommended during this period (or, honestly, at any time of year), unless you want to wander from door to door in search of a seat in Japan’s adorably tiny restaurants while your blood sugar drops, taking with it your patience to appreciate the firm yet seamlessly polite rejection techniques of the Japanese.

Despite the understandable and expected madness (count me in, with two cameras hanging from my neck while also trying to shoot with my phone) that the fall colors bring, particularly to Kyoto, this is still a rewarding time to visit Japan. Experiencing those elegant temples embraced by the warmth of autumn colors, and witnessing one of Japan’s most defining qualities—how culture and nature so effortlessly blend and elevate each other—will likely still feel worth all the usual high-season troubles.

Winter: A Personal Favorite

Once the fall colors season is over by mid-December, the Christmas mood takes over the country. Yes, Japan is a Shinto-Buddhist country, and Christmas is therefore not a religious holiday, but rather an excellent excuse for yet another theme-driven celebration (just like Halloween and, I believe, even Easter) in this lovely land of theme-driven living.

I’m not from a country with a Christmas tradition, so I’m obviously not an authority on the topic. Still, while the second half of December sees the cities beautifully lit up, Jingle Bells coming out of almost every store, Christmas cakes unique to Japan decorating the patisseries, and the big tradition of eating KFC fried chicken around that time of year, I find it hard to feel the warmth of it all and look past its artificiality.

In all these past years in Japan, the closest I’ve come to genuinely feeling that heart-warming joy of December (a month I rather narcissistically adore for being born on the winter solstice) was when I stayed in Biei, Hokkaido, for a week last December - a picture-perfect small town that could easily serve as the set for one of those Hallmark Channel Christmas movies, yet somehow manages to feel “authentic” without crossing into Disneylandish territory.

Once Christmas is over, Japan turns back to its roots and embraces its own holiday, Shōgatsu - the Japanese New Year. The period that begins with eating soba on New Year’s Eve and continues through the first few days of January is a deeply traditional and family-centered holiday, marked by customs such as refraining from cooking using the fire not to disturb the gods and instead eat osechi ryori (which leads to a frantic few days of pre-preparation, with grocery stores staying open late, or buying one from the highly artful food sections of deparment stores like Daimaru), and hatsumōde - the year’s first shrine or temple visit, which draws enormous crowds at places like Sensō-ji in Asakusa in Tokyo.

During this time, most restaurants, museums, and even grocery stores remain closed. So if you happen to be in Japan on the first few days of January, it may be best to plan strategically and reserve a full-board onsen/ski resort stay for those days.

Once the holiday saga is over, the most bland, and therefore the most pressure-free period of the year begins: January and February.

During this time, there’s no natural event that “elevates” the urban scenery or gives you that senseless sense of joy I sometimes feel pressured to feel in the holiday season or the spring. There’s nothing but bare trees and your old standard black coffee at Starbucks, instead of a Merry Berry Strawberry Frappuccino or White Peach & Cherry Blossom Warabi Mochi Coffee. This is in its own way one of the most precious times of the year - all thanks to its uncompromising dullness.

The only thing that, scenery-wise, shakes things up a little during this period is the almost daily appearance of Mount Fuji for Tokyo residents, thanks to the clear skies and lack of humidity.

This uneventful period from January to late February is the prime shoulder season for Tokyo and Kyoto, which tend to be mostly sunny at this time of year, with the refreshing, and occasionally freezing (particularly in Kyoto), crispness of winter. Hotel rates are also noticeably reasonable during this time,3 more so than even in October.

Snow is, unfortunately, a rare occurrence in Tokyo, maybe once or twice a year, while Kyoto seems slightly luckier in that respect. But for a more reliable snowy urban adventure, Kanazawa remains the safer bet.

The blandness of the city landscapes during this season is balanced by gorgeous snowscapes in atmospheric onsen villages that you can easily access in Tohoku, Nagano, Gifu, Niigata - you name it - or, of course, in the country`s northernmost island, Hokkaido. This is also the period when ski towns like Niseko in Hokkaido, nowadays more infamous than famous, and Hakuba in Nagano enjoy their peak seasons.

So January to February is another good period to have a more relaxed shoulder season experience in Tokyo or Kyoto, while still having access to “wowww, I am so happy I could cry” kind of dramatic landscape scenery somewhere else.

Spring: The Tears of Joy

But you may want to save those tears of joy for spring, which (in case you did not know) comes up next with a seasonal transition that feels emotionally far more moving for the country as a whole.

While city folks like me can endlessly romanticize the poetic beauty of snow country (safe from the restrictive realities of heavy snowfall and brutal cold in Tokyo), the arrival of spring marks something more tangible for rural and mountainous areas of Japan: the promise of easier days outdoors and the beginning of the planting season.

In Japan, spring, maybe not weather-wise but certainly emotionally, arrives a little earlier than it does elsewhere, around late February, when the plum blossoms make their brief appearance. If you happen to be in Kyoto around that time, Kitano Tenmangū and Jonan-gu Shrine are two beautiful spots for viewing the plum blossom, a flower that one could easily mistake for sakura, and be entirely forgiven for it.

While the plum blossoms set the mood, spring in Japan reaches its absolute crescendo—the biggest crescendo of all crescendos—with the sakura bloom. An event that even the greatest skeptics would find it difficult to call overrated.

It honestly took me a while to truly grasp its importance and eventually give in to the contagious joy of the season, but sakura is an event whose significance goes far beyond the beauty of those tiny pink and white petals. Best celebrated with a lovingly assembled all-day (and often highly liquid) hanami picnic under the trees, it’s the perfect showcase for a culture whose most cherished and unifying traditions revolve around the celebration of nature. The sight of a family setting up their hanami picnic early in the morning—fully prepared to spend the entire day in the park, admiring a phenomenon they witness every year with a never-diminishing, explosive joy, always brings tears to my eyes (and also makes me miss my family and friends), even as I type this.

Sakura is, without a doubt, also the most challenging travel period of the year,4 as it’s an event that combines high international demand with equally strong domestic demand. Accommodation prices skyrocket, and this is when you get that shoulder-to-shoulder kind of crowded high-season experience, where people often have to walk in line through the streets and temple grounds.

I’ve, however, recently noticed one unexpected benefit of the sakura season: it eases the pressure on certain otherwise tourist-magnet landmarks, very popular places to visit, but ones that don’t have any cherry trees. They’re usually entirely ignored during this period, unable to compete with the flamboyant energy of those pink blossoms. When I visited Kyoto last year during peak bloom, I was shocked to see how empty Enkō-ji Temple was — and, to some extent, even Arashiyama’s Bamboo Forest, the otherwise global poster child for overtourism.

Once the sakura season is over, there’s a brief window combining the good weather with slightly thinner crowds before Japan’s biggest annual week-long holiday starts in early May: Golden Week (a cluster of public holidays including Showa Day, Constitution Memorial Day, Greenery Day, and Children’s Day). This is the country’s busiest domestic travel period, when hotel rates reach near sakura level and advance seat reservations for the Shinkansen become mandatory.

In previous years, I either stayed home in Tokyo (after once making the mistake of taking my mom to Ishigaki in Okinawa during her first trip shortly after I moved to Japan, underestimating the severity of the region’s rainy season) or traveled abroad during that time. But last year, I bit the bullet and took a trip within Japan, covering the southern coast of Shikoku on foot and the Shimanami Kaido on bike. And while hotel bookings were indeed a challenge (I had to change hotels in the same town several times), the walking routes were completely empty, and there was no “bike” related congestion along the Shimanami Kaido. So, if you happen to be in Japan during Golden Week or any other busy season, it’s good to keep in mind that there are many regions in Japan that are perpetually in the shoulder season - places that, unfortunately, despite the government’s efforts, receive only a fraction of the visitors that the famous “Golden Route” or “New Golden Route” attract and where you can always have some version of a secluded travel experience.

The Golden Week holiday also marks one of the last opportunities for travel within the country before Japan forgets that it’s generally considered to be a habitable place, home to 120 million people, and should probably behave as such.

Summer: You Have Been Warned

I don't think this next statement will come as a surprise to anyone, as I somehow manage to find an excuse to complain about summers in Japan in every single monthly letter: visiting Japan in summer is generally considered not to be a good idea, if not a fatally risky one.

First comes the rainy season, which begins in early May in Okinawa, later in the month in Kyushu, and in mid-June in places like Kyoto and Tokyo. While the season, nowhere near as atmospheric as the monsoon season of Southeast Asia, where you are sure to be blessed with magnificent rainbows after each downpour, had been considerably short in recent years (supposed to last for about four to five weeks), its ending signifies something even less pleasant than the non-atmospheric and continuous rain of the most dready kind: the actual summer in Japan, which, I’m sure most people would agree, deserves a new term, if only to avoid giving a bad reputation to summers elsewhere.

While most people are, understandably, inclined to underestimate its brutality (thanks to the deadly combination of heat and humidity), since summer is one of the rare times of year when people can take long vacations, I can assure you it’s far worse than you probably imagine.

But if you choose to travel to Japan in summer (or have no other option), you might have an easier time if you do your sightseeing between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. (it is a very safe country, after all), since the sun rises as early as 4 a.m., eager to maximize its time above us to test the physical endurance limits of humankind. Apologies for the clumsy attempt at sarcasm, but I genuinely can’t bring myself to offer any practical advice for coping with Japan’s summer humidity. Some people move out of the country entirely to avoid those excruciating four months, a choice not hard to relate to, despite all my love for Japan.

On the alternative, no sarcasm here, you may consider the option to travel either to the northernmost part of the country, Hokkaido, home to magnificent hiking trails and some of the most picturesque small islands in Japan, offering a bit of a break from the humidity; or to the southernmost part, Okinawa, where there’s no escape from the humidity but otherworldly waters that more than make up for that otherwise unforgivable sin.

While the exact dates vary, the second week of August is typically when Obon is celebrated in Japan, commemorating one's ancestors, making it another busy week for domestic travel.

In summary, summer in Japan is as bad as they say, and even worse, but it’s also one of the best times to visit two of the country’s most beautiful islands: Hokkaido and Okinawa (this was the sentence where I fulfilled the promise I made in the recital: to write one nice sentence about Japanese summers).

The Blame Game: Overtourism in Japan

To take the tone of this letter to even more depressive grounds after the summer section, here comes a little fake mea culpa before we wrap things up:

Despite my newsletter being about travel in Japan, and Japan, with its ever-growing visitor numbers and the interest concentrated in just a few locations, often being at the center of discussions on the perpetually hot topic of overtourism, I’ve never really touched on the subject, not even in this post, which focuses on Japan’s travel seasons and would be the perfect place for that discussion.

That’s mainly because I genuinely don’t know what I could add to the conversation. I don’t have the technical expertise that environmentalists, city planners, tourism professionals, or economists do. My only direct relationship to the issue is as a traveler, but then, so is everyone else’s. And I don’t want to write about it from a non-technical angle, since those pieces often end up sounding like behavioral lectures and put the writer, possibly unintentionally, in a somewhat preachy position.

I also feel that a good portion of overtourism-related discussions about Japan are, unfortunately, driven more by ego, to glorify one’s own travel experiences, to reminisce about time in Japan “before all the visitors ruined it,” with an extra touch of gatekeeping, than by genuine concern for the country. These days, I come across more posts about how people think others should travel than about the author’s own experience of Japan. The tone around the topic has become so divisive that one might think most people travel with a single mission in mind: not to see the sights, not to feel the excitement of being in a new place, but to disturb the peace and the socio-economic balance of their destination. The blame game is that strong.

I’m, for better or worse, not that pessimistic. Or perhaps this is simply my lazy way out of the debate, as I don’t have the heart to criticize an act like traveling, something that has brought me so much happiness and given such meaning to my life, unless there is an obvious malicious intent.

I also believe that while we may inspire one another to explore new destinations and experiences, travel ultimately remains one of the most personal and subjective experiences there is, and that’s the beauty of it. We all relate to it differently, in ways shaped by our past experiences and expectations. And, of course, we all have different levels of resources, which ultimately influence how we access, experience, and consume travel.

So maybe my love for the act of traveling makes me a little blind to its negative impact, and gives me a naive approach to the topic in the sense that I believe its benefits far outweigh its downsides. However, unless I can offer a more technical and therefore slightly more useful perspective on the issue,5 I hesitate to write about the topic, particularly from a behavioral perspective, as I probably have a few skeletons in my own closet as well.

So, this wraps up this month’s letter, one that, in retrospect, probably should have started with winter and ended in autumn, rather than with the mood-killer summer section followed by the over-tourism discussion. But brighter days are ahead.

The next post will come in early November under the Travel Diaries section for monthly and annual subscribers, covering an upcoming Tohoku Onsen Hopping trip, during which I’ll stay at four different rustic (maybe even a little too rustic) onsen in Aomori and Akita Prefectures. That will be followed by the usual monthly edition in late November.

As always, thank you for being here and for your interest in this newsletter. I don’t take the good fortune of finding an audience for something as seemingly trivial as traveling in Japan lightly, and I don’t hesitate to express my gratitude repeatedly, even at the risk of sounding overly sentimental.

Thank you, and until next time,

Burcu

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P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (October 2024)

Okinawa Diaries: Tokashiki Island (two posts) (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

It’s a lovely, breezy Sunday morning in Tokyo, though the sky can’t seem to decide between sun and clouds. It’s not quite jacket weather yet, but we’re slowly getting there. Students are already back in school, although September is not the big “back-to-school” moment it is in many other countries. In Japan, the school year starts in April, so September is more like a return after a mid-year break.

Due to some changes in my work circumstances (more like an addition than a change),1 I will this fall be spending more weekends in Tokyo than I did previously, as my new task requires me to be in Tokyo on Saturdays until 11 a.m., at least until the end of January, with a few breaks in between.

Even though I enjoy the weekend trips, especially during the autumn colors season, I’m also looking forward to my obligatory Tokyo weekends (with the added guarantee that I’ll leave the house to get to work) with the hope that I can adopt a more intentional and structured approach to exploring this lovely city that, despite my endless affection for it, I somehow never feel I do enough to get to know more closely.

As the first step toward engaging with one of the world’s largest (and I think gentlest) metropolises a little more intentionally—and in the hope that I can someday craft a more comprehensive, guide-style post about Tokyo that goes beyond a love letter—this month’s extra post for paid subscribers focuses on some of my favorite eateries in the city.2

But, before we get to the list, I should admit a few things first. So that what follows can be read in the right context (and maybe even completely disregarded!).

While I very much like eating (I wish I liked it a little less), I couldn’t be further from a foodie. I can eat almost anything (except cucumbers), even dishes I don’t particularly care for, as long as there’s plain Turkish/Greek yogurt on top. For example, I can eat beans with yogurt, pasta with yogurt, even rice with yogurt (a common Turkish habit that terrifies most people, and particularly Japanese, who have a rather complicated relationship with dairy products). I can also eat the same thing every day (and often do) and would not question it much.3 Maybe I shouldn’t even be allowed to write a post like this—but, well, freedom of speech I guess, as long as it lasts.

So while I enjoy dining out (Tokyo’s eateries are impossibly atmospheric), it’s never the food that drives my choice. It is, instead, the lighting (the warm, no-ceiling kind) that draws me into a restaurant and keeps me coming back (unless, of course, the entire menu revolves around cucumbers - not an entirely outrageous possibility in Tokyo, where concept cafes, shops, and eateries dominate the scene).

With that (big) disclaimer in mind, I’ve listed below some of the places I frequent in Tokyo and feel confident bringing friends to when they visit.

Bistro Aligot in Jimbocho

If I had to pick one favorite among the places in this post, it would be Bistro Aligot, named after the French dish that is its specialty. The two-storey restaurant, converted from an old ice shop, sits in Jimbocho—Tokyo’s “book city,” home to hundreds of second-hand bookstores and recently named the world’s coolest neighborhood for 2025 by Time Out contributors. Aligot makes a perfect stop to end a day in Jimbocho, after exploring the old but rarely dusty (this is Japan, after all) bookshops, which often also offer a small but quite interesting selection of English books.

Aligot`s menu features a rich selection of French bistro food. If you are looking for a sit-down dinner, the second floor of the venue features a tatami-style room that can be booked in advance (online or by phone) with the optional course menu (and even an all-you-can-drink addition - quite common in Tokyo).

However, the real allure of Aligot lies in its first floor and the standing bar, where you can order from the à la carte menu. The place opens at 4 p.m. on Saturdays (5 p.m. on weekdays) and is closed on Sundays. There is no reservation option for the entry floor bar. So, I usually hesitate to go to Aligot if we are a group of three or more, as it fills up very quickly. But you will have more luck if you are on your own or a group of two as the circulation is also high.

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When choosing the destination for this most recent hiking trip, I set two conditions. First was to find somewhere that was cooler than Tokyo. A requirement that unhelpfully narrowed down my choices to virtually every other place on earth that is not Tokyo, which this year took the humidity to such a degree that the city feels less like a place to live and more like a laboratory built to test the limits of the human body.

The second condition, as vital as the first, was to find a place with no recent bear sightings or attacks. Due to a record number of sightings and, unfortunately, attacks observed all through Japan this summer, this second condition ruled out many of the obvious choices on the four main islands, except for Kyushu, where the bear population went extinct decades ago, and smaller islands off the mainland, where the bears, despite being excellent swimmers, rarely bother to cross.

Although I was initially tempted to revisit Yakushima—Kyushu’s beloved hiking heaven—in the end, the pair of Rebun and Rishiri Islands, off the northern coast of Hokkaido, felt more attractive as the safest bet for the cool weather. They also kind of met the second condition: Rebun is entirely bear-free, while Rishiri, according to the experts, is “99% bear-free”, a statement needed after a shocking event in 2018 when a brown bear, possibly no longer wanting to put up with the depressive mood of Wakkanai, swam over from the mainland Hokkaido.

This month's letter, however, is not about the heavenly beauty of Rebun Island, which I first visited and wrote about last summer, or the impossibly good-looking peak of Mount Rishiri, especially when reflected in the water. Instead, it offers a high-tempo literary journey across Japan, starting in Hokkaido and ending in Okinawa, with the aim of introducing books that you may enjoy during your travels to all those places.

But before the books and this month`s theme inspired by Alan Booth’s travelogue The Roads to Sata: A 2,000-Mile Walk Through Japan, which I re-read while in Rebun, one quick note about these two remote islands that I just got back from: if you visit Japan during the summer, have no desire to risk death at the increasingly vengeful hands of humidity, enjoy gentle hikes with outstanding landscape scenery made even more perfect by alpine flowers that bloom between June and August, Rebun will absolutely make you happy. Rishiri has, honestly, less to offer in terms of scenery, though perfectly shaped Mount Rishiri, which you can climb up, still makes it a worthy stopover (even the lone bear could apparently not resist).

Now, on to this month’s topic and a list of more than twenty books.

Published in 1985 based on a walk that took place in 1977, The Roads to Sata recounts Alan Booth’s journey on foot from Cape Soya, the northernmost tip of Japan near Wakkanai in Hokkaido, all the way to Cape Sata, the southernmost point of Kyushu. Booth`s dry but somewhat comforting and relatable tone, thanks to his resistance to over-romanticizing the sights, his experiences, and his challenging endeavor, coupled with the easily detected affection for the country, makes it a compelling read.

In addition to his tone—and the fact that the humor in the book is mainly at his expense rather than the country`s—what makes Booth’s account of his walk across Japan stand out for me is how well it captures one of the country’s most dreary yet surprisingly rewarding aspects. Step just a little outside the safe and already proven tourism zones, which are naturally or artificially built to deliver the awe factor that we all hope to get out of our travels, and watch all the idyllic expectations you might have attached to rural Japan quickly fade away, forcing you into a new set of architectural, social, and infrastructural realities. This new reality, often at odds not only with the country`s perceived status as a high-tech nation but also romantic notions attached to rural life in developed countries (the rolling green hills, picture perfect wooden houses, lack of concrete?), will inevitably lead to unexpected experiences, offering sometimes the most frustrating, and sometimes the most thrilling cases of “be careful what you wish for” when it comes to our never-ending search for “authenticity”.

I was already 40 when I moved to Japan and had traveled extensively until then, but I think my experiences in rural Japan taught me at least as much about what I personally seek in travel as all my previous trips combined. I like to think those experiences, which first destroy the expectations you bring with you and then give you room and tools to build new ones, have made me a slightly more mature traveler.

Although Alan Booth walked the country in 1977 and much has changed since then, I think the sentiment he conveys about travels in deep rural Japan still lingers today, urging you to look more closely without any clear sense of what the reward might be, ultimately pushing you to create your own.

As you might have noticed, re-reading the Hokkaido sections of Roads to Sata during this latest trip, before bed, and remembering Booth`s inconsequential but subtly moving account was a joy (elevated further by the cool weather that required me to close the windows in the evenings). To honor that joy and in the same spirit, I’ve compiled a list of some other books, arranged by city/region from Hokkaido to Okinawa, that may hopefully bring a similar sense of delight to your own travels in Japan.

I’ll quickly jump from location to location, north to south, dropping book names with a short summary of each, both to keep this letter to a reasonable length and to disguise my shortcomings in the book-review department.2

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Alan Booth's walk starts at Cape Soya, the country's northernmost point, which I had been a little too lazy to visit despite heading that far up north several times. In the first two chapters, which cover the Hokkaido leg of his journey with stops in small towns like Tomamae as well as larger cities such as Sapporo, Booth never lets us forget the island’s remoteness and wilderness. He refers to Hokkaido as the “outpost” in one chapter, and as the “savage island” in another, and, along with the account of the early days of his walk (full of blisters and limping), delves into the island's history, with a focus on its original settlers, the Ainu, and its centuries of isolation.

In one of the best-known works of fiction set in Hokkaido, Haruki Murakami's A Wild Sheep Chase, the writer similarly taps into the island's remoteness as an atmospheric backdrop for his story, centered on a search for a mysterious sheep. He takes his two protagonists first from Tokyo to Sapporo and then, slowly, deeper into the northern territory, and dials up the level of mystery with each step towards the north.

I am not a Murakami fan, but I am definitely a fan of Hokkaido, which I first became aware of when I read A Wild Sheep Chase many years ago—a book that admittedly does a great job of portraying Hokkaido as an enigmatic place, maybe even more than it actually is.

Leaving Hokkaido behind by hopping on a ferry from Hakodate to cross the Tsugaru Strait to Aomori, we arrive at Tohoku, a region that frequently features in this newsletter. Despite being part of Honshu, Japan`s largest and most populated island, parts of Tohoku often feel even more remote than Hokkaido.

While increasingly gaining the recognition and interest it deserves for its cultural wonders and dramatic landscape, the region, particularly its eastern coast, is unfortunately still mainly known for one of the country’s most devastating natural disasters: the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake, which struck Tohoku and resulted in more than 20,000 deaths.

David Pilling's book of essays, Bending Adversity: Japan and the Art of Survival, published three years after the earthquake, reads in part as an ode to the resilience of the people of Tohoku and their strong sense of community. Pilling, who served as the Tokyo bureau chief of the Financial Times for nearly a decade, offers insights into the systematic and even historic factors that may have contributed to the tragedy and how the country dealt with its aftermath.

Although I highly recommend Pilling’s book for a whole new perspective on Japan, Alex Kerr's most recent book, Hidden Japan, published in 2023, may be a better option for a more uplifting read about Tohoku. A long-term resident of Japan and a renowned expert on Japanese culture,3 Kerr devotes two of the book’s ten chapters to Tohoku: in one, he travels to Akita Prefecture to explore the origins of Butoh, a Japanese dance theather, and in another, he visits Minami Aizu and the nearby Ouchi-juku in Fukushima Prefecture, a region famous for its thatch-roofed houses—though not as much as Gifu’s Shirakawa-go—hence the title Hidden Japan.

Right next to Fukushima Prefecture in Tohoku sits Niigata Prefecture, part of the Chūbu region and Japan’s primary rice-growing area, which is famous for its sake. The prefecture, more specifically its onsen town of Echigo-Yuzawa, is also the inspiration for one of the most well-known books by Japan’s first Nobel Laureate in Literature, Yasunari Kawabata. Snow Country tells the tragic love story of a married Tokyo man and a local geisha against the backdrop of a snowy hot-spring town—a setting that is not difficult to find in mountainous Japan, and feels as magical in real life as it does in novels and movies.

Our next stop is the Kiso Valley, which stretches along the Kiso River between Gifu and Nagano Prefectures, south of Niigata. The valley is home to a series of towns that are part of the ancient Nakasendo Way, which connected Tokyo to Kyoto during the Edo period via sixty-nine postal towns. Even though I found Walking the Kiso Road: A Modern-Day Exploration of Old Japan, a travelogue by William Scott Wilson, a little clunky and incoherent in how it blends historical facts with the author’s journey from town to town, I would probably still pack it if I revisited the area, but more as a guide than a compelling read.

Just a few hours east of the Kiso Valley lies a tiny little city, home to 15 million people, including me, also known as the capital of Japan. The sheer number of books written about Tokyo or set in the city is enough to warrant a newsletter devoted to the topic. However, since I am not up to the task, I will mention a few titles starting with The Little House by Kyoko Nakajima, which, from the perspective of the housemaid, tells the story of a small Tokyo family, ordinary on the surface but full of hidden intrigues. The story spans both the pre-war Tokyo and the tragedy of the post-war era, when the bombings of March 1945 resulted in nearly 100,000 casualties in the city.

For a more contemporary story taking place in Japan's largest city, Hiromi Kawakami's Strange Weather in Tokyo, which follows the love affair between a woman in her 30s and her elderly former high school teacher, is an engaging, quick read, and makes great use of the city's atmospheric izakayas and parks.

Before wrapping up this undeservedly short Tokyo section, I should also mention Norwegian Wood, one of my favorite books by one of my not-so-favorite authors—yes, Haruki Murakami. The book that turned Murakami into a literary phenomenon in Japan and made him flee the country for a while due to excessive public interest (I may be rolling my eyes a little) centers on a friendship-and-love triangle among three students set against the backdrop of university life in 1960s Tokyo.

The abundance of books about Tokyo, of course, similarly applies to the country's old capital, otherwise known as its most visited, most revered, and, unfortunately, most complained-about city - Kyoto.

If you would like to get a sense of the city in the 1950s, The Old Capital by Yasunari Kawabata, first published in 1962, is an intimate family story that focuses on twin sisters separated at birth. Kyoto is a major character in the book, with some of its well-known events serving as a backdrop to major plot points, such as the Gion Festival held in the city every July.

Another one of Kyoto’s most well-known spots, and its shiniest temple, Kinkaku-ji (the Golden Pavilion), has an entire book devoted to it by Yukio Mishima, one of Japan’s most talented and controversial writers, who committed seppuku after he led a failed coup d'état attempt in 1970.

In The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, loosely inspired by real events (no spoiler: someone sets the temple on fire), Mishima explores the concept of beauty and the destructive obsession that accompanies it through the eyes of a young Buddhist acolyte serving at Kinkaku-ji.

Driven by a much healthier kind of obsession with the city’s architectural wonders, Alex Kerr's book Another Kyoto serves as a highly informed yet accessible guide to the secrets behind the city’s temples, gardens, and other attractions. Organized under various themes, including gates, walls, and tatami floors, the book, in a conversational tone, highlights the details one might otherwise have no way of noticing alone.

Our next stop, Kyoto's big city neighbour, often either despised or praised for being one of the least polished cities in Japan, Osaka, serves as the home base of the Makioka Family, the family at the center of The Makioka Sisters by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki. The family saga is told through the different realities and perspectives of the family's four sisters, who each represent a different aspect of Japanese society and the evolving role of women during one of the most consequential periods in the nation's history, just before World War II and its early phases. Cited as the most important Japanese novel since World War II by The New York Times, the book has also been adapted into a movie. If you have time for only one book before your trip to Japan, Makioka Sisters would be my choice.

Before crossing onto Shikoku Island, a few quick but worthy stops. First, at the Seto Inland Sea, surrounded by seven prefectures and home to hundreds of islands, to mention The Inland Sea by Donald Richie. While I have yet to read Richie`s book, published in 1971, I felt compelled to add it to the list as it is often praised as one of the most moving travelogues about Japan, exploring the small island life in the mid-20th century.

A more recent addition to real-life accounts focused on the Setouchi Islands is The Widow, the Priest, and the Octopus Hunter by Amy Chavez, which focuses on the stories of residents of Shiraishi Island, where she resides. Chavez is also responsible for the wonderful Books on Asia website, which is an unbelievably generous source of information about literature related to Asia, and primarily Japan.

The spiritually charged Kii Peninsula, just east of the Setouchi region, is best known for its network of pilgrimage trails collectively referred to as the Kumano Kodo, as well as for being home to Japan’s most sacred site, the Ise-Jingu Grand Shrine. Long-term Japan resident Craig Mod’s recently published book Things Become Other Things: A Walking Memoir reads partly as a memoir about his youth in the United States and partly as a travelogue covering his extensive walks along the peninsula’s pilgrimage trails. In addition to this recent book, Walk Kumano, Mod’s website dedicated to the pilgrimage routes of Kumano Kodo, inspires one not only to walk the same routes but also to strive for that level of perfection in web content.

One cannot pass through our next stop, Shikoku, without mentioning Lost Japan by Alex Kerr, originally published in 1993. It is a book that I return to very often, mainly for Alex Kerr's admirably modest but poignant writing style. Kerr never sounds preachy, but does not pull any punches when it comes to criticizing governmental policies deemed to have an adverse impact on the country`s cultural wonders. While the book, in a series of essays, touches upon a wide range of topics about Japan, Iya Valley in Shikoku, where Alex Kerr bought a house in the 1970s, is a major character in most of his stories. The book beautifully conveys the feeling of what life was like in this remote corner of Japan in the past, while also delving into the captivating history of the region, which once hosted exiled Heike soldiers who built numerous vine bridges across the valley.

For those planning to walk the famous Shikoku Pilgrimage Route, which covers 88 Buddhist temples throughout the four prefectures of the island, Walking in Circles: Finding Happiness in Lost Japan by Todd Wassel is, despite its tacky name, an engaging read. The author, as he depicts his journey of self-discovery along the route, manages to avoid tired clichés (all reserved for the book's title) and offers an often humorous and honest account of his journey.

For an account of the same walk from a woman`s perspective in 1918 under wildly different circumstances, The 1918 Shikoku Pilgrimage of Takamure Itsue is an excellent choice.

As we approach the end of the list, our next stop is Kyushu Island and one of Japan`s historically most significant cities, Nagasaki.

As I mentioned in a previous letter, I find Nagasaki to be one of the most important cities to visit in Japan for a better understanding of how interactions with other cultures have shaped the Japan of today. Remembered today for the horrific event of 1945, Nagasaki was ironically one of Japan`s first points of contact with foreign cultures starting in the late 16th Century. This short-lived period of openness came to an almost absolute halt in the early 17th century, when the sakoku (closed country) policy, aimed at ensuring self-isolation and blocking foreign influence, was enforced by the Tokugawa Shogunate and strictly observed between 1639 and 1853.

David Mitchell's historical fiction, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, is set on Dejima, which is one of the strangest features of this isolation policy. The artificial island built off Nagasaki in 1636 (and now replicated in the city as a museum) served as a confined space to facilitate trade with select foreign groups, while also ensuring that they remained offshore and isolated from the local population. Mitchell tells the story (complete with forbidden love) of a young Dutch clerk in late 18th-century Nagasaki who becomes one of the few residents of Dejima, which at the time was exclusively reserved for the Dutch traders—the only Westerners allowed to trade with Japan for more than two centuries between 1641 and 1858.

The period of sakoku was also partly a reaction to the powerful religious influence of Jesuit priests who arrived in Nagasaki with the first Portuguese ships in the late 16th century, leading many Japanese to convert to Christianity and earning the city the nickname “Little Rome.” This influence, deemed unwanted by the Shogunate, eventually led to a ban on Christianity that lasted for more than two centuries, accompanied by the cruelly implemented policy of persecution. During this period, secret Christian communities, known as the Hidden Christians of Japan, formed on remote islands off the coast of Nagasaki, including the Goto Islands and Amakusa, to practice their religion in secret, away from the authorities' scrutiny.

This historical period and the region have, over the last decade, gathered increased attention, first with the release of the movie Silence by Martin Scorsese in 2016 telling the story of two Jesuit priests who traveled to Japan during the period when the ban on Christianity was in full effect (based on the book by Shusaku Endo, which is much more layered than Scorsese`s re-telling of the story) and then the addition of 12 sites in the region to the UNESCO World Heritage List under the heading Hidden Christians in Nagasaki Region in 2018. In Search of Japan's Hidden Christians by John Dougill, which reads both as a historical guide and a travelogue, is an excellent book for those planning to visit this fascinating region of Japan and the sites associated with the country`s Hidden Christians.

We have now arrived at our last stop, Japan’s southernmost islands, home to the world’s longest-living people. Despite my endless affection for Okinawa, featured in the July letter, I hadn’t read a book set there until this summer, when I picked up Islands of Protest, an anthology of short stories, poems (that I only partially read) and a play (that I must confess I have not read) by Okinawa-based writers who capture the region’s enigmatic, disconnected, and delightfully strange spirit. Among the seven short stories featured in the book, Island Confinement by Sakiyama Tami is my favorite.

So, this wraps up this month’s letter. As always, thank you for being here and allowing my monthly letters in your inbox. I will be back in a month, hopefully featuring a new destination.

Until then,

Burcu

P.S. In addition to the monthly letters, below is a quick recap of the extra itinerary and planning-focused posts available on the newsletter for monthly and annual subscribers. You can access each one here on Substack or on a single page on my website.4

One Fine Autumn Day in Tokyo (December 2025)

Tohoku Onsen Hopping: Four Nights, Four Hot Spring Inns (November 2025)

Tokyo Eateries: the Non-Gourmet Version (October 2025)

Autumn Colors Trip to Aomori: Itinerary Suggestion (August 2025)

One Fine Day in Kanazawa (July 2025)

Cycling the Shimanami Kaido in Two Days (June 2025)

Japan Trip Planning Q&A Series (three posts) (February - April 2025)

Winter Trip to Biei in Hokkaido (four posts) (January 2025)

Hiking the Kyoto Trail (five posts) (November 2024)

One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto (October 2024)

Okinawa Diaries: Tokashiki Island (two posts) (September 2024)

Walking Goto Islands (eight posts) (March 2024)

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One more month, and we will finally make it to the other side, having survived another summer in Japan. The temperatures in Hokkaido have already begun to drop, and the prefecture will soon be greeting the autumn colors, starting as early as mid-September in its high-altitude regions, like Daisetsuzan National Park.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I will say it again: autumn is my favorite season in Japan. It comes with breathable temperatures that bring back the simple joys of life, such as walking to the grocery store without feeling like a contestant in Survivor, less eventful skies once the typhoon season ends in late October, and, of course, the gorgeous autumn colors that turn even the most ordinary scenes into highly cinematic moments.

I am, of course, hardly alone in my love of Japanese autumns. In recent years, the foliage season has become one of the most popular periods for trips to Japan, almost matching the fame of the cherry blossoms. This inevitably brings similar crowds to cities like Kyoto, which, never shy of showing off, certainly puts on a show during the season with its hundreds of tree-lined temples and gardens.

This month’s extra post for paid subscribers will, however, take us to a region of Japan that, despite the slowly growing popularity, still remains far less visited than Kyoto: Aomori, the northernmost prefecture of Tohoku. The region, truly as enigmatic as its name, “blue forest”, suggests, welcomes the autumn colors in late October, about a month earlier than Tokyo and Kyoto.

Being the autumn colors addict I am, Aomori, along with Kyoto and Oku-Nikko in Tochigi, has secured a permanent spot on my repeat travel list each fall. Much like my annual foliage trips to Kyoto (relevant post: One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto), I tend to follow the same itinerary in Aomori, with small adjustments here and there, occasionally extending the trip to the other prefectures in Tohoku if the time permits.

So, without further ado, here’s my suggested itinerary for a fall colors trip to Aomori, inspired by my own travels. Starting in Aomori City, we'll slowly make our way to the more rural parts of the prefecture and conclude the trip at the famous Oirase Stream near Lake Towada.

Renting a car will, undeniably, make it easier to cover all the spots below, but I always rely entirely on public transportation when I travel alone to the region, so that is also doable. Unless you are already on a nationwide Japan Rail Pass, I highly recommend the JR East Tohoku Pass for this trip (available to all foreign passport holders, including residents of Japan), which comes in two versions: a five-day pass for 30,000 yen and a ten-day pass for 48,000 yen (half the price for kids between 6-11). Among all the train passes available to visitors in Japan, the JR East Tohoku Pass is one of the best in terms of the savings it offers.

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Day 1 - Aomori City

Each year, around the Culture Day holiday/long weekend in early November, I catch one of the last northbound Shinkansen trains from Tokyo on a Friday evening after work and arrive in Aomori City a little over three hours later. Assuming you’re less pressed for time than I am, you might instead opt for a morning departure since the views as the train moves deeper into Tohoku are spectacular.

I usually stay in Aomori just for the night and aim for one of the earliest trains bound for the Kuroishi area the next morning. When in Aomori, I always stay at Daiwa Roynet, as it is centrally located, offers decent rooms, and features a very lively bistro on the first floor that starts breakfast service at 6:30 a.m. - ideal for those looking for an early start.

When I visited the city last year with friends, we had a half day to spend in the town before starting our fall colors-oriented itinerary to the rural parts of the prefecture. We enjoyed our brief time in the city with a long breakfast at Uguisu, the bistro on the first floor of the hotel, a walk through the fish market, and a tour of the Nebuta Museum, which features the giant floats built each year for Aomori`s famous Nebuta Festival, which takes place in August and is one of the most cherished matsuri in the country. On the night of our arrival, we had dinner at Izakaya Jinsuke, which offers a satisfyingly diverse menu of classic izakaya fare, ranging from fish dishes to yakitori, in a very local and cozy setting.

Day 2 - Nakano Momijiyama and Aoni Onsen

The second day on my suggested (and commonly followed) itinerary marks the real start of the autumn foliage journey, requiring some logistical juggling with local trains, buses, and a shuttle. All this is in service of visiting one of Aomori’s most iconic fall color viewing spots, Nakano Momijiyama—known as Maple Mountain—followed by a stay at one of my favorite onsen in Japan, Aoni.

When traveling on my own, I usually catch one of the early trains from Aomori Station—just a few minutes’ walk from Daiwa Roynet Hotel—bound for Hirosaki (a 45–55 minute ride), where I transfer to another train for Kuroishi (about 30 minutes). At Kuroishi, I board the local bus that arrives at Nakano Jinja stop in about 30 minutes, just a step away from the entrance of the Maple Mountain, Nakano Momijiyama.

You may understandably wish to avoid all this hassle. In that case, you have the option to rely on the services of Aomori Taxi, which can be booked online and will take you to Nakano Momijiyama or all the way to Aoni Onsen for a fixed rate of approximately 12,000 yen. This is an ideal option, especially if you are a group of three or more.

Regardless of your mode of transportation, Nakano Maple Mountain will likely make you forget all your logistical troubles once you catch sight of it from the nearby bridge. The park greets you with a view that would probably be among the best-selling autumn colors postcards, if it were printed on one (and it might have been). The lower part of the park features a picturesque red bridge, a perfectly positioned waterfall, and, during the brief peak fall color periods, a fair amount of crowds.

I usually spend more time at Kanpudia, the open square reached by a steep but very short hike through Nakano Shrine. The square is home to a few dozen trees that showcase nearly every shade of autumn color at the peak of the season. There are also a few short hiking trails in the area that I haven’t yet been brave enough to wander into, as Aomori is dense bear territory.

If you started the day early, you might still have a few hours to spare after touring Momijiyama (perhaps even twice) before the private shuttle to Aoni Onsen departs at 3 p.m. (you need to book your seat at least a day in advance). The shuttle leaves from the Nijinoko roadside station, about an hour’s walk from Momijiyama. I usually take the walk, as the road is flat with a sidewalk (including a short tunnel), and the scenery is lovely; however, there is also the bus option. The bus that connects Kuroishi to the Maple Mountain also stops at Nijinoko.

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I hope the season is treating you kindly, whether it’s late summer or winter on your side of the world.

After a lovely ten days back home in Turkey - a country that truly knows how to do summers, where I didn’t see a single cloud, could drink my coffee on the balcony in the morning, swim without having to cover every inch of my body, and eat outdoors in the evenings, otherwise known as the series of activities that should be constitutionally banned in Japan for the month of August - I am now back in Tokyo.

When a visit back home is particularly delightful, such as this last one,1 I, ironically, feel a lot more grounded in Japan upon my return, with a stronger sense of purpose and belonging. I feel better equipped to see the extreme contrasts between the two countries (and there are plenty) in a more fitting and complementary light - working not against, but with, each other. If you’ll forgive my little moment of arrogance, I get this euphoric feeling that I’ve hit the lottery when it comes to countries, hailing from one of the most socially engaging and connected in the world (comforted by that sense of connection), while living in one of the most socially respectful and enigmatically isolated one (which gives me the space and energy to pursue the things that matter to me).

However, when a visit home is more on the stressful side, I, upon my return, also have a hard time adjusting back to Japan, questioning my purpose here while feeling terrifyingly disconnected from my native home. Those hard-to-ignore contrasts do not feel complementary at all, leaving me in a kind of purgatory, unable to appreciate either. I regret the political, social, and economic turmoil that my country has been going through for decades now, but I also feel a little bit of undeserved grudge against the Japanese for their apolitical tendencies. The strong social ties that I otherwise appreciate about my country feel a little suffocating, while the carefully observed personal distance in Japan feels brutally cold.

By now, I’ve experienced this feeling of not belonging to either of these two countries enough times to know it always fades within a few weeks, leaving me with a more manageable sense of balance and belonging. Still, I will always prefer the relatively brief—but addictively euphoric (and, let’s admit, deluded)—phase of believing I’ve won the grand prize in countries.

This rather long and a little dark intro to this month’s letter (complete with an unsolicited glimpse into my inner world) was really just a long way of saying that I don’t have any new Japan-related travel updates for you this month. After my July trip to Okinawa (Okinawa, the Reluctant Paradise), followed by a weekend in Kanazawa (One Fine Day in Kanazawa), I spent most of August back in Turkey.

So, this month, I instead bring you a letter from the very early days of this newsletter, when I had barely a tenth of today’s subscribers, reflecting on the contrasts between my two homes2 (and two other beloved countries, Laos and New Zealand). As always, thank you for being here, and I’ll be back soon with fresh Japan travel content as the fall foliage season approaches.

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December 10th, 2023

Good afternoon,

Unlike the saying, I can believe it is already December. On a personal level, this has been an exceptionally delightful but also, at times, truly heartbreaking year. It was one of those years that brought some of the best and the worst days of my life. It was intense and did not fly by—I felt every minute of it.

But for my country and the world in general, 2023 was, undeniably, not a great year. It has been marked by continuing atrocities, natural disasters that a certain government was criminally unprepared for, and democratic heartbreaks, possibly leading the way to the end of democracy.

And I, with a mixture of shock, sorrow, and guilt, watched all these events unfold from a country that often feels like it is on a different planet (or loves to pretend like it is while skillfully taking you along for the ride). Debates and events that take the world by storm make their way to Japan very slowly, if they do at all, and never as intensely. The most shocking news tends to be weather-related (granted, they are sometimes really shocking, as in a typhoon approaching while a volcano erupts against the backdrop of an earthquake). Even domestic political issues rarely spill over into daily life. Talking about politics is considered not to be a good form (so is open criticism of the government). Although this nationwide living in a world of your own mentality gets on my nerves sometimes, it is also hard not to enjoy the chaos-free and soothing calmness of everyday life that comes with it.

The mood of everyday life in Japan could not be more different than how things feel in my home country, where weather is too light of a topic to find a room in a news cycle dominated by presidents cursing their citizens, the attacks on secularity, regional tensions, and evidently wars, humanitarian refugee crises, never-ending constitutional changes, devaluation, and imprisoned journalists. Every day, everything feels too intense, consistently chaotic, and undeniably consequential. When I talk to friends and family on the phone, at least half of the call, if not more, is devoted to some or all of the above issues. It is not because we are all exceptional and selfless human beings and do not have the heart to prioritize our own lives when the world around us seems to be collapsing, but because all these happenings have an impact on our daily lives and, therefore, easily find their way into any conversation.

This dramatic difference between the everyday mood of the two countries is understandable to some degree. Besides the noticeable economic and cultural differences, the geopolitical contrast between where I am from and where I live is so strong and evident that its appreciation does not require a political science degree but just one quick look at the map.

Turkey is a country with land in both Asia and Europe. It has eight neighbors (Greece, Bulgaria, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Georgia), all, not always peacefully,3 sharing a region where a variety of different political ideologies, racial and ethnic minority groups, nations perpetually in conflict with each other, and religions co-exist or try to. On the other hand, Japan is an island nation sitting on the far end of the world's largest ocean. Obviously, it has no land neighbors. It is also a country that takes extreme pleasure in referring to itself as "isolated," where isolation from the rest of the world was not only a geographical fact but also a state policy for more than two centuries.

With my two homes representing two very different geographical and geopolitical realities and giving me a chance to "look at the clouds from both sides now"4 - this was surely a year when I repeatedly thought of the saying that we often quote and then intensely question in Turkey: maybe, after all, "geography is destiny".

Honestly, I am not knowledgeable enough to have a strong opinion (but only feelings) on whether geography is destiny or not (hopefully not, and things can change). But I had enough travels to, many times over, confirm the obvious - destiny or not, geography makes a hell of a difference. And after the travels of this year that took me from my home in a proudly isolated island nation to the only landlocked country in Southeast Asia, Laos, the destiny of which has continuously been interlocked with that of its neighbors, and then to one of the remotest countries in the world that, as entry requirement, asks you to leave anything from the outside world behind, New Zealand, I came to believe that geography can also be a matter of mentality.

The island state of mind

If you have ever been to Japan, you might have heard the term island nation (shimaguni (島国)) at least once, if not ten times. In his wonderful book about Japan, Bending Adversity, David Shilling refers to the term island nation as "incantation" - a magical term to end all conversations about Japan.

In a country where the desire to be unique, not as an individual (definitely not as an individual) but as a nation, is cherished above all else, the sense of isolation brought on by being an island is often the answer to both the good and not-so-pleasant aspects of Japan.

Good? Well, authenticity - the overused buzzword, but maybe not in Japan. I genuinely believe that if you look closely, Japan still stands out as one of the most authentic places in the world. It is not only because of regions like Tohoku, where there is an admirable dedication to preserving the traditional ways of life. I think what makes Japan authentic is the effortless harmony between the traditional and the contemporary that can be observed almost everywhere in the country, including Tokyo. This hard-to-achieve balance between the old and new never ceases to amaze me.

Bad? Well, there is no easy way to say it, but maybe a little bit of nationalism and a strong sense of exceptionalism? The admirable modesty of Japanese people is often quickly abandoned when the topic turns to Japan and its place in the world and history. As one hailing from a country where at least half of the population could easily qualify as gold medalists in terms of criticism of our country (count me in!), I do not think I will ever be able to get used to this aspect of Japan. But over the last few years, I at least learned not to roll my eyes when Japan is again declared to be entirely faultless about a certain contemporary political issue or historical event, and instead pretend like I had not heard what was said.

Good or not so good (even if not perceived as such by Japanese), any question you might have about a particular aspect of Japanese culture will likely lead to the geographical isolation, island nationness and the shimaguni konjo - the island nation mentality - and you are kindly expected to move on and accept that these magical terms mark the end of the conversation.

The idea of isolation is sometimes exaggerated to such a degree that, if it were not for the maps, one could think Japan is located somewhere around the North Pole. (Evidently, it is not the case. It only takes 1.5 hours to fly to Seoul from Fukuoka and 2 hours from Tokyo. There are direct flights that connect Ishigaki Island of Okinawa to Taiwan in one hour. Not exactly Iceland, is it?)

Let's meet where the continents meet

The desire to be seen as unique as a nation is, of course, not limited to Japan, even though the lovely island nation tends to take it to an extreme degree.

In Turkey, against all odds, we also hold on to some sense of uniqueness. And just like Japan, we attribute our country's uniqueness to its geographical location, but for completely opposite reasons.

"If the world were one country, Istanbul would be its capital," Napoleon reportedly said. Or we, Turks, would love to believe that he did. Not because we would wish our current president on any other country, let alone the entire world (god no), but we would like to think that our location at the crossroads of Asia and Europe makes us unique. 

Similar to the Japanese way of thinking, we also view our geographical location as the answer to the good, bad, and inconvenient aspects of our country.

Good? Awareness about the world outside of our own? Likely one of the coolest Olympic bid slogans ever - "Let's meet where the continents meet"? Or having an easy way out of uncomfortable political discussions by saying you are neither Western nor Eastern? And yes, food, of course, the food.

Bad or inconvenient? There are, unfortunately, plenty (when was the last time you read anything positive about Turkey in the papers?). In addition to heavy and very heartbreaking ones (thus our excessive reference to the saying "geography is destiny"), having to spend more time than most other people to locate our country in scroll-down menus, as everyone seems to have a different idea about our geographical category - Europe, the Middle-East, Asia, Eurasia? Only if I knew. And we have no luxury to live in a world of our own, an unavoidable reality that sometimes feels like a blessing and sometimes like a curse. And a little bit of loneliness? An award-winning Turkish director once dedicated his Palme d'Or to his "lonely and beautiful" country. His statement melted the hearts of many of us who took it as a coded salute to a nation with all its ethnical minorities sharing (or failing to share inclusively) an inexplicable sense of loneliness in the middle of endless connectivity that comes with eight neighbors, land on two continents and three extensive coastlines along the Aegean, Mediterranean, and Black Sea opening our world to a myriad of other countries.

On one side, you have a nation that proudly calls itself "isolated," with little exaggeration when you approach the term from a purely geographical perspective. On the other side, there is this other nation that claims to feel lonely despite all that physical connectivity. And both, rightfully or not, seem to be very genuine feelings.

The faraway but approachable beauty

Then there is this faraway land, which is geographically so remote that its "isolation" rarely gets a special mention (or maybe because the country's heavenly beauty leaves no room for anything other than the terms of endearment).

The remoteness and the geographical isolation are simple facts in New Zealand that the Kiwis just get on with. Sure, it occasionally gets a mention, but simply as the reasons behind the expensiveness of fresh produce and the notoriously strict customs control policies aimed at protecting the island's unique biodiversity.

The unquestionable remoteness of New Zealand and the country's laid-back approach towards it make Japan's perception of its own geographical isolation stand out more as a mental one rather than a factual reality.

Sure, making it to New Zealand is not very easy. In addition to the hours and days of travel it takes, the country has one of the most cumbersome visa processes I have ever gone through (and for Turks, the visa process is never easy). And getting your visa does not mark the end of the journey; one must be mindful of the country's notoriously strict customs policies that aim to prevent entry of anything that may interfere with the country's fragile biodiversity (from a poster at the airport: "Is a half-eaten apple worth a USD 300 fine?").

But once you make it to New Zealand, the country's remoteness shows up in conversations not to underline some exceptionalism but to convey gratitude to a "foreigner" who went through all that trouble to visit their country.

There is no doubt that New Zealand is an exceptionally beautiful country, but what makes New Zealand even more exceptional for me is the country`s willingness to share that beauty with the rest of us.

The physical beauty of New Zealand is primarily owed to its unique and remote location, and protecting that beauty requires tremendous conservation efforts. As a result, the country has one of the strictest nature conservation policies. But the country seems to have found that sweet spot between prioritizing conservation while allowing humans to enjoy its astonishing nature.

The New Zealand Department of Conservation aims to make visitors and hikers feel like true partners in the quest for the protection of nature. And they do so by continuously underlining that they value your enjoyment of the outstanding nature as much as the conservation necessities. They do not make you feel like a potential destroyer of nature with the worst intentions who must be lectured at all times; they approach you as partners in conserving nature by recognizing the fact that you love nature as much as those in charge of preserving it. This inclusive attitude changes everything and adds significantly to the overall experience. As evident in the case of New Zealand, it also appears to yield better conservation-related outcomes. 

New Zealand is a faraway and isolated land, but once you are there, you easily forget all about that.

Laos: land-locked or land-linked?

And then there is Laos, another country with exceptional landscape beauty (that gave me one of the past year's most memorable travel moments), and a nation that is not accepting its "geographical fate" of being "land-locked" and trying to replace that perception and also the reality with being "land-linked."5 

Since moving to Japan, I have been to Laos more often than I have been back home. It was mostly for work trips, but also a ten-day-long leisure trip last year. Laos, home to seven million people, is the only landlocked country in Southeast Asia. It has five neighbors: China, Thailand, Cambodia, Myanmar, and Vietnam.

Until its independence in 1953, the country had seen decades of French rule followed by a brief period of Japanese rule. It is also the most densely bombed country in the world, and it is still dealing with its consequences. 

Today, as the nation seeks to overcome persistent development-related issues, including the inadequacy of fundamental infrastructure, it is also exploring ways to further tap into its tourism potential, much like some of its neighbors have been doing for decades. 

In terms of tourism, the country has a lot to offer. Maybe it is less rich in cultural sites than some of its neighbors, but it has one of the most dramatic landscapes I have seen in Southeast Asia, if not in the world. 

Laos is also a country that is rewarded by independent travelers who often tend to have a little bit of a privileged perspective (including myself), with the fortune but also the curse of being labeled as the most authentic country in Southeast Asia. "It is so not Vietnam, which feels a bit too touristy," and "definitely not Thailand, which attracts mainly the party crowds and beach-goers." Well, yes, Laos is definitely not Vietnam or Thailand, but that is not always a good thing. It is also considerably less developed, with substantially less reliable infrastructure and much shorter life expectancy for its people.

Do not get me wrong, I am not above any of these - let's admit, a little bit of cliché labeling that we use to decide which place is authentic and which is not - and I doubt that I could see the slightly bigger picture about the realities of Laos if my introduction to the country was not through work and multiple visits to government offices and multilateral development institutions working on the ground. But once you see it, romanticizing Laos's authenticity becomes a bit more complicated.

Laos is a country of exceptionally kind and resilient people. It is also a nation that, regretfully, is at the mercy of the development aid extended by its neighbors and other Asian countries, which seem to share a different vision for the country's future. It is also a country through which we, from the comfort of our homes and lives, often live out our romanticized ideas of "authenticity," which frequently conflict with the daily realities of its people.

I hope Laos will someday rise above all of this and show us that its geography is not its destiny.

This is the last Letters From Japan of 2023 and the third monthly one since I moved my newsletter to Substack in October. Thank you for being here; it truly means a lot to me. 

I started this newsletter ten years ago, in 2013, during my sabbatical year, when I sent my first update from Yangshuo, China, to a handful of people I had emotionally manipulated into becoming subscribers (the delightful privilege extended only to family and close friends). Over the years, the audience has slowly grown, and the number of people who very kindly and "voluntarily" subscribed to the list and whom I do not personally know has outnumbered the involuntary subscribers.

Since the switch to a monthly series, I feel a little uneasy about making my way into your inbox every month. Email is by far my favorite form of communication (quick, yet feels a lot less instant, with no initial awkwardness of a phone call, etc.), and I see my inbox as a sacred place. So the last thing I would want to do is disturb yours. So, if you choose to no longer receive these monthly e-mails ( it takes only one click), I guarantee that there will be no hard feelings (unless you are my mother).

I wish you a wonderful December (for very subjective reasons; this is my favorite month of the year) and a happy New Year. I hope, sooner than later, we will meet where the continents meet or in that proudly isolated island nation.

Love,

Burcu

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After the last-minute cancellation of a hiking trip to Hokkaido during a long weekend (thanks to Ocean Day) due to stormy weather, I thought it would be a good idea to squeeze in a quick trip to Kanazawa instead. I told myself I’d be spending most of my time indoors anyway, since the city is known for its museums, and that I could visit outdoor spots in the early mornings or late afternoons. Besides, “this summer hasn’t been that bad in terms of humidity”, except that it, of course, has. There’s a heat stroke alert in Tokyo today. And, the situation was not much different in Kanazawa.

My other, slightly more compelling reason was that, despite Kanazawa being one of my favorite cities in Japan, I had never written a proper post about it, aside from a brief mention in February’s letter titled 'Snow Falling on Cedars'. I just did not have enough photos to craft a guide-type post after losing all my images from a previous ten-day trip due to an external hard drive malfunction. The few I had were either from the autumn colors season or a very snowy weekend visit, both of which can make almost any city look like a dreamland; therefore, they may be a bit misleading for those planning a visit outside of those two gorgeous seasons. But of course, since no one was likely to sue me for using autumn colors or snow scenes in the post, this was also a forced excuse for a city break in late July, when even a 6 a.m. coffee run across the street felt dangerous without a UV-blocking umbrella.

So, while I am glad that I am now able to offer a diary-style post covering a day in Kanazawa for paid subscribers, a little similar to the earlier One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto post, I will in the future need to have way more compelling reasons than the ones outlined above for a city break in Japan (or even to leave my house in the weekends) in the middle of the summer.

In the rare chance that I didn't turn you off from Kanazawa (it is a wonderful city, when the humidity level is not at 80%), below is a one-day itinerary suggestion for Kanazawa. It’ll probably feel a bit rushed, and you’d likely enjoy it more by spreading it over two days and adding a few extra stops. But since “One Fine Day in Kanazawa” sounds catchier than “Two Fine Days in Kanazawa”, and because I did it in one day, here’s the result, starting with breakfast and ending with a slightly boozy dinner.1

All the places listed below are covered by various passes available for purchase online, allowing you to choose the one that best suits your needs, depending on the length of your stay and the places you intend to visit. This is a link outlining the alternatives: Kanazawa Discount Passes.2

7 a.m. - Hotel: OMO Kanazawa

During my last two trips to Kanazawa, I stayed at OMO5 by Hoshino Group, located in the Katamachi district, the culinary heart of Kanazawa. It is a new and stylish city hotel, where you can occasionally find a single room for 10,000 Japanese Yen and a double room for around 17,000 Japanese Yen. As I also mentioned in the Hokkaido Travel Diaries, I usually try to stay at an OMO property if there's one in the city I'm visiting. I think they offer a great price-to-quality ratio, often with a lively café on site and rooms that are both stylish and functional.

While the hotel is a little more than a twenty-minute walk from the train station, it’s relatively close to Kenroku-en Garden and Kanazawa’s two famous museums, likely the area where you’ll be spending most of your time.

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8 a.m. - Breakfast: Isotope

Omo Hotel offers a breakfast option (you choose one of three main dishes, in addition to access to a fruit and salad bar), but I suggest an alternative to start the day, located close to the samurai district, which is an ideal place to start the day`s sightseeing.

Isotope (アイソトープ), which opens at 8 a.m., offers a simple yet satisfying breakfast menu featuring classic breakfast items, such as eggs and other usual suspects, as well as chicken porridge, in a cozy two-story wooden building. The staff is very lovely, and the place is popular, so it's best to arrive a little early. I think it is ideal for both those looking for an Asian-style breakfast and those seeking options more fitting for Western tastes.

9 a.m. - Nagamachi Samurai District

Isotope is right across the street from the Nagamachi Samurai District. Kanazawa, ruled by the Maeda clan, was one of the most prosperous domains in Edo-period Japan. Once home to only 5,000 residents, the city became home to nearly 100,000 residents by the early 18th Century, bringing together not only samurai but also artists and merchants, who greatly contributed to the development of craft culture in the city.

Spared from the wide-scale bombings during World War II, just like Kyoto, the city now features several well-preserved historical districts that, with a little imagination and a bit of effort to overlook the surrounding high-rise buildings, still evoke the elegant aura of the Edo period.

Nagamachi District, nestled between two rivers, is the place to visit for a glimpse of Kanazawa’s samurai heritage, with its network of narrow cobbled streets and a collection of restored samurai houses.

Many of these beautiful houses, likely to send you into a bout of daydreaming, are privately owned. Fortunately, though, one has been turned into a museum: the Nomura House. It is a relatively small house, but it still features a museum space with family heirlooms and even swords on display, as well as several other rooms that open through shoji doors to a beautiful garden and a pond, home to some of the largest koi fish I have ever seen.

Another alternative stop in the area is Shinise Memorial Hall, which served as a pharmacy (established in 1579, even before the Edo Period), offering insight into the daily life of the merchant class of the period.

10:00 a.m. - D. T. Suzuki Museum

Our next stop, a twenty-minute walk from the samurai district, is my favorite place in Kanazawa, which I usually visit more than once in each trip - D. T. Suzuki Museum, devoted to the life of the renowned Kanazawa-born Buddhist scholar D. T. Suzuki (1870-1966).

The main allure of the museum, which is divided into three complementary sections, is the building itself. The Exhibition Space, featuring works and photographs of D.T. Suzuki, is a place to get acquainted with the life and achievements of D.T. Suzuki, while the Learning Space, a small library, is dedicated to his writings. Finally, the Contemplative Space, which opens onto the Water Mirror Garden, invites you to reflect on his work.

Mainly a Zen scholar, though interested in various other forms of Buddhism, D. T. Suzuki was described by another scholar as a “radical”—in the sense that he went to the root of everything to find the human, leaving behind nationality, age, and everything else.

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We’re in the midst of a strange weather phenomenon in Tokyo. In a country with an exceptionally rich menu of weather events, one that has shown me the limits of my meteorological vocabulary and shaken my 40-year understanding of what good weather actually means, this feels like the strangest yet: a cool breeze in the middle of July. Mild by nature and even ordinary for some regions, but one reportedly not observed in Tokyo during summer since 1921.1 I’ll forever remember this day, air conditioners off, windows open, curtains dancing in the breeze, as one of my fondest summer memories in Tokyo.

My dramatic reaction to this rare spell of cool Tokyo weather, which might actually come across as not enthusiastic enough to anyone who had the great misfortune of spending a summer day in Tokyo, undoubtedly also has something to do with where I was last weekend: the Kerama Islands of Okinawa.

The group of four inhabited islands, Tokashiki, Zamami, Aka, and Geruma, along with the many uninhabited islets scattered in between, introduced me to a kind of heat so intense that I lost all faith in Uniqlo’s Airism line after just a brief walk to the beach, and to a sun so sharp that I ended up with a not-so-minor lobster leg situation after only an hour of kayaking, even with SPF 50.2 3

And yet, despite the hazards, it was also the kind of heat you easily forgive Okinawa for, with a level of grace never extended to Tokyo for its brutal summers, thanks to the city`s simple but unforgivable failure of not being surrounded by waters so otherworldly that a new word was needed to describe them.

Turquoise blue, baby blue, crystal blue, aqua blue, indigo - none of these were apparently enough to capture the unique vividness of the waters surrounding the Kerama Islands, so they coined a new term: “Kerama Blue”. A term that may at first sound like a promotional trick, and not even a particularly imaginative one, until you actually experience those waters. The kind of waters that leave you with a shamefully hedonistic dilemma: which is more satisfying, diving into them, or watching them from high above?

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On a blue-sky day, the scenery on Tokashiki,4 with its perfectly balanced color palette and just the right contrast between the ocean and the lush hills that surround it, feels like something out of an anime, dreamed up by an artist almost mocking us with a glimpse of a perfect island world that could never exist. Or it’s like the opening shot of a disaster movie, where the scenery is so deceptively picture-perfect that, even though you know something terrible is about to happen (and that is the whole point of the movie), you still wish the film would linger just a little longer in that flawless world, or better yet, be all about it.

Yet there’s something even greater about the Kerama Islands than the perfect scenery or those gorgeous waters that could easily give the Mediterranean, the Caribbean, or even the Andaman Sea a run for their money: the simple fact that the islands themselves don’t seem to care about their own greateness, at least not from a typical tourism perspective. There’s something convincingly unpretentious about the Keramas, which I would describe as the least “summer resort-y” summer resort I’ve ever been to.

It’s not the kind of island destination that works relentlessly to deliver our long-earned, deeply desired summer break, with all the pre-defined expectations that come with it. The Keramas, particularly Tokashiki, give you some of the world’s best waters,5 but other than that, you are pretty much on your own.

It’s quite unlike your typical summer town, where so much is thrown at you, chill-out music, beachside or even in-the-water service, countless eateries, colorful decorative choices that have little to do with the place itself, that you almost feel obliged to feel explosively joyful in that way unique to summer, so soon after the hopeful renewal we’re all expected to embrace in spring.

Home to only 700 residents, the summer visitors, the number of which easily matches the number of residents on any given summer day, are, of course, a crucial source of revenue for Tokashiki. Still, you get a strong sense that the locals don’t go out of their way to shape the island and the experience it offers around the standards typically expected from tropical paradises. Life on the island goes on as usual, and you’re welcome to tag along, as long as you're fine with the limitations.

This unbothered approach is to such a degree that you sometimes secretly wish the islands acted just a little more like a classic resort town, so that coming across a food cart on a relatively popular beach, one that actually serves drinks and snacks, didn’t feel like discovering an oasis. Dining options weren’t limited to just two venues: one offering a selection of three dishes, the other resembling a factory refectory (windowless, no less), despite the food being exceptionally tasty. Maybe even one of those modern machines called ATMs, which give you money (if you actually have some), could be added to both of the island’s commercial hubs, not just one. Nothing fancy, just a tiny bit more, so the experience feels less like a summer sports camp, where failing to stick to a strict schedule, or ending up in the wrong part of the island, might mean going to bed hungry.

Still, in a radical departure from my very willing participation in many highly indulgent Aegean and Mediterranean summers in the past, and despite being from a country with arguably the least moderate approach to the season and its pleasures (complete with the three-month-long nationwide state of delirium that comes with it), I am, at this age, a little more attuned to Tokashiki’s almost slightly arrogant, no-big-deal attitude toward summer.

In addition to its low-key approach to summer wonders that many other destinations would die for, Tokashiki also carries a less easily defined, but immediately felt, sense of detachment, even though it's just a 30-minute boat ride from Naha.6 Even on a gloriously sunny July day, during the busiest stretch of summer, you don’t have to push your imagination too hard to relate to the feeling of isolation one might experience on the island in other seasons, a feeling poignantly depicted in Tami Sakiyama’s short story Island of Confinement (though with reference to another small Okinawa island.7)

Sakiyama`s story gives us an insight into the experience of an outsider (considered as such even though she was born on a neighboring island) who returns to a small Okinawan island where she once considered settling through marriage. The reflections that she shares during her short trip challenge the romantic notions we tend to attach to island life, but also raise the unsettling idea that these islands can make it almost impossible to leave once you’ve arrived, leaving you with an unshakeable sense of alienation in every other place you go.

The architectural choices on the islands also contribute to this strange, and at times a little cold, atmosphere of isolation and confinement. Instead of pre-war Okinawan architecture, characterized by wooden structures, red-tiled roofs, and coral-limestone walls surrounding gardens and homes, unpainted concrete buildings dominate the island`s townscape.

But, this is a choice not so easy to criticize, given the islands’ extreme vulnerability to typhoons as Japan’s first point of contact. The islands of Okinawa are often hit when typhoons are at their strongest, which typically weaken by the time they move on to the mainland. This seasonally constant typhoon exposure, as I understand it, makes other materials less practical, and painting largely a futile endeavor.

The islands’ vulnerability as Japan’s frontline is evident not only in their exposure to typhoons but also in the historical events that continue to shape their culture and relationship with mainland Japan. Most notably, Okinawa was the site of one of the deadliest battles between Japan and the United States during World War II.

The Battle of Okinawa, which lasted three months in 1945, 68 years after Okinawa became part of Japan following the end of the Ryukyu Kingdom, left behind widespread destruction and tragedy, with hundreds of thousands of deaths. Tokashiki and Zamami were not spared.

One of the most horrifying human tragedies on these two Kerama Islands was the mass suicides of civilians to avoid capture. Some argue, including the Japanese government, that these suicides were the result of the residents’ own free will, while other sources strongly suggest that there were Japanese military orders or pressure to do so, naming the tragedy “compulsory mass suicide”.

Today, in addition to periodic commemorative events, there are memorials on both Zamami and Tokashiki Islands built to remember those who lost their lives. I once hiked up to the exact site where the event occurred on Tokashiki, now home to a stone monument in memory. It was a haunting visit, but one that felt very necessary.

So, there’s a certain darkness beneath the dazzling beauty of the Kerama Islands, reflected not only in the architectural contrasts that challenge the serenity of the surrounding natural landscape, or in the sense of isolation I always find intriguing, but also in a tragic history and a deeply rooted cultural vulnerability. Perhaps that, too, contributes to the islands’ unassuming approach to life, something often associated with island communities, but which, in the case of the Keramas, feels truly hard-earned and unmistakably genuine, evident in their admirable restraint against the tempting urge to reshape themselves around our summer vacation dreams.

As always, thank you for being here.

Until next time,

Burcu

P.S. I am not sure if there is much benefit in a more travel guide style post about Kerama Islands, as the options are fairly limited, but all equally satisfying (when it comes to nature experiences). But there is still one on my website that I try to update regularly: Kerama Blue: Tokashiki and Zamami Islands.

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Here in Tokyo, we seem to have been blessed with one last sunny weekend before the rainy season begins. The month-long season, and honestly not a particularly atmospheric one, is a good excuse to pause travel plans and spend weekends at home, fueling the appetite for future travels.

It is also an excellent time to feel guilty about rarely following through on my plans to visit the alleys of Shinjuku after work to photograph the beautiful blend of evening lights (a reason alone to live in the Far East), the rain, and the gorgeous umbrellas it brings out. The cinematographic beauty that this intentionally seductive lighting adds to even the most mundane tasks, like a quick run to the grocery store, is what I will miss most if I ever leave Japan. Narrow alleys, dimly lit streets, store signs that look more special than they actually are thanks to all the kanji, and, of course, the freedom to enjoy all the nighttime beauty without worrying about safety.

Well, while there are no plans to move from Japan at the moment—unless the immigration office decides otherwise, as we’ve just applied to renew my work visa—the rainy season is still as good an excuse as any for a bit of nostalgia. So, before the real summer begins, bringing with it a slightly busier travel schedule1 (Okinawa to escape the humidity in the water, and Hokkaido to do the same up in the mountains), I thought this month’s letter could take a short pause from introducing new destinations and instead offer a recap of the places already covered in this newsletter, organized by theme. I hope this summary proves helpful for those planning a trip to Japan and looking for a bit of destination inspiration.

So, in that spirit, here’s a look back (complete with unsolicited commentary, since I’m apparently unable not to ramble when it comes to travel) at all the places featured in past letters, supported by additional content and photos from the website, organized by four categories: cities explored, islands visited, hikes taken, and seasons adored.2

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Cities

I suppose the city category should start with the capital, Tokyo, and I’m more than happy to do so. If I had to summarize my feelings toward my home base in Japan in one word, it would surely be gratitude. Having had my fair share of experiences with other metropolises, I deeply appreciate Tokyo for offering all the conveniences of urban life in the most efficient way, while still maintaining a surprisingly rural charm and a sense of community in many of its corners. With its visual and cultural eccentricities, I find it impossible to write it off as just another giant city.

Tokyo is a city that I never particularly cared for when I visited Japan as a tourist, but one that I fell deeply in love with while living here. So, the January 2025 letter, "The Giant with a Big Heart," was a bit of a love letter to this impossibly gentle city of 15 million people, offering a glimpse into my daily surroundings and some of the sights in my neighborhood.

But despite all my deep affection for Tokyo, beloved Kyoto has appeared in the newsletter far more often, simply because I have a better grasp of it from a visitor’s perspective. In a recent March letter, I wrote about a three-day Sakura viewing trip to Kyoto and its surrounding areas, including Mount Yoshino, which felt more like a hallucination than a real place with its tens of thousands of cherry trees, creating a dream-like scenery.

Another post about Japan`s old and so far longest-serving capital was a diary of an autumn day spent in the city (an annual ritual), covering some of my favorite fall color viewing stops in Kyoto.

There was also a special paid subscriber travel diary series covering the Kyoto Trail, the 84-km hiking route that encircles the city on three sides through its mountains, and which I believe is not hyped enough. It’s a fantastic way to experience the city from an entirely new perspective, like being let in on a secret that allows you to circle some of its most visited landmarks via hidden paths, almost in a voyeuristic way.

In terms of cities, there is undoubtedly much more to Japan than Kyoto and Tokyo, a fact the Japanese government would also like us all to know, as part of its efforts to divert some of the visitor traffic to less-visited parts of the country. In March 2024, I wrote about three other cities in Japan, some already well-known, such as Nagasaki, and others just a little less so, like Hirosaki and Matsumoto, which are all historically significant and serve as perfect gateways for gorgeous nature outings.

Islands

Japan has around 14,000 islands off its “mainland.” Around 400 of them are inhabited, and many are well worth stealing time from the mainland for. And if you think the island-nation mentality is strong on mainland Japan, wait until you get to these smaller islands.

I will never manage to visit all of those tiny islands worthy of a trip, but last summer I finally made it to one of the remotest ones: a tiny island off the northern coast of Japan’s northernmost not-so-tiny island: Rebun Island in Hokkaido. The July 2024 letter focused on impressions of this island, which I referred to as the most picture-perfect place in Japan. This was followed by a post on the website offering planning tips, including access info.

As a big fan of Kyushu, its islands have also often found their way into this newsletter and website. I spent a considerable amount of time in Yakushima, to the point where I could once devote a whole three days to car road walking to circle the island, which is otherwise known for its ancient forests, hiking trails, moss-covered landscapes, and Kyushu`s highest peak, the fantastic Mount Miyanoura.

The January 2025 letter was about Kyushu’s islands, covering not only Yakushima, but also the “islands of prayers,” Amakusa, home to Japan’s largest civil rebellion, and Ojika, known for its kominka houses and the (literally) hauntingly inviting Nozaki Island nearby.

The Goto Islands, another Kyushu island off the coast of Nagasaki, which I adore for the rare combination of natural beauty, historical sites, and charming fishing-village atmosphere, got their own #traveldiaries series during an eight-day walking trip across the islands.

And then, of course, Okinawa—with its 49 inhabited islands, which are, in this case, islands off an island off an island. Mainland Okinawa is fun and rich in sights, but if you’re looking for beaches that can easily compete with those in Thailand, though the accommodation options simply can’t, you’ll need to venture off the mainland to those tiny 49 islands. Last September, I wrote about a long weekend on Tokashiki Island, my favorite summer destination in Japan known for its Kerama blue waters and beaches, where I once, after a typhoon, got a very low-dose glimpse of how Robinson Crusoe might have felt.

All these islands were also covered in an earlier island-focused #sundaypost, along with a few others, such as Sadogashima, off the coast of Niigata.

Hikes, Walks, and Rides

You might have already noticed that hiking-focused trips make up about 90% of my travels. I suspect there’s a bit of physical and definitely a mental addiction involved, encouraged by the fact that hikes so often offer the best photographic opportunities.

Many of the hikes covered in this newsletter were already part of the above recap under different categories, such as the "Hiking the Kyoto Trail" in the Cities section, the "Rebun Island hikes" in the Islands section, and, of course, Yakushima.

In addition to the above, there was also a monthly letter devoted to Japan’s pilgrimage routes, covering sections of the Kumano Kodo, a UNESCO World Heritage site recognized for its network of ancient pilgrimage trails, as well as the Shikoku 88-Temples walk. While Japan is home to outstanding outdoor experiences, I think its landscapes fall short of the otherworldly scenery found in places like New Zealand. But what Japan has to offer is something as moving as otherworldly landscapes: the opportunity to combine outdoor experiences with deeply cultural and spiritual ones, and pilgrimage routes are the perfect way to experience that.

Shikoku was featured for the second time in a more recent edition—the April letter—covering my walk along the island’s southern coast, known for its dramatic cliffside landscapes, as well as a cycling trip along the Shimanami Kaido, which I did right after the walk.

While I occasionally covered specific hiking trails in this newsletter, the website is much richer in terms of specific hiking-related posts covering Kuju Mountains, Daisetsuzan National Park in Hokkaido, Mount Aso, Japan’s largest active volcano, and Kamikochi in Nagano, among many others. In one regularly updated post, I listed some of my favorite hikes in Japan, including easy walks and also multi-day trails.

Seasons

Although my writing and photography are not comprehensive enough to cover all 72 micro-seasons of Japan, I’ve aimed to highlight the major ones, whether marked by a flower, the color of a leaf, or the good-old four-season divide.

The February 2025 letter was devoted to winter trips in Japan, inspired by a visit with my mother to the famous Kanazawa, Shirakawa-go, and Takayama trio. As a die-hard fan of the season, there was also the travel diaries series covering a week-long December trip to Biei, in the heart of Hokkaido, where the iconic winter landscape made you forget about -20 Celsius temperatures.

In one particularly confessional letter, where I shared my views on the questionable beauty of Japan, I ironically wrote about fall color viewing trips to ever gorgeous Oku-Nikko and Mount Tateyama in Toyama Prefecture. The Tohoku travels recap post also focuses mainly on autumn foliage trips, though the region is just as beautiful in winter. There are many other fall color destinations listed in this post on the website - Japan Fall Colors: When Country Comes Back to Life.

Heartbreakingly elusive Sakura season was also featured in one of the recent issues, which came after a three-day trip to Kyoto.

Aside from the Okinawa and Hokkaido posts, there is not much summer content on the newsletter or the website. That sure has something to do with the fact that summers in Japan are not made for living, breathing organisms. I’m sure you’re better off wherever you are.

So, that concludes this link-heavy recap of past letters and posts. Thank you for bearing with me. As always, feel free to email me, drop a comment below, or use the chat option in Substack if you have any questions about the destinations featured above.

I will be back in about a month or maybe a little sooner, with the June edition.

Until then,

Burcu

I hope you are having a lovely June. The rainy season has already arrived in parts of Japan, starting in Okinawa and Kyushu, and will soon reach Tokyo, giving many of us a legitimate excuse to take it easy and not leave the house on weekends (guilt-freely).

Following the monthly letter discussing the April trip to the southern coast of Shikoku and the Shimanami Kaido, I am writing to you this time to deliver the more logistics-heavy Shimanami Kaido Cycling Route post for monthly and annual subscribers. Unlike the impression-focused monthly letter, this post is intended to serve more as a mini-guide, richer in planning details. While my original intention was to complete this post within May, the schedule had to shift slightly, extending into June. As a very small token of apology, I’ve granted one extra month of free subscription to all monthly and annual subscribers. As always, I’m immensely grateful for your support and interest in this newsletter. The opportunity to share these journeys with you adds a whole new layer of meaning and purpose to every trip I take.

So, without further ado, here is this month’s paid subscriber-only post, covering what the Shimanami Kaido Cycling Route is, whether it’s worth doing, how many days it takes, where to stay along the route, and a little more. As always, if you have questions or need clarification, or would like to discuss trip ideas, feel free to email me, use the Substack chat, or leave a comment below.

The Shimanami Kaido is a roughly 70-kilometer cycling route that connects Japan’s main island, Honshu, to Shikoku via a series of seven bridges1 and six islands across the Setouchi Inland Sea (a region poetically depicted in Donald Richie`s The Inland Sea).

The cycling trail for the majority of the route follows the car road, with lanes dedicated to cyclists in most sections (which are wider than the terrifyingly narrow bike lanes of Tokyo).

The trail offers a relatively unique way to experience the Setouchi region, bordered by seven prefectures (Hyogo, Okayama, Hiroshima, Yamaguchi, Kagawa, Tokushima, and Ehime) and home to more than 700 islands.

While I would not count the Shimanami Kaido among the most scenic outdoor experiences in Japan, there are a few things that make it stand out to me, turning it into a rewarding trip each time.

First, there's the thrill of riding across six different bridges, each with its own level of appeal. The pièce de résistance is undoubtedly the 4-kilometer-long Kurushima-Kaikyō Bridge, once the world’s longest suspension bridge, which is either the first or the last you’ll cross, depending on your starting point.

The second point is the excellent visitor infrastructure and ease of trip planning (more on that below)—something not to be taken lightly in Japan, where planning travel can often be an excruciatingly confusing process (e.g., Japan Trip Planning Q&A: Transportation).

Additionally, there are numerous side trip options along the route that take you to art museums, quirky temples, and viewpoints, enriching the overall journey beyond a mere biking trip. While you can complete the trip as a bullet ride in one day, as I once did, you can also easily stretch it to two or three days and still not run out of sights to see along the route (more on side trips below).

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We are on the last day of yet another national holiday in Japan: the beloved Golden Week, which owes its celebratory name to the four public holidays that fall within a single week, resulting in a roughly ten-day office closure for some workplaces like mine. It’s also the time when 23 million people are expected to be traveling within and outside of Japan. As a result, Japan Railways requires seat reservations for most Shinkansen lines (even those departing every six minutes) as trains are typically sold out at the beginning and end of the week. It’s possibly the biggest travel week in the country.

And this year, I joined the many millions of domestic travelers filling the airplane and Shinkansen seats. While today is rainy across the entire country, including Tokyo, we were blessed with sunny skies and mild temperatures for most of Golden Week, marking one last opportunity for long walks before the rainy season, and then the season from hell (summer, aka the time when, even if the humidity doesn’t kill you, it certainly doesn’t make you stronger) descends upon us, forcing as much indoor time as possible just for the sake of staying alive.

To make the most of this brief window of too-good-to-be-true weather,1 I spent the first eight days of the break walking the southern coast of Shikoku, followed by a very short but memorable stay in Matsuyama City and returning to the “main island” with a two-day bike trip along the Shimanami Kaido (the 70-kilometer-long cycling route that crosses six islands and seven bridges along the Seto Inland Sea, connecting Shikoku to Honshu) giving me a chance to finally write about a region of Japan I deeply adore but have somehow mentioned very little in this newsletter.

So, this month’s letter is an overview of the Golden Week trip. Since a diary-style post, like the previous Kyoto sakura trip diary, covering all the stops would make this letter excruciatingly long, I’ll be sharing separate posts including a more detailed itinerary and logistical detail: first about the Shimanami Kaido in May, followed by the Shikoku walk in June, under the travel diaries section available to monthly and annual subscribers.

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A walk along the southern coast of Shikoku

Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s four main islands and made up of four prefectures, namely Tokushima, Kochi, Ehime, and Kagawa, is best known for the 88-Temple Pilgrimage Route, which takes about six weeks to complete on average. A close study of the route often leads to a brief phase of disappointment for walkers, since roughly 80% of the 1,200-kilometer journey involves roadside walking (a common reality for most long-distance trails in Japan), with only limited sections through mountain passes, forests, and beaches. Still, many people describe the experience, which involves visiting each of the 88 temples associated with Kobo Daishi (founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism in Japan) with opportunities to stay overnight at some of the temples, as transformative. I’ve previously walked parts of the route, focusing on the more picturesque mountaintop temples, and I’d love to complete the full walk one day.

However, this recent trip to Shikoku had little to do with the Pilgrimage Route. My focus was the coast of Kochi Prefecture, which is home to fewer of the official pilgrimage temples, but offers an array of other human-made and natural sites with the promise to enrich any walking trip.

In addition to the side visit opportunities, there were a few other reasons why I chose the southern coast of Shikoku for this walking trip. First, after the Great Ocean Walk experience in Australia during last year’s May break, my first ocean-side long hike, which made me both explosively but at the same time calmingly happy, leading me to describe it as the hike of my life, I was looking for similar coastal walks.

Second, I was already familiar with the southern coast of Shikoku Prefecture, having once stayed at Kongofukuji Temple, iconically positioned on Cape Ashizuri right behind a lighthouse perched above a cliff beaten by violent waves (a perfect setting for a suspense movie with a religious theme, a little à la The Name of the Rose). This was very shortly after I moved to Japan, at the generous invitation of a friend from Tokyo whose father is the head priest of the temple and whose family lives on the premises. Thanks to that first trip, which happened to take place during peak August humidity and therefore involved sightseeing by car rather than walking, I already knew how beautiful the region was—but more importantly, how walkable it was (under less humid weather conditions).

Planning the route was also a fairly straightforward process, as I stayed in the same area—Cape Ashizuri—for all six days2 and took the bus to the starting point of the walk each day, sticking to the coastal section throughout. Some parts of the route were also part of the Shikoku Nature Trail, a patchwork of hiking trails across the island, with narrow forest sections running right next to the ocean and helpful signage along the way, which made things easier.

Each day involved an average of five hours of walking, usually preceded by a one-hour round-trip walk to the Ashizuri Lighthouse for sunrise. While I had initially contemplated walking seven to eight hours a day, five turned out to be just right, as the asphalt roads left my feet more sore and my body more tired than much longer and steeper mountain hikes on softer terrain.

One thing that felt especially rewarding was that there was always something interesting along the way, including some of the most picturesque abandoned buildings I’ve seen—like the Dragon Palace, which I understand is quite famous among ruin hunters. Some of the beaches I passed (like Oki Beach) were enlivened by surfers, though they seemed a little disappointed by the small waves, while the rocky sections of the shore hosted many oyster hunters. Other highlights included Hakusan-Domon, a sea cave with a large arch; the recently renovated Ashizuri Aquarium—where I watched a puppy on her owner's lap admiring a sea lion; several scenic lighthouses, and last but not least, the Ryugu oceanside shrine, which is best visited in the late afternoon, when the ever-changing cloud formations reflect beautifully on the tiny oceanwater ponds formed among the rocks.

After a long break, being back in Shikoku was wonderful—not only for the beautiful scenery but also for the chance to reflect on my years in Japan: how my view of the country has evolved, and how I relate to it (or fail to), sometimes more strongly, sometimes with a strange sense of disconnect, by comparing my reaction to the same place between two different visits.

The first time I was in Shikoku, I remember feeling shell-shocked by the depopulation rural areas were facing, with obvious signs everywhere: abandoned buildings and barely a person out on the streets. It was the most apocalyptic scenery I had ever experienced—so much so that it might have felt a little scary, if it weren’t for the known safety of Japan. The beauty of the landscape was certainly there, but it took quite an effort to appreciate it, moving past the initial shock of the ghost-town atmosphere.

But this time, everything felt strangely normal, to the point that I almost felt immune to the ghostly emptiness (and without meaning to undermine the adverse impact of de-population on the region, even enjoyed it). I was far beyond the shock phase, which gave me the space to focus more on the visual beauty of some of the abandoned buildings, to feel okay relying on the slim chance that a restaurant marked as open on Google Maps actually would be open, rather than greeting me with a plant-covered façade and a door likely shut for the last time years ago, after walking an hour to reach it. I also no longer felt sad about the narrow wooden houses all seemingly on the verge of collapse, even as laundry hung from every window as a sign of life, but instead appreciated their absurd aesthetic appeal.

Matsuyama: what a lovely surprise

My feelings about my next stop also generously benefited from the perspectives Japan has granted me over the past few years.

The only reason I visited Matsuyama City, the main city in Ehime Prefecture, Shikoku, was logistical: to have an early and comfortable evening after a seven-hour trip, before starting the Shimanami Kaido bike ride the next day, as the city sits just a 30-minute train ride from the route’s starting point in Imabari. But the kilometer-long shōtengai and the perfectly lit narrow streets lined with atmospheric izakaya led me to walk for hours to better soak up the atmosphere (and some wine), turning it into anything but an early night.

I don’t think I would have properly appreciated a city like Matsuyama if it had been my first time traveling in Japan (or if I did, it would be for very different reasons). But with the experience of the past few years, I now recognize how these mid-sized cities, located in an otherwise heavily rural region, showcase some of the best of what Japan has to offer: compact, completely walkable, full of character, with enough sights to keep you entertained without making you feel overwhelmed, and with easy access to nature and rural areas. The mood of the town reminded me of Kagoshima in Kyushu, a gateway to Yakushima Island, but also a very worthy stop in its own right. And in the case of Matsuyama, there's the added bonus of the city being home to one of Japan’s twelve remaining original castles.

Shimanami Kaido: six islands, seven bridges

I wrapped up the trip by (re) biking the Shimanami Kaido Cycling Route, this time covering the 70-kilometer route over two days with an overnight stay on Omishima Island at I-Link Hostel,3 which sits right at the midway point of the route. I can’t recommend this hostel enough, where you can book a private room for just 3,000 yen extra, and the 1,900 yen set dinner was a feast: a vegetable entrée plate, salad, soup, and multiple main dish choices.

Unlike my first ride, when I biked the entire route in one day from Onomichi to Imabari, driven by excitement to reach the Kurushima-Kaikyō Bridge, the final and most anticipated section, this time I cycled in the opposite direction, starting from Imabari in Shikoku and ending in Onomichi to catch the Shinkansen back to Tokyo.

While the Shimanami Kaido may not be the most spectacular biking route in terms of scenery, it’s certainly a very enjoyable way to spend a few days exploring the Setouchi Islands. The route takes you across seven bridges, including Kurushima-Kaikyō, which was once the longest suspension bridge in the world, and passes through six islands, with plenty of detour options along the way. Among the six islands on the route (Oshima, Omishima, Ikuchi, Hakata, Innoshima, and Mukaishima), I spent the most time on Ikuchi Island. It offers some of that charming fishing village atmosphere and is also home to Kōsan-ji, one of the strangest temples I’ve visited in Japan. Founded by a businessman, it reminded me more of Chinese temples (which I find to be very beautiful but felt a little out of place in Japan) than Japanese ones. The island also hosts the Hirayama Ikuo Museum, which features the works of the late painter.

The Shimanami Kaido benefits from excellent visitor infrastructure, with online bike rental options, including cross bikes, road bikes, e-bikes, and even tandem bikes (which always look excruciatingly difficult). Rentals can be dropped off at various points along the route, including at the opposite end of the trail. The cycling path is very well signposted, and there’s a good mix of eateries, accommodations, and, of course, convenience stores along the way. I think, along with the Nakahechi Route of the Kumano Kodo, the Shimanami Kaido is one of the few outdoor experiences in Japan where the logistics are so well thought out that you can focus your energy entirely on enjoying the route (and pedaling, of course).

Also, the route isn’t particularly demanding. I’m certainly not a strong cyclist (honestly, I don`t even like biking that much if not for the opportunities like this) and tend to feel over-dramatically depressed whenever a climb appears when I’m on a bike, so if I managed it comfortably, chances are most people can too.

With this latest trip, preceded by an extended non-travel period in Tokyo (except for the brief Kyoto sakura outing), and the chance to see some friends I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, this has been a lovely spring.

The next trip, which begins in a few days, will take me to Belgrade (Serbia) for work, a city I’ve never visited but have heard great things about. My colleague and I will be flying with Turkish Airlines, as there are no direct flights between Tokyo and Belgrade, and the Istanbul connection works out best logistically (and, for me, emotionally and gastronomically). I am happy that I have been granted permission for a 36-hour stopover in Istanbul on the return trip to Tokyo over the weekend.

In addition to more detailed diary-style posts (one for the Shimanami Kaido and one for the Shikoku walk, available to monthly and annual subscribers), I’ll be back in late May, possibly focusing on the Kuju Mountains, if I can make the annual azalea hike.

As always, thank you for being here. I hope you're enjoying a lovely spring—or autumn, depending on where you are.

Until next time,
Burcu

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