Date

2022-12-24, Saturday

Distance

58.56 km biked (4037.79 km in total)

Christmas Eve dawned crisp and cold, and we prepared to push southward, over mountains and into the interior of Kumamoto Prefecture. Along today’s route were three roadside stations; we thought it would be fun to 'collect' them as checkpoints. We also hoped to pick up some cakes or sweets at one of these stations, carrying them into the hills to enjoy at our campsite later tonight.

Just before we turned toward the mountains, however, an unexpected encounter changed everything. A man waved us down from a parking lot beside the sidewalk. He approached with a warm smile, holding out bottles of sports drink and packets of energy bars. 'Ganbatte!' he said. Then he asked where we planned to sleep tonight. When we mentioned pitching our tent at a roadside station high in the mountains, his expression turned instantly grave. 'Samui yo…' — “It will be cold.'

We smiled and shrugged in our usual way, insisting we were used to it, 'Daijobu, daijobu., But the man wasn’t convinced. Pulling out his phone, he began making rapid calls, speaking in bursts of Japanese, and we caught words like 'Taiwan-jin', 'tento', 'samui', and 'benri'. We exchanged puzzled glances — was something being arranged for us? If we could find shelter, maybe even a hot bath, it would be the greatest gift imaginable.

What came next felt like winning a golden lottery ball at a shopping arcade. After finishing his call, the man beamed at us: 'My friend has a ryokan. Very traditional. You can stay tonight. Of course, no charge.'

Our jaws dropped. A free stay at a traditional Japanese inn? Surely we had misheard. But he waved off our disbelief with cheerful finality.

Of course we accepted — how could we not? 'Arigato gozaimasu!' we said, bowing deeply, as though words alone could carry our gratitude.

Still, as we biked south toward the destination he had given us, our relief mixed with disbelief. When we searched the name on Google Maps — Tsuru no Yu Ryokan — our eyes widened. This wasn’t some roadside hostel. It was a stately, historic inn, the kind of place that charges tens of thousands of yen per night. Could this really be true? We nervously counted our remaining cash, half-worried there had been some misunderstanding.

The day’s ride carried us out of Kumamoto City, through Yatsushiro, and onto Route 219 toward the Kuma Valley. This road follows the Kuma River upstream toward Hitoyoshi, a route once devastated by the torrential rains and flooding of July 2020. At the entrance, a large sign read tsoko fuka — 'Closed to traffic'. But here such signs seemed more like a suggestion than a rule; controlled traffic was in fact allowed. Temporary traffic lights had been installed along single-lane sections, allowing vehicles to take turns.

The deeper we went, the more the road revealed the scars of disaster: broken riverbanks, half-collapsed bridges replaced with fresh spans, asphalt patched over craters. Bright banners urged 'reconstruction' and 'restoration', while markers showed how high the waters had once climbed. The landscape pressed in around us — dark mountains looming on both sides, the road at times forced to cross bridges to the opposite bank before curling back again. As night approached, those mountains grew even larger, their silhouettes towering above us, the emptiness magnified by the dark.

In Kumamoto, rebuilding was not resignation but determination. Even as outsiders, we could feel the strength of a community that insisted on coexisting with nature again.

By the time we reached the ryokan, night had fully fallen. Amid the shadowy valley stood a single building glowing warmly with orange light, like a beacon. Even from outside, it radiated dignity and age — a stately wooden structure steeped in history. Sliding back the noren curtains and opening the wooden door felt like stepping into a different era. Inside, polished beams, tatami floors, the soft rasp of shoji screens, and faint traditional music greeted us. The inn was furnished with a mix of old and new — antique wooden chests beside humming electric heaters, paper screens alongside modern switches — each detail showing how people once lived, and how tradition continues to adapt.

The innkeeper — the friend of our roadside benefactor — welcomed us briskly, dressed in a half-length coat and apron, a towel tied around his head as he hurried between dining guests. Without hesitation he ushered us in, told us to wheel our bicycles straight into the earthen-floored doma, and guided us to a side room to deposit our belongings. Then, with another quick smile, he dashed back to serve his customers.

We wandered the corridors in awe, like a country bumpkin lost in a grand mansion, sneaking photos with my phone and eavesdropping on the lively dining room. Who were the guests, I wondered, to stay in such a place?

That evening, we bathed in the inn’s own hot spring — a luxury that felt unreal after so many cold nights. Later, the innkeeper joined us for a simple but delicious curry dinner. We brought out the little Christmas cake we had bought earlier at a roadside station, originally meant to be eaten in our tent, and shared it as dessert.

On this Christmas Eve, it felt as though Santa Claus himself had visited us, disguised as a kind stranger by the roadside. The gift he gave us was more than shelter: it was warmth, rest, and a reminder that the world is full of good people.

We ended the night safe, full, and grateful — the best Christmas present we could have imagined.

Date

2022-12-23, Frisday

Distance

61.12 km biked (3979.23 km in total)

We woke to a world covered in white, our tent pitched beneath the roof of a park gazebo in Isahaya’s city sports park. Snow had been falling since midnight, dusting the trees, grass, rooftops — and even our bicycles — with a delicate layer of whiteness. The hardest part of sleeping in sub-zero temperatures is not the cold that seeps through warm clothes or sleeping bags — those can be layered against. It is the face, inevitably exposed, that suffers. All night long I felt the chill air hovering just above my skin, as though winter itself were keeping watch.

Fortunately, the asphalt still held enough warmth to keep the snow from sticking, so while the landscape around us was painted white, the roads remained ridable. With some relief, we set off toward the Shimabara ferry terminal, eager to 'escape' Nagasaki for Kumamoto across the Ariake Sea. The morning’s ride carried us along small backroads through farmland — the sort of detours Google Maps sometimes chooses, taking us past bamboo groves deep in the hills or cattle barns standing silent in the frost. Plastic-covered greenhouses bulged with crops, while domestic animals — cows mostly — huddled against the cold.

Japanese farmland never ceased to amaze me: The roads could be narrow, just wide enough for two kei cars, yet lined with neatly kept houses pressed close together, as if every metre square of land were too precious to waste. Moreover, everything was astonishingly neat, every corner cared for. Even in the cold of dawn, we passed elderly farmers sweeping leaves from roadside gutters, clearing irrigation ditches, pruning the ridges of their fields, or scattering fertilizer. Even the tiniest 'hobby farms' had no clogged puddles, broken fences, or messy heaps of bricks. Yet abandonment stood out all the more sharply. An uninhabited house in Japan quickly looks painfully derelict, weeds choking the yard, tiles falling away, wooden walls sagging. Here the raw ruin lay bare, exposed to wind and time.

As the morning wore on, the sky began to open. The dull greyness of dawn gave way to a hesitant blue, and sunlight filtered through, setting the white fields aglow. By the time we reached the ferry terminal with just 10 minutes to spare before departure, the day felt lighter, less oppressive, as if the sea itself were breathing a little easier. Heart racing, we rushed to the counter, bought tickets, barely clutched the receipt before dashing to the waiting ferry. The crew waved us forward, guiding our bikes into place. Breathless but triumphant, we rolled on board — lucky, once again, with our timing.

By now we were seasoned ferry travellers with bicycles. We knew the routine: remove what was essential, wheel the bikes into place, and wait as the crew secured them against the wall with practiced efficiency. Then we climbed to the upper deck. A blast of winter air hit us instantly, sharp and bracing, carrying the smell of salt. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked around the ship, white against white, escorting us out of Nagasaki Prefecture and into open water. Behind us the snowy ridges of Kyushu receded, fading into mist. Ahead stretched the calm blue of Kumamoto, promising clearer skies. For once, we let ourselves simply relax. We snapped photos, scribbled diary notes, and breathed deeply of the cold air, as though we could cast off with the ferry every trace of yesterday’s rain, fog, and snow.

Even on the ferry, we were reminded of where we were headed. A giant plush Kumamon — Kumamoto Prefecture’s beloved bear mascot — sat on a passenger seat, inviting selfies from travellers young and old. Children clambered onto its lap; adults lined up for photos as if it were a local celebrity. And indeed, the moment we docked, Kumamon’s face multiplied — smiling from posters, vending machines, manhole covers, souvenir stalls.

But there was little time to linger. We had a mission: to reunite with our Taiwanese friend, nicknamed Superman, and her family, who were visiting Kumamoto Castle this very afternoon. From the ferry terminal we pedalled hard, pushing through the city without pause. Traffic thickened, the pace quickened, and we pressed forward, hoping we weren’t already too late.

At last, around 4pm, we reached the great stone walls and rising keep of Kumamoto Castle. The grounds were already winding down for the day. Shopkeepers along the approach were folding up signs, pulling in displays, and closing their shutters. The air carried the faint smell of food stalls shutting down — skewers snuffed out, sweet steam from chestnut roasters dissipating into the cold. Only a few stragglers remained, hurrying through the gates before closing, their voices muted in the emptying space.

We had just switched on our phone cameras, preparing to surprise them with a playful ambush, when a voice suddenly rang out across the gate plaza — calling my travel companion's name! It was them — Superman and her family — and instead, they had ambushed us. We burst out laughing.

The reunion was pure joy. After two months circling Japan, here we were, unexpectedly face-to-face with friends from Taiwan who are normally too busy even to see often back home. Cameras flashed in every direction as her family happily photographed everything — and everyone — in sight. Under the looming keep, rebuilt after the devastating earthquakes of 2016, we swapped stories, marveled at the coincidence, and delighted in the familiar chaos of family travel. It felt almost like Christmas had come early, hand-delivered by courier and Santa alike, across the snowy seas.

After a round of gift exchanges, and a promise to see each other again soon, we finally waved Superman and her family off to catch their shinkansen. Then we too turned southward, pedalling into the chill evening. Fatigue pressed down, our legs heavy with the day’s effort, but a nearby hotel gave us shelter at last. As we lay down, memories of the frosted morning, the sharp ferry wind, and the laughter of reunion lingered, folding into a single day both arduous and full of warmth.

The full take — 33 more photographs from this day

Date

2022-12-22, Thursday

Distance

35.48 km biked (3918.11 km in total)

We woke to a quiet Nagasaki morning, the air damp but gentle after yesterday’s rain. The hostel where we had stayed self-service in the truest sense: kept spotless through the collective effort of its guests. The staff had gone home the previous night and would only return in the morning, leaving behind precise instructions for every shared tool and facility. Even the entrance spoke of order — a wall of neatly slotted shoes greeted us, a reminder of the Japanese insistence on separating the outside from the inside.

Our morning ride began with a climb up to Oura Cathedral — Japan’s oldest surviving Christian church, built by French missionaries in 1864. Designated a National Treasure, it once stood as a beacon for Nagasaki’s hidden Christians emerging from centuries of persecution. The admission fee was particularly steep for this modest building, and photography was strictly forbidden inside. Though it felt relatively more curated and polished compared to the humbler sites of hidden worship in this area, it was also a symbol of endurance, a reminder of faith that had survived long enough to stand openly at last.

Outside, while my travel companion wandered off, I encountered two French visitors debating in their native tongue. They seemed hesitant, weighing whether to pay the admission fee. In France, they told me, churches are freely open to all — even the sumptuous Notre-Dame de Paris. Oura’s plain exterior left them doubtful. Surprised and amused to hear an Asian face speaking French at the far west of Japan, they soon turned the conversation elsewhere. Learning of my Taiwanese origin, they began asking about history, colonisation, and the political tensions between China, Taiwan, and Japan. We spoke of democracy at the foot of a Christian church in Nagasaki. 'Democracy is not perfect,' I found myself telling them, 'but it is by far the best political system humanity has ever had.'

From there we made our way to the Nagasaki Peace Park, which opened before us as a wide, contemplative space. Compared to Hiroshima, Nagasaki’s commemorations feel more understated, more subdued. At its heart stood the towering Peace Statue, one hand pointing to the sky, the other extended in prayer for peace. Next to the monuments stood row upon row of colourful paper cranes, folded and strung into garlands, thousands upon thousands of them. They fluttered gently in the wind — a childlike gesture of hope, yet heavy with mourning.

At the hypocentre, where a simple black granite pillar marks the exact point of detonation, the stillness of the square carried an unspoken weight. Around it, an empty plaza stretched in silence, the absence itself speaking louder than any display. Here too stood remnants of the Urakami Cathedral, once East Asia’s largest church, reduced to rubble by the blast. A fragment of its brick wall still remains, scarred yet upright, a witness to both destruction and endurance.

From there we descended into the Atomic Bomb Museum. The exhibits did not shout: they whispered with fragments. Photographs of the flattened city, testimonies from survivors, and the clock stopped at 11:02 all pressed into us more than words could.

Walking among these sites was profoundly sobering. The park and hypocentre struck us with their starkness — an openness filled with absence, inviting each visitor to imagine what once stood, and who once lived, on this ground — beneath it, there was the awareness that this was once the epicentre of unimaginable destruction that occured on 9 August 1945, when this same sky unleashed fire hot enough to melt steel and flesh alike.

Yet Nagasaki is more than tragedy. The city’s unique history as Japan’s sole open port during the Edo period fostered trade with the European and the Chinese, leaving behind a cosmopolitan flavour. Walking the narrow adjacent streets, we caught glimpses of this blend: Chinese temples, Dutch-style brick warehouses, Catholic churches, and Japanese wooden houses all side by side. It felt like a city that had absorbed the world — and survived the worst.

Leaving Nagasaki, we traced a road south to reach tonight's stop Isahaya. The way was anything but easy. Our GPS guided us into the woods, up a one-lane mountain road fit only for kei cars. To our right the hillside dropped away steeply, unguarded by any fence. As we climbed higher, snow began to fall. The ground was too warm for it to settle, but the flakes melted into slickness under our tires. Each turn demanded caution — a single slip could have sent us sliding into the valley.

What made this mountain road particularly hard to endure was its loneliness. Unlike other mountainous regions we had biked through, where villages or fields softened the wilderness, these hills felt stripped of human presence. Down in the valley we could glimpse the occasional scattering of houses, faint signals of civilisation — but up here there was absolutely nothing, only the tight press of trees and the sound of our own breath.

As we climbed higher, snow began to fall. The ground temperature wasn't high enough for snow to accumulate, but the flakes melted instantly on the asphalt, turning it wet and sliperry. The tires hissed over the wet surface, threatening to slip with every turn of the wheel. Each corner revealed yet another stretch of uphill, and with it the doubt of whether the descent would ever come.

We pressed on slowly, our breath visible in the cold, until finally the road descended and the lights of Isahaya appeared ahead. Relief mingled with fatigue: another day survived, another silence carried with us.

The full take — 55 more photographs from this day

Date

2022-12-21, Wednesday

Distance

24.87 km biked (3882.63 km in total)

We woke at the roadside station under a grey, dripping sky, the sea still hidden in mist. The air smelled of salt and wet earth, and the hills around Higashishitsu seemed to dissolve into the fog. It was the perfect weather to step into the world of Shusaku Endo (1923 –1996).

The Endo Shusaku Literary Museum stands quietly above the coast, its wide windows facing the same grey waves that had once inspired the author. Endo, often called Japan’s foremost Christian novelist, in his masterpiece, Silence, tells of Portuguese missionaries in 16th century Japan, their struggles with persecution, betrayal and the silence of God in the face of human suffering. For over two centuries under Tokugawa persecution, believers here had disguised their faith — praying to Jesus in the rhythm of Buddhist chants, carving Marian statues in the likeness of Kannon, and passing fragments of their faith from parent to child in whispered secrecy. These fishing villages and ridges were not abstractions in the novel — they were living ground, heavy with memory.

Inside, the hush of the galleries seemed to mirror that silence. We lingered over manuscripts and letters, but more than any display, it was the framed window at the reading room that transfixed us: beyond the glass, the restless grey sea stretched out endlessly. How could fragile wooden ships from Portugal have ever reached this jagged coast? It felt uncanny to stand in the very landscape that had seeded the novel.

In the guestbook, I left my own reflection:

As I put down the pen, I felt as though I had left a part of myself there — a quiet acknowledgment of how Endo’s words had shaped my own spiritual journey and subsequent physical travel. Although I am still not a Christian, or religious in any sense of the word, my journeys had indeed brought me to a kind of 'rediscovery of faith' — not in God, but rather in humanity itself, revealed on the road through the kindness of strangers. Leaving those words behind felt like a small offering, but one that seemed to belong in that place overlooking the sea.

At the gift shop, I indulged myself in a small treasure hunt. Alongside volumes of Endo's literary corpus were exhibition catalogues from years past and even a facsimile of Silence's original manuscript. Endo’s neat yet vigorous penmanship faithfully reproduced. Such finds, unavailable anywhere online, felt like a secret trove waiting for travellers who had come all the way to this secluded corner.

By noon we mounted our bicycles again, wheels splashing through puddles. The rain has stopped yet the sky remains grey. Riding toward Nagasaki, cars often honked encouragingly, and strangers offered unexpected gifts: a woman handed us fried chicken, while a man pressed several thousand yen into our hands, urging us to eat well and keep our strength. Against the backdrop of sleet, rain, and endless climbs, such kindness felt overwhelming. It made us resolve to give back what we had received someday. It was a reminder that my 'faith in humanity,' rediscovered on the road years ago in Canada and deepened again here in Japan, continues to be nourished by these simple yet profound gestures.

The road grew busier as we approached the city of Nagasaki. Bridges arched across rivers, trams clattered through streets, and suddenly the quiet of the countryside gave way to the bustle of a city long shaped by encounters with the outside world — Portuguese traders, Dutch merchants, Chinese scholars, American occupiers. Few Japanese cities feel so cosmopolitan, so layered with the meeting of cultures.

By evening we checked into our lodging. While drifting to sleep, we were aware that tomorrow would bring us face to face with another silence — the silence left in the wake of the atomic bomb.

Date

2022-12-20, Tuesday

Distance

83.47 km biked (3857.76 km in total)

Morning began with another gift: homemade radish cakes from Caiyin-san, soft and sweet with the richness only winter daikon provides. Then the farewells. Outside her little pharmacy — shelves lined with jars of Chinese traditional medicine — she stood waving as we set off. Her husband, who works at the American naval base in Sasebo’s city centre, had already left for duty, so it was just her sending us on our way. The warmth of her solstice feast still lingered in our stomachs, and the easy conversation in Mandarin still echoed in our minds. We left Kosaza with full bellies, grateful hearts and the rare comfort from this unexpected encounter at Japan’s farthest western edge.

Our first stop was the town centre of Kosaza. At the tourism office, visitors can request an official certificate testifying their arrival at Japan’s westernmost point. We laughed as we picked it up: twice in Hokkaido we had ignored similar certificates, deeming them unimportant scraps of paper. What mattered was the journey itself, not official stamps of proof. Still, this time we accepted one, amused at the formality — and at how bureaucratically neat Japan likes to make even its extremities.

From there we pedaled into Sasebo, a city of slopes and narrow backstreets. Houses clung to the hillsides, stacked almost precariously one atop another, while down by the waterfront stood colossal cranes and gantries for shipbuilding. From the alley where we paused to catch our breath, the scene below was striking: not small fishing boats, but hulking vessels and warships, a reminder that Sasebo is less a fishing harbour and more a naval city.

Leaving Sasebo behind, the road carrying us toward the Sotome region, a land once home to Japan's 'hidden Christians', bent inland. We found ourselves climbing through hills, one after another, past scattered clusters of houses clinging to mountain ridges. Here the density of life thinned; quiet mountain villages dotted the route. After several climbs, the road wound back to the coast, threading across bridges that leapt from inlet to inlet, peninsula to peninsula. Each crossing revealed new layers of ridges fading into the distance, the terrain rugged and unrelenting.

Then came the climb — not just a hill, but a long, grinding ascent that seemed to rise forever. The road wound up through winter woods. Each turn revealed another ramp rising steeper still. Our panniers dragged behind us like anchors, and even standing on the pedals, progress was slow, agonising. My legs burned, lungs heaved, and sweat froze almost as soon as it formed under the cutting wind. Somewhere near the summit, silence pressed in, broken only by the rasp of our breathing and the squeak of chains straining under effort.

By the time we reached the seaside again, night had already fallen. The coastal road was a rollercoaster of ridges, a relentless series of short ascents and plunges. The ocean was just beside us, yet shrouded in darkness, invisible but palpably near. That unseen presence lent a thriller’s tension to our ride: we knew the sea was there, crashing and heaving, but could only sense it by the damp wind in our faces.

Finally, exhausted, we reached the roadside station at Higashishitsu, Sotome. It stood beside the Endo Shusaku Literary Museum, which we planned to visit the following morning. My travel companion was too tired to wait for the tent to be set up and fell asleep almost instantly on the bench inside the station, while I busied myself with photos and scribbling notes for the diary in the light. Inside the station, I picked up pamphlets about the 'Hidden Christian Sites in the Nagasaki Region.' To my surprise, I learned they had been inscribed as an UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2018 — recognition of centuries of quiet resilience and faith lived in secrecy along these remote coasts.

Here fate played its hand again: who should we bump into but Tora-san — the third time! Every farewell seemed final, and yet somehow our routes kept converging in Nagasaki prefecture for no less than 4 times in the end. We joked that perhaps the god(s) of travel had bound our itineraries together!

The full take — 19 more photographs from this day

Date

2022-12-19, Monday

Distance

65.22 km biked (3774.29 km in total)

The morning began with a delightful 'breakfast summit' with Tora-san. Over steaming coffee, we confirmed what we had suspected: he was Japanese (no wonder he could sustain such a long trip!). His signboard was written in Italian purely because, as he put it, 'It looks cool.' We agreed. He had started from Kochi, made it all the way north to Hokkaido, and had already visited Japan’s northernmost and easternmost points. Tomorrow, he said, he was heading for the westernmost point — same as us! What an incredible coincidence to have our paths cross here, at this precise time and place. Even funnier, he carried Ortlieb panniers identical to mine. Like us, his meals were mostly convenience-store fare.

We parted ways with Imari under a clear but biting winter sky. The mountains were dusted with frost, though sunshine gave us confidence. But halfway up the climb, another snow squall hit, forcing us to slow. Just then, a driver waved us down: An accident had already occurred higher up due to icy roads. Cars could go no further. Bicycles technically could, the driver warned — but at great risk. He suggested a safer detour through Arita, the town famous for its blue-and-white porcelain, then onward to Sasebo.

The detour turned out to be a blessing. Though longer in distance than the original mountain route, the detour was smoother and spared us much pain.

Near Sasebo, as we approached a fishing harbour, a car pulled over and a woman approached, speaking rapid-fire Japanese. We pieced together enough to understand: she thought we were Taiwanese cyclists touring Japan, and insisted on introducing us to a Taiwanese friend living nearby. Still confused, we offered a few cheerful hai! arigatogozaimasu! (Yes! Thank you very much!) responses, and before we knew it, we were pedalling behind her car, off Google Maps’ route, into a small street. There, a woman in a white medical coat waved at us — Caiyin-san, a Taiwanese long settled in Sasebo’s Kosaza district, right at mainland Japan’s westernmost point!

It turned out Caiyin-san rarely met fellow Taiwanese here. Ironically, we had assumed the westernmost monument was a popular stop for Taiwanese travellers, but most simply follow Google’s directions and miss the little backstreets. Had her neighbour not intercepted us, we would have ridden past without ever meeting her. These little twists of fate, these unexpected encounters, are the very spice of travelling. (Even more coincidental is that both Caiyin-san and I put on the same purple merino vest from UNIQLO that evening.)

The official monument at Cape Nomazaki stands on a windswept cliff accessible only by stairs. Looking at the East China Sea that stretches endlessly westward, we imagined how the sunset would have been spectacular had it not been marred by low clouds clinging to the horizon. Here, travellers often pause for photographs marking the journey to one of Japan’s four extreme points. But unlike other 'edges of the map' we have visited, this cape does not feel desolate or abandoned. A small fishing community lives right at the point itself, their boats bobbing at the docks. Instead of solitude, the place feels distinctly human — neighbours happy to guide lost travellers, locals curious about strangers arriving at the edge of their world.

For us, the real highlight was Caiyin-san’s warm hospitality. That evening, worried we would lose our way, her husband drove out to guide us back to their home. Such kindness warmed us more than any heater. And there was more: an early winter solstice feast, complete with Taiwanese-style tang yuan dumplings stuffed with meat. We hadn’t expected to celebrate the solstice in Japan, let alone with such a homely taste of Taiwan.

Over the table, Caiyin-san told us many things related to her adopted country that we have long since wondered about. Remember we marvelled at Japanese schoolchildren lining up so perfectly on their way to school? She explained that this discipline is learned from the moment they begin formal schooling. Elder students would lead the younger ones in height order, like a moving staircase of bobbing heads. Occasionally, when the weather is utterly harsh, Caiyin-san picks the children up to escort them to school by car. At those times, even the most disciplined little ones beam with relief at escaping the cold weather elements Caiyin-san also shared with us her experience of raising a interracial child in rural Japan, with all the challenges and rewards that entails

Late into the night, conversation turned to Nagasaki’s Christian past — the secret gatherings, the persecution, the inspiration for Endo Shusaku’s Silence. These stories felt more vivid when shared in perfectly understandable Mandarin over a family table. That night, in Japan’s far west, we felt at home.

Date

2022-12-18, Sunday

Distance

74.06 km biked (3709.07 km in total)

Last night we pitched our tent in a small roadside park along National Route 3. It was bitterly cold. At dawn, stumbling half-asleep into a convenience store, I noticed the raindrops outside looked unusually thick. Wait… those were not raindrops. Snowflakes! Heavy, wet, and blown sideways by the wind. Within moments the air turned white, snow battering my cheeks until even pain disappeared beneath the numbness.

The blizzard was fierce but fleeting. The clouds rushed across the sky, tugged by invisible winds. One moment the sun shone bright over a glittering blue sea, the next the sky darkened, spitting out icy shards. When the winds fell still, the snowflakes seemed to hang suspended, tumbling in slow motion. Time itself felt warped — fast-forward, rewind, pause — as though the air had become visible with each breath of white mist.

This evening we threaded between coastal roads and mountain passes, trains rattling along the tracks beside us. The crashing surf kept rhythm with our pedals. With winter winds cutting through our jackets, this journey carried a frozen charm.

We finally stopped for the night at the roadside station in Imari, finding shelter beneath a wooden pavilion. To our delight, the place already had two residents — a pair of friendly stray cats. One was a bold tabby who demanded attention, the other a sleek black cat who watched us from a safe distance. Later, a third tabby appeared like a phantom, vanishing as quickly as it came. Their little den by the pavilion felt warmer just by their presence.

After dinner, as we returned to our tent, we noticed something unusual: another bicycle leaned against the pavilion. To our surprise, it was Tora, a fellow cyclist on his own grand adventure — already on day 213 of his Japan loop! The father we had met in Fukuoka hadn't been exaggerating after all. What were the chances that our paths would cross here of all places? We each pitched our tents side by side under the same roof, sharing stories with laughter, the cats darting in and out as though curious about this impromptu traveller’s camp.

Tomorrow, perhaps, a breakfast exchange is in order — nothing bonds strangers quite like hot coffee on a winter’s morning.

Date

2022-12-17, Saturday

Distance

68.58 km biked (3635.01 km in total)

Before leaving Kitakyushu, we spent a good portion of the morning wandering around the shopping arcades near Kokura Station, hunting for decorative manhole covers. Some featured characters from Galaxy Express 999, the spacefaring manga by Leiji Matsumoto (松本零士, 1938 – 2023) who grew up in this very city. For Kitakyushu, these covers are more than street ornaments — they are proud reminders that the city is a manga stronghold, and home to celebrated artists such as Matsumoto. In fact, this project was launched in 2018 to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Kitakyushu Sewerage Bureau by mapping out iconic characters from the beloved series across the city. Out of 9 decorated manholes, we managed to spot 4, but a few others were so elusive that we eventually gave up the chase with a sigh.

By the time we pedaled into Fukuoka, the cold had sunk deep into our bones. Shivering, we made a beeline for a steaming bowl of Ichiran Ramen, the Fukuoka-born chain restaurant that made tonkotsu broth famous. Their specialty is a rich, creamy pork-bone soup paired with thin straight noodles. Eating it, however, is a strange ritual: diners sit in little cubicles separated by wooden dividers, food silently delivered through a bamboo curtain. It felt more like an exam stall than a restaurant — comforting for the stomach, but oddly lonely for the soul. Still, nothing warms frozen fingers like that silky tonkotsu broth.

Outside the restaurant, we bumped into a Chinese family. When they spotted our sign announcing our 'Cross-Japan Bike Tour', the father gave us an enthusiastic thumbs up. He mentioned he had seen another long-distance cyclist a few days earlier on the mountain roads, doing a similar circuit around Japan. We laughed it off — surely no one else would be crazy enough to attempt this in the dead of early winter. At the time, we dismissed his words as a kind of traveller’s tall tale … but little did we know, it was a foreshadowing we would come to remember!