Mountain air that smells of eggs

I have been unable to exceed five hours of nocturnal sleep since arriving in Japan but have high hopes for tonight based on my recent consumption of a washing up bowl of soporific ramen noodles.

But I did want to blog before bed-time as so much has happened. Adam and I are just back from Hakone, 90 minutes on the ‘romance train’ (a species of bullet train) from Tokyo. It’s a place billed as ‘no must sees’ in the guidebooks and therefore a must-see for Adam and I, jaded from our years if living in ‘the most beautiful part of England.tm’. Hakone is famed for its hot springs, which I’ll cover later, and appears to be a rather charming ‘something for everyone’ kind of tourist resort – we’re talking a Begonia Museum - clinging onto various mountainous precipices and even in mid-week March, popular. It’s the home of the Hakone Open Air Museum, an old skool sculpture park, whose former director Adam had charmed in the Grizedale drizzle a few years back. The old school tie network of international sculpture parks meant that Mr Matsimura and Mrs Noda – whose park is funded by the Fuji empire – were happy to return the favour many times over, and we spent today with them sampling the incredible density of amusements on offer - from eggs cooked in the sulphurous steam of the local volcano (eggy smell / ergo eat eggs – what’s that about?!) - to a clotted cream tea at the colonial Fuyima Hotel, a Shinto shrine plus – in the inclusive Japanese spirit - a Buddha carved into a rockface.

We were very generously accomodated in the Park’s own club, a rather classy late 60’s affair, very stylish despite the bizarre Japanese versions of mid-century European art. Vast windows looked out onto exquisite Hokusai-esque forests, and closer the the building were tiny courtyards of traditional Japanese plantings – including the seasonal cherry trees. I squeezed in 2 traditional Japanese baths – one reluctantly this morning at 5 due to jetlag – and one last night. In both I was alone, though they are usually communal experiences where you wash first and then join the deep, wood and stone bath for a very very hot soak. In Hakone these baths are heated naturally by the hot springs, and a water level window looks onto an exquisite private courtyard. It was sublime and I am now wondering if I could fit one in at home.
Perhaps the most exciting thing was the dining, which took place in an epic room with very groovy 60’s carpeting, James Bond-esque picture windows, and a soundtrack of late 50’s Western pop.
On arrival for dinner our places were already set with a seasonal array of incredible creations – probably 15 separate dishes – and this was only one half of what was to follow in a succession of pots, dishes and trays. The artfulness is almost impossible to describe and each flavour was distinct, some fragrant and moist, some austere. Our hosts seemed genuinely delighted at our enthusiasm for the food, more so at breakfast when we devoured a traditional Japanese breakfast of rice, pickles and fish to the strains of the Everley Brothers and polite smalltalk about driving in England (actually that’s a crap description as noone can ‘devour’ such delicate foo, at least not with my chopstick skills). After dinner we retired to chat in a traditional tatame room, which save for the passive smoking and my jetlag, was a very enjoyable chance to talk cats with our host (he had a persian that looked like Catherine Deneuve and we discussed how to prevent them from ruining the tatame) and witness the endearing giggliness and natural warmth of the Japanese.

The Museum itself is located against a breathtaking natural backdrop, but is dominated by vast works by generally obscure 20th century sculptors. I found myself more interested in the tree-training structures all over the garden. The collection is still growing under Fuji’s patronage but the impression is of a tourist experience rather than an art one. However, this isn’t to denigrate it, as it as fascinating to visit not only the park but the other cultural sights locally with Mr Matsimura and Mrs Yoda – and to witness an attitude to cultural consumption so different from our own – one perhaps of a kind of casualness – which at its worst, in the UK, we see as camera snapping hordes of Japanese tour groups – but in fact one can interpret as consumerism akin to any other practiced here.