Leaving Sendai and the ferry behind, I made my way through Hokkaido’s capital of Sapporo and back into blissful rurality once more. Biei is well known for rolling hills of field and flower, and has been the location for a number of adverts, to the point that some areas, such as Mild Seven Hill, are actually named after the brands that took up the image.
All but indistinguishable from Hokkaido – even the locals said so
However, as a result of my rural upbringing, I rather felt a little out of place amongst the hundreds of tourists from Tokyo and Beijing taking thousands of photos of a small rapeseed field with gargantuan cameras, completely ignoring the birds of prey wheeling overhead. I opted to cycle some of the way (although not to the hostel – that was an hour and a half of hot, tiring trudging up hills with 20kg worth of possessions that I don’t intend to repeat outside of military conscription), while most drove from signpost to signpost, barely stopping to take photographs. I, however, focused on the heat and rather more impressive (read:terrifying) wildlife on show in this part of the world, from hornets the size of my thumb to the aforementioned hawks.
Rather, my experience of the area was more one of city-to-country culture shock. Although I’ve been travelling for over two weeks now, this is the first time I’ve really been outside Tokyo on my own. If nothing else my internal timetable still needs adjusting, as it seems to custom here to rise around dawn and be in bed by nine, which means that they fall asleep at about the time the city folk start waking up and operate on completely opposing systems. Twice I have been caught out trying to eat dinner after six-thirty, and generally been punished for it, but that brings me to the story at the heart of this stop.
If I had known the above, I probably would have been more insistent on my supposed dinner reservation at the hostel, but instead merrily set off down the lane to nearby eateries, wincing slightly at my feet and sunburn, only to find that they either only served lunch or were fully booked. Although not yet, there was not a soul in sight. I had reservations about walking another two hours in total to the town, but thankfully a friendly café owner lent me an almost broken bicycle with a torch taped on the handlebars by way of a lamp.
After one of the most joyous (and downhill) bike rides of my life, I came across a similar story – most restaurants were lunch-only, with the exception of the 7/11 and an intimidating-looking sushi restaurant. Opaque sliding doors are common for such places in Japan, but not being able to get a glimpse of what one is about to walk into is rather disconcerting for me. Upon steeling myself, I was told dismissively that they only served sushi. It took three attempts before I was begrudgingly let in and sat down in the tatami area rather than the seats, just to be sure. Three locals with varying degrees of speech impediment were my only companions, and I had my back to them. The atmosphere was one of passive-aggressive confrontation of the kind I had heard about but never experienced in the city.
Not pictured is the intimidatingly enormous ikura (fish eggs), mainly because I wolfed it down as quickly as possible. It was clear (to the dramatic side of my mind, at least), that I was expected to prove myself not just able but worthy of partaking in such a meal at such a place. Naturally, each piece was utterly slathered in wasabi, but ginger, the beer bought for me by one rather loud patron and gritted teeth got me through the worst of it. With the final, nose-burning piece of salmon successfully ingested without choking, I left, with many awkward pauses and slightly suspicious looks from the owner, feeling rather exhausted at the experience.
The bike ride back up the hill(s) was less joyous. A storm was on the horizon, with lightning filling the sky at regular intervals well ahead of the thunder. I met no cars and almost no streetlights, the silent fields just visible in the darkness surrounding the meagre, off-centre torchlight which stuttered at every bump in the road.
Trust me to go to a place of outstanding natural beauty and instead catch myself between distrustful locals and a potentially supernatural murder on a dark country road.