DAY 2

Thursday 29th April

Kashima

A beautiful morning as the sun beats down on Saga. Arriving in new places at night is always a disorientating experience, but in the light of day I discover that a range of mountains line the horizon. We take a brief look around the school grounds, with its mini outdoor Sumo ring and Kendo hall- and then it's time for breakfast.

We head to a nearby restaurant called, in English, 'Joyfull' (sic). The special of the day is a kind of stir-fried beef with rice and a piece of battered fish. Explaining my choice of meal to the waiter, I attempt my first bit of Japanese with the linguistic stunner 'E-tto', which means 'um.' The food was fine, for a Little Chef-alike diner. It's hearty fare at least (and cheap- around £2 for the meal). Paul enters the spirit of things by eating his fries with chopsticks.

At lunchtime, Emma drives us to nearby Kashima. On the way, we pass a big black van with tinted windows and loudspeakers attached to the roof, blaring out militaristic music and spoken broadcasts. It seems not unlike the vans used for political broadcasts on polling days in England, except maybe a bit more threatening. As Paul and I can't understand what's being said, we ask Emma what it's all about- maybe we were better off not knowing. She explains that it's the local fascists doing their rounds, calling for and end to Western interests in Japan, and a plea to the Japanese to repel foreign influence. We sink a little lower in our seats.

Another revelation comes in the form of road signs for 'Love Hotels', which are pretty much as they sound, a sanctuary for adulterers and a venue for various other randy encounters. The name of a leading Love Hotel is the 'Banana & Donut'. I'll leave it to your imagination as to how these items 'interact' on the sign.

We soon arrive at Kashima town, near to which a huge shrine nestles into the surrounding hills. The path leading to the shrine is flanked by souvenir shops, which flog a remarkable array of tat (it's reassuring to see that it's not just Britons who appreciate sea-side postcard humour). After observing the traditional Shinto ritual of ladling water from a stone well over our hands, to purify them before entering the shrine, we make our way in. The temple spreads in all directions, the main altar being supported far above by huge wooden pillars. Paths wind this way and that through the hills; some lined with dozens and dozens of Torii gates (wooden gateways traditionally associated with Shinto temples). One stairway in particular catches our attention, as it appears to wind on and on with no end, and barely anyone seems to be attempting the climb. Aha, a challenge, we think.

We trudge upward, passing small shrines and stone Buddhas to the left and right; some large, some small, some elaborate, some humble. The worn and irregular stone steps wind ever onwards to the peak. Fifteen minutes later we're still slogging away, and have lost sight of all other tourists. Spurred on by the thought of there being something truly spectacular at the top, we continue the energy-sapping ascent.

Eventually we near the summit, and eagerly glance around for our prize. Our reward is the spectacular sight of a rusting water tower. In my mind I imagine a wise monk chuckling sagely and saying: 'concentrate not on the goal, but on the journey.' All very Zen I guess. On the way down we glimpse Shinto priestesses sweeping the grounds of the temple. They wear bright red, voluminous skirts- the sight is very harmonious and serene.

In the evening we meet up with a couple of Emma's friends: Sarah, who is also an English teacher, and Mikki (not sure on the spelling), a Japanese guy whom we meet only once on our holiday. He turns up with a few of his friends and takes us to a nearby Izakaya (Japanese-style pub), which he seems to know well. The waitress opens up a tatami-floored room for us, and after slipping off our shoes we take our seats on cushions around the low tables.

After 10 minutes agonising over the menu, carefully translating then selecting the various dishes we wish to try, we attempt to put the plan into action. The elderly waitress nods, makes notes and heads off to the kitchen. It's only at this point that Mikki leans over and whispers conspiratorially: 'don't worry, she forgets what you order anyway.' And, true to form, our specified meals fail to appear, particularly Paul's fish-on-a-stick which is a disappointment for him. Still, the food is good- grilled chicken and pork on skewers, and a kind of potato and egg omelette. After only 20 minutes of sitting cross-legged, an attempt to use the toilet almost ends in disaster as my legs forget how to walk, and I shamble like Frankenstein's monster towards my waiting shoes. It's a lot harder than it looks, this sitting down lark.

Our dessert arrives- rice soaked in a deep bowl of Japanese tea. It's unusual and, to be frank, not particularly nice but interesting all the same. The evening is spent pleasantly chatting and drinking, and in an act of generosity we would encounter often on our visit, Mikki pays for the entire meal and will not accept any money at all, no matter how much we plead. Apparently it's considered rude to force money upon a willing benefactor, and so we admit defeat but threaten to pay for the next one. Unfortunately we never got the chance to even up.