As I alighted the train at Kinosaki Onsen station, it was not without a certain sense of trepidation.The three-hour train journey from Osaka, whilst still smoother and more luxurious than anything you would find back home, was nevertheless a far cry from the magnetic levitation boasted by the modern lines. The murals on the side of the train – delightfully vivid images of castles, cherry blossoms and samurai battles reminiscent of the Edo period – added to the sense of having gone back in time. Though, as I would subsequently learn from the riverside lanterns proclaiming the town’s 1300 th anniversary, even that underestimated the depth of history in this tranquil town.
As a repressed Englishman, my enthusiasm for getting butt-naked in a steam-less bathing house with a bunch of strangers extended only so far as ticking the experience off my bucket list. Nevertheless, this was what the town was famous for, so I wasn’t about to leave without getting the metaphorical T-shirt.
“Seven bathhouses.” My girlfriend corrected me. Of course, I knew that seven existed, and all within a twenty-minute walk of our guesthouse, but surely visiting them all in three days was madness? One was my limit, and on that, I would not be budged.
Outside the station, we were drawn towards the statue of an oriental white stork, standing proudly next to a trickling fountain of fresh (though incongruously hot) spring water. The stork, or rather its erstwhile broken wing, was famous for tipping off the humans as to the healing properties of the town’s hot springs. Though before you plan a pilgrimage, beware it mainly helps with joint and muscle pains these days.
At our guesthouse, my girlfriend was warmly welcomed with a choice of beautiful, floral yukatas (Japanese dressing gowns with voluminous sleeves). As the Other Guest, I was lent a plain green robe, which I did not begrudge in the slightest… they probably didn’t have any dragon ones anyway.
Five minutes later, we were stomping off to the bathhouse in our yukatas and wellington boots – the latter more indicative of the weather than the fashion. This, I was assured, was perfectly normal – in fact, I was to think of the town as one big guesthouse, with our lodgings as the bedroom, the streets as the corridors, and of course, multiple public bathrooms. I liked to think some of the locals had joined us for the gloomy afternoon stroll, but that was probably more indicative of a thriving domestic tourism industry.
So, what happens at a bathhouse? This is what I what I asked no less than three times, to ensure there was absolutely no possibility of misstep. Though, such is the politeness of Japanese society, I may well have received several free passes along the way. (We did actually have unlimited passes to all the town’s bathhouses included in the price of our accommodation).
In the end, it was actually fairly simple – strip off, shower thoroughly, then soak until beads of sweat appear on your forehead. Some people literally rinse and repeat, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Instead, I showered again, dried off the excess water with my little vanity towel, and returned to the changing room.
Back at the guesthouse, a private dinner was served on a low table set up on the tatami mats of our bed-less bedroom. As someone whose knees refused to bend at the requisite angle, I was relieved to find it was possible to straighten them out under the table. And despite being squeamish about squidgy tofu, the three-course meal was exotic, varied, and ninety percent delicious.
“The other six Onsen all have outdoor baths.” Casually dropped into conversation, the implication hung in the air – sure, I had bathed in a Japanese bathhouse, but it hadn’t been an outdoor bathhouse, thus the experience was incomplete. Back out we trudged, in the dead of night (well, 8pm), to visit a second Onsen. The rain had abated, and this facilitated an encounter with an allegedly lucky frog, hopping alongside the river. I am not a superstitious person, but I also didn’t want a magical dead frog on my conscience, so I trod very carefully after that.
The second Onsen had a spectacular outdoor spring, where the heat of the water contrasted pleasingly with the coolness of the cave. You read that right – this bathhouse had a cave, which I had all to myself for a few glorious minutes, and that made me Batman. After that, another bather arrived, and I stayed in companiable silence with Robin for a very respectable two minutes before making a dignified exit.
The next day, we were treated to a fine breakfast in the communal dining area of the guesthouse. I poked suspiciously at an egg that had been cooked in Onsen water but it lacked a Lion stamp, and as a child of the 80’s growing up in the UK, I judged it a crazy gamble too far. The rest was yummy.
Outside, we took the “ropeway” (cable car) to the mountaintop Onsenji Temple.
For a small fee, we were allowed behind the curtain, to feast our eyes on treasures including a Buddha statue that was made with one thousand arms. Sure, these days it was down to eight-hundred and thirty-four arms, but if you’ve ever counted the legs on a millipede, you would deem it close enough.
The temple grounds included a game encouraging visitors to hurl coins at a small hoop overlooking a rather perilous drop. Having a famously lousy aim, and in any case not seeing any giant cuddly toys to be won, I chose instead to deposit my loose change into an offering box, whilst bowing and clapping several times in front of a giant golden Buddha, which seemed far more sensible.
At the bottom of the temple, there were other novelties, such as a sulphurous fountain spewing near-boiling water over a stunningly vibrant rock, and an outdoor foot bath, which was as pleasingly warm as I had by this point come to expect.
For lunch, we had the world’s best beef in a burger, not to be confused with the world’s best beef burger, though it was certainly up there. The delicacy in question was Tajima beef, which you may know as Kobe beef, but only because that’s the name of the historic port it was exported from. Ultimately, there are no cows in Kobe, and if that’s not on a T-shirt somewhere, then it jolly well should be.
“You get a free rice paddle if you visit all seven bathhouses.” As a lifelong gamer, I was astounded that this nugget was not revealed sooner. Having already bathed in what I was convinced must be the best Onsen in Japan, I had metaphorically, and literally, hung up my yukata. But now it was a challenge, with a ceremonial rice paddle up for grabs, and I was fully invested. Not only did we visit three more bathhouses that afternoon, we also circled back to the previous ones to claim the coveted stamps for our books.
For those who are still here for the details, and haven’t just skipped to the end to see if we ever got the coveted golden rice paddle, I can confirm each of the bathhouses were all delightfully different. The third bathhouse provided two outdoor solo tubs, tiny pods that forced you to sit with your knees drawn up, yet somehow still granted a most relaxing sense of personal space. The fourth was situated in a forest, where one could bathe to the sound of birdsong, and the sight of trickling waterfalls. The fifth was hot. I mean, clearly all the Onsens were hot, but this one felt volcanic. Apparently, that is very much the consensus around town, though nobody knows why, since they are all maintained at exactly 42 degrees centigrade.
Back at the guesthouse, our second private dinner included local crab and more Tajima beef (say it with me – there are no cows in Kobe), and was even more delicious than the previous offerings. Fuelled by adrenalin and thoughts of the diamond-encrusted rice paddle, we ventured out on another nighttime stroll. By this stage, we had been upgraded from wellington boots to flip flop clogs, known to the locals as geta. These came with special ostrich socks, which are designed to consolidate your five toes into two – the perfect number for flip flop clogs.
It was a beautiful, starry night, the air was fresh and the streets nearly empty. Little did we know that disaster was about to strike. Don’t worry, I didn’t step on a frog, but we did arrive at Onsen number six just as it was closing. And this particular bathhouse would not open again until 1pm the following day – the exact same time as our train departed. We had failed, unable to complete our stamp books, the holy rice paddle may as well be floating down the town’s sleepy river. Dejected, we went to bed. Well, actually, we went back to the waterfall Onsen instead, having been gently reminded that the wooden rice scoop was not the only reason we were here.
The next morning, as we checked out of our guest house, we were miraculously gifted the, by now legendary, rice paddles – the owners having taken pity on us and deciding that five bathhouses was sufficient to earn the prize. We visited Onsen number six – me out of respect, my girlfriend because she was not yet tired of the experience. It was another wooded environment, which was very picturesque, though perhaps not quite matching the wonder of the waterfalls.
As the moment of our departure was nigh, we sat in contemplation, gazing across at the final bathhouse, which was tantalisingly visible from the station entrance. It was a multi-level complex, with both a traditional Japanese side and a Romanesque side, which were switched between the men and women on alternate days. My girlfriend would have liked to relax one more time in a traditional scene, whilst I yearned for the glory of Rome. We already had our rice paddles but they felt cheapened somehow – unearned without that final stamp of authenticity.
The train came and went, whilst we basked one last time in the hot springs of Kinosaki. The final Onsen had mosaics, saunas, a sun kissed mountain view, and what can only be described as a gargoyle fountain. It was a stunning jewel that earned every bit of the three hours we had to wait for the next train, and we never regretted it for a moment. To cap it all, we each got the side we wanted, and that, dear readers, is why you should never step on a lucky frog.
- Written by Matthew Lyon, freelance writer, Bristol UK