We make our way slowly down from the camp-site. Rocks strewn with litter and grey, gritty sand will shock in the morning but shrouded in darkness the bay has a certain majesty to it. We run up and down the beach whooping, our voices drowned in bass from the party that’s already started at the top of the hill. There’s a storm brewing out at sea and lightning flashes regularly. It’s too far away for any thunder to be audible. Small offshore islands are momentarily silhouetted on the horizon.

We dive into the water of the bay and are shocked to notice tiny beads of phosphorescent light that shimmer just below the surface. Each stroke leaves a glowing trail that fades almost as quickly as you can move your hands through the water.

A tall Japanese guy, who looks to be in his early thirties, stands in the corner of the deserted dance floor and half heartedly begins poppin’ and lockin’. After about ten minutes he looks around, grabs his bag, and goes to sit at the bar. I don’t see him again for the rest of the weekend.

The tiny shrine that sits on the headland overlooking the bay has a modern glass door hidden along the ocean-facing wall. A taiko drum sits on its side in the centre of the room. My feet make perfect footprints in the red mud.

A young girl checks her hair in the front window of an abandoned vegetable shop. She’s standing on a near abandoned back street in tiny coastal town, miles from anywhere, but still looks as if she’s about to stroll down a catwalk. She turns to look at us for a second as we drive past in the taxi and then returns to her hair.

The taxi driver mutters the same thing to himself over and over, then announces that he’s lost. He pulls to the side of the road and runs across to tobacco stand to ask for directions. His seatbelt has a lump of chewing gum stuck to it in harsh contrast to the rest of the taxi which is immaculate. When he returns he turns off the meter and apologises. We wind through the tiny streets of Hamamura, the driver still muttering to himself. When we finally reach our destination, a mere two minutes further on, he proudly announces, “Ahh, I found it” and cracks a tight lipped smile.

The onsen is up two long flights of stairs. Old photos of the town line the walls on the way up. In a black and white photo two men, both with huge smiles, stand in front of a gleaming police-car; in the far corner, half cropped out by the border, an old woman in a Kimono looks on. At the top of the stairs, new noren have been hung above the doors. The male section has three deep baths and a door that opens directly outside into a garden with a large open-air bath. I sit outside in the rain and watch a farmer wandering up and down his rice paddy, throwing fertiliser from a bag hung at his waist.

I limp out of the main tent, having just rolled by ankle by getting a little too into the DJ spinning Franz Ferdinand. As I step around the back wall, I’m dazzled as Zac lights up a huge canister sparkler and hops back and forth in an impromptu jig, his face lit by the coloured sparks that are flying past his head.

Posted in Japan on Monday July 4, 2005.

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