Her coffee house was a slow-moving anomaly which continued to turn out thick toast, hot coffee and excellent parfait.

We had jumped in Lex’s car – a rare treat for this traveller who thought an EU driving license might suffice in Japan – with the objective of finding some late-autumn leaves.

The cold has rolled into Shikoku, and Hardy’s ‘weakening eye of day’ is everywhere to be seen. The text of that poem is for a lifetime on my tongue, such is the power of the winter desolation Thomas Hardy describes, pierced by the song of a single, full-throated thrush.

Our plan was to grab breakfast on the way and I, being copilot, was tasked with finding the optimal venue. A sentence from a Google Maps review caught my eye.

‘The atmosphere is that of an old-fashioned Japanese coffee shop’.

***

On entering, we doubled her clientele. The other two elderly customers were seated at the back – deep in chat. They were rural gentlemen, somewhat older than her, wearing layers of shirts. Their brown trousers were pulled too high, and belted too tightly; each had a jaw of three-day bristle.

She had a kind face, wide at the temples, and wore powdery makeup which balanced her liver spots, and complemented her tied-back hair. Although her apron was tidy and correct, it had likely worked some days since the last laundering.

The menu was handwritten in Japanese kanji, and took Lex a minute to master. It turned out that our breakfast choice was inevitable, one morning set was the sum of it, with parfait as the optional flourish.

Her café, on a busy road with a spine of mountains in the background, needed care beyond her capacities.

The scuff marks on the walls, the dampness in the wooden corners, the sticky soya trays – each required vigour, but little was available. My eyes traced up to the high ceiling.

Close to me was a functioning, modern air conditioner. Above it there was another one installed – this one three times the size, and clearly no longer working. It had turned cream-coloured with grease and age – fallen in battle and, situated in shadows, hardly there at all. A framed photograph of the New York skyline hung below it, the Twin Towers beaming out their confidence to the world.

Lex and I, in hushed tones, spoke about her – her industry in keeping a business going, the integrity of her prices and her simple menu. We speculated that the lady needed a granddaughter – someone to carry things on, and help granny sustain her dream.

Yet for all the presumed signs of decline, the fare was spectacularly good. The breakfast set was fresh, generous and oh so delicious. We exchanged glances as we ate, realising we had happened upon a winner.

On leaving, and in careful Japanese, Lex thanked her sincerely and asked her age. I saw her surprise at the question. She was 73 years old she had answered – quizzical, maybe, of these foreigners and their searching questions.

***

Later that afternoon, we passed that little coffee shop as we returned to Matsuyama from seeing the deep reds and yellows of the mountains. It occurred to me that I will never see this lady again. Our lives intersected for one meal only.

Curious then, this sense of love that I felt for all that she represents.

In the happy silence which falls when the day is done, Thomas Hardy arrived into the evening air. In my mind, I recited ‘The Darkling Thrush’ through all stanzas, treating its last lines almost as a prayer.

“That I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

And I was unaware.”