It was a curious first day, beginning by clanging the bell of a Shintō temple, and ringing to a close in a sanctuary of Hidden Love.

I am on the island of Shikoku, the junior partner of Japan’s archipelago, known for its onsen traditions, its rural beauty and – the reason I am here – its 88 Temples pilgrimage.

The entire route is 1,200km and I have started at the gentlest of paces, easing my body into work without triggering adverse reactions – either from lingering long Covid, or loitering plantar fasciitis. Such are my crosses, though they are dwarfed by the  great gift of life, and its call to live it better.

***

I like a grand plan, but always want to temper how buttoned down my travel becomes. Too much efficiency robs me of discovery, and its attendant joy. That said, the slower-than-usual pace has allowed me to do some reading on the detail of what’s coming my way.

First, I came to the hornets. The bullies of the wasp family have my attention, as autumn finds them in their most aggressive season. They roam Shikoku, threateningly.

I decided to take some preparatory action and asked a pharmacist in Matsuyama for help. We were standing among his creams and potions, using Google translate.

‘What do I need in the case of a hornet sting?’, I asked, pointing at an aisle of options.

He shook his head and typed a response.

‘You need an ambulance’.

***

I strongly object to being killed by hornets. Apparently, wild boars and poisonous snakes are live and dangerous on the island too.

However, I have pedalled across the American West under threat of bears, without ever seeing black, brown or grizzly – let alone being savaged by one. I only have a limited bandwidth of worry. I will procure some netting for my hat, and hope for the best. In any case, because this walk goes through so much urban territory, being taken out by a Suzuki Cervo remains the highest risk of all.

***

It has been a pleasant half-day of walking on the outskirts of Matsuyama. I have visited my first two temples. They are busy, calm places, full of mini shrines, bells, altars and money pots – as well as prayer.

I sat under a tree and watched some pilgrims – Japanese, clad in pilgrim-white and travelling by car – do their thing. Two mosquitos left a donation under my arm.

‘The mosquitos here are different’, Anatole had mentioned earlier. ‘They bite and the itch disappears after five minutes’.

He was right. So they did and so it does.

***

When booking accommodation, stating clearly what you want and do not want yields results. This helped me negotiate a sea view at tonight’s hotel, and a non-smoking room at that. It seems to me that smoking rooms are the tell-tale scent of cheap joints, of which I’ve seen a few.

Hotel Liberty looks out onto a scattering of islands, which lead the eye in their turn to the mountains of Honshu. It is a calm evening, and elegant trawlers, each with the bowed shape of a stiletto, cross each other on the horizon. Beyond lies Hiroshima, bustling and reborn.

On arrival, I discover that my hotel has no front door. I circle the property in wonderment, before committing to enter, via an underground carpark.

It is run by two elderly ladies who have a process for everything. One hands me a laminated page of rules, in Chinese and English.

‘Take it, take it!’ she said, knowing I’d need it. And it was only on studying the rules that I put things together, and knew where I was.

There are no room keys in this Hotel. Patrons are locked into their rooms and must call reception to be allowed out.

In this sense, they have liberty to come, but not to go.

Each room has a balcony with a balustrade so high it almost blocks any view of the boardwalk; which means balcony chats are had with full privacy. A gentleman is feeding ¥1000 notes into a machine to pay his bill, and thus retrieve his car keys. A lady hides her face as she emerges from the elevator.

This is a Love Hotel.

***

In fully pragmatic language, Japanese law categorises the Love Hotel as an ‘immovable, sex-related establishment’, which is regulated and integrated into the urban community.

These hotels, which emerged in the 1950s, are not a novelty; they do not create moral panic, nor are they a source of gossip.

The roadside signage offers a ‘love break’ for ¥5000, or overnight lodgings (my reservation) for ¥9,800. The Love Hotel occupies a liminal space in Japanese society; a means to balance one’s duties to the community, alongside ablutions for oneself.

***

Room 402 is spacious, clean, and comes with a romantic view of the Seto Inland Sea, if you’re willing to stand to see it.

Only in the detail is its specialised role detected.

A bunch of Axia condoms beside the bedside lamp declare that they’re ’worth more than meets the eye’. The TV screen is enormous – a cavernous black more than half the size of the king size double bed – and DVDs are rentable.

In the bathroom, beside a myriad products for women’s face and hair, a loo button issues the loud cry of seagulls along the strand, once pressed. The gulls last for thirty seconds, and act as an aural shield for sounds that might diminish one’s romantic charms.

I relished the idea of being a spare man in a brothel. But it’s not fully the case.

For the majority of customers, the Love Hotel is not a locus of paid sex. Rather, people come here for discretion; either because of an affair, or because they are dating and do not wish the prying judgement of family.

There is much talk of the kindness shown by Japanese people to visitors. I think it is often misinterpreted as a sort of surrendered, naive humility.

But this is not the case.

Discretion and politeness are the tactics of a cohesive society which knows that it must also recognise individual expression.

Their hornets may say it like it is, but the Japanese people rarely express the truth publicly. For this, one must seek out intimate places with a trusted sanctum.

Welcome to the Love Hotel, where the door locks firmly behind you.