They had been friends for 70 years. Two were aged 92 and their junior partner was 89.

Their habit was to come to her café every day at 10am. If they failed to appear for whatever reason, she or her mother, aged 81, would ring their homes to make sure they were all right.

All four tables of her establishment were occupied when I arrived, so I pointed to the only spare seat, beside the elderly gentlemen. Perfect, I gestured, if the men are good with me squeezing in.

The arrangement was done gently and with dignity. It was not a problem, and one shuffled a little to make room.

***

Kyoto, northwest of Osaka, is distinguished among the large cities of Japan for the lack of bombardment it received during the closing months of war. It is only when you walk her narrow streets and encounter the plethora of traditional, upturned roofs that the character of Japan’s most desired city fully speaks.

Visiting the Imperial Villa became my day’s assignment. Eva said it would be worthwhile – and I like to take her cultural recommendations as marching orders.

The same-day ticket, for which one has to present one’s passport, meant I had to wait for a period. And so my old-man adventure began.

***

Café Mugen – named for a secret dream, not for mugs – was a humble affair, built on warm intention. Like many Kyoto eateries, it catered for a dozen people and no more, giving it the effect of entering someone’s front room. Mugen’s space was decorated with the clutter of business folders and with cheap posters. The most dominant of the latter – Kyoto in autumn – was attached with Blu Tack. The greased rings on each of its four corners bore testament to its seasons on the wall.

The gentlemen sat comfortably, rarely engaging in chat. The man closest to me read his paper, resting his ankle on the opposite knee in a figure-four posture. Another examined his nails. The third contemplated the toilets.

When a brief comment emerged, the others tended to assent quietly.

The café owner, a middle-aged lady with thick eyelashes and good English, rotated among her customers, refilling hot coffee from a carafe in the manner of a Manhattan diner. She asked where I was from, and announced my answer to the gentlemen.

‘Ireland or Iceland?’ one asked. ‘How long did it take to get here?’ from another. ‘Is it grey all the time?’.

We exchanged comments on and off as the time passed.

The man beside me agreed to speak into my iPhone’s translate function, so that we might understand each other. ‘Urinate Japan’ was his first declaration. This did not fill him with motivation to continue, although he seemed to like that I enjoyed it.

You’ll like the Villa tour, she said in a quiet moment.

The autumn colours are out. It’s a lovely wander, and you won’t get lost because a security man follows every group to make sure no one strays.

Indeed, I would discover that the Imperial Villa at Katsura is treated in a sanctified manner. Built 400 years ago by an imperial prince who venerated the moon and nature, the buildings and gardens were meticulously conceived so that each new step might reveal and conceal, in equal measure.

***

These men had lived through the war.

The older pair were eight when their country attacked Pearl Harbor and twelve when the Americans dropped on Hiroshima. Since their birth, Japan had been turned inside out, with a curiously American layer placed on their culture, including the hot coffee which we all now were consuming.

But through randomness of birth, they were born in the untouchable city. The Target Committee had removed it as a potential focus for bombing. The loss of Kyoto, they were advised, would weigh too heavily on the Japanese psyche.

***

She prepared my bill, and gifted me an origami frog for my wallet. It represented a double prayer, she explained, that I might come again to Mugen, and that money might return to my pocket. The token seemed to sit at the intersection of ripe and rotting, and I was unsure where now to file it.

But I had a question for the man reading the paper before I departed. What advice could he impart to me, from the advantage of his 92 years?

As she translated my question, the table beside us fell to hush. He began instantly to mumble. His tone seemed anticlimactic, as though the question annoyed him.

But indeed he had advice. And it was composed of two words.

‘Be natural’.

I thanked him for his counsel, storing it away for a quieter moment, and got up to leave. At the same moment, the 89-year-old headed for the toilet. It would soon be time for the friends to return home.