Travelog Tales of Australia and Japan
- Yellow Hare
- 2 days ago
- 25 min read
Updated: 18 hours ago
AUSTRALIA
MUST HAVE: A Myki card for tram and bus travel - lots of small stores sell them. You can top up online.
Melbourne, December 2025
Melbourne is good at coffee. Melbourne is Coffee Mecca. There's no-where better than Melbourne for coffee. Melbourne is coffee with a capital Cough. Anyone will tell you. Yes, you get seriously good coffee here. Yes, they know what they are doing. Yes, yes, yes. I strongly suspect, though, that Melbourne's success on this front may have more to do with the lack of big brands than their capacity to do only good stuff. Costa, Starbucks and Cafe Nero are in short supply in Australia. Most coffee shops are small independents, and small independents the world over are often the ones who care most about their product and their staff.
A most heinous crime of this state, however, is the insidious changing of the Flat White rules, and I am having difficulty forgiving them that. Flat White is ONE size and one size only. This has been my mantra since 2018 and Melbourne started it. They bragged about it. The purpose of the flat white was to differentiate between fluctuating lattes and cappuccinos, americanos and espressos. To let us know in no uncertain terms that this was neither too milky, too weak or too much. One size, one strength, one price. Customers who asked for a large flat white in Yellow Hare - and there were many - were greeted with a response that stopped short of derision. 'Flat white is only one size,' we'd explain. Of course those who didn't know, didn't care, but we cared. Today Melbourne is offering small, medium and large flat whites, which is exactly the same as offering a flat white, a latte and a large latte, in that order. No arguments. The milk you do for a flat white is formulated in precisely the same way as that for a latte. The fundamental difference was always, and only, that a Flat White used less milk to ensure stronger coffee. So, if you order a flat white and a latte today and are given both in the same size of cup, or even different looking cups to be sneaky, but the same size, ASK your barista what makes them different. The answer is nothing. Not one iota. How dare you Melbourne, how could you?
Coffee aside, Melbourne is a great place to visit and easy to navigate thanks to their excellent tram service. There's nowhere you can't go quickly and efficiently, and often freely, although that last bit carries a $200 on-the-spot fine if you're caught. You're supposed to 'tap on' when you get on the tram, using your Miki (my-key) card but the great majority of Melbourne's student fraternity do not. And Melbourne is home to a lot of students. It's seldom policed and on the rare occasion an inspector appears, defaulters merely shuffle up the far end and get off at the next stop. Stops are far closer together than Edinburgh trams and the carriages smaller and more frequent. There's also a circular route that goes around the very centre of the city which is free, and trams travelling within that boundary are also free.
Public launderettes are everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, (although I would notice this, wouldn't I?) and in contrast, brands as we know them are non-existent. Stroll through the centre of many major cities worldwide and you'll often come across the same high street stores such as Nike, Burberry, Hermes, Next, H&M, and so forth. Not so in Australia. Australia has its own brands. You know you are in Australia because the shops tell you so.
As for grocery stores, you need to search for them, they don't pop - they don't care to window dress in the same way as we do. Woolies is a common supermarket which is nothing like the Woolworths we used to have back home. Post Offices and banks are plentiful and there are ATMs on every corner, sometimes two or three in a row. Uber, AirbnB, and Lastminute.com all work effortlessly and are not over-priced. Likewise, restaurants. There are numerous multi-cultural choices and both Sydney and Melbourne have a China Town. There are plenty Korean, Libyan, Japanese and Italian restaurants and all are reasonably priced. No-one tips unless cash. Some places will automatically apply a percentage on your bill but they are few and far between.
Two things we found curious. The lengths people go to for a glimpse at Myer's Lego window display in the run up to Christmas, and the popularity of ice cream at night time. In the case of Myer, queuing began around 9am and went well into the afternoon, winding all the way along the street and around the corner. Every day, seven days a week, for weeks leading up to Christmas. Average waiting time was three hours, and all for the pleasure of viewing seven windows. There must be more to it but I never found out what. It's not surprising for ice cream to be popular in a hot country, but at midnight? Some ice cream parlours are still open long after bars are closed, particularly at weekends. Not only are they open, they are in high demand, with the most popular among them boasting a continual queue of two or three hours after dark. Some don't make any effort to look like shops.
Our principal reason for this trip was to attend our daughter's graduation from RMIT in Melbourne. This proved an experience beyond our expectations for all the wrong reasons. It was wonderful to see our girl graduate, of course, but - wow! - what a spectacle. For starters, the ceremony is held in Melbourne's Marvel Stadium, the home of Superbowl, capacity +50,000 and included appearances by chart topping bands and acclaimed speakers.
Twenty-one stages, twenty-one screens, twenty-one hand-shakers of graduates, each congratulating approximately four-hundred and fifty students. On that special day, some 8,000 graduates joined our daughter in throwing their hats in the air (metaphorically speaking; they don't do that here). This is not an hour or two kept clear in the diary, this is very much an all-day, dawn til dusk affair never to be forgotten. Education is Australia's most lucrative export after minerals, generating some $50bn for the economy, little wonder they make such a big deal of it.
Far and away our best local experience was the visit to Yarra Bend Park, just outside the main throng of Melbourne. It's a forest walk through Melbourne's fruit bat colony. One close-up look at those gorgeous furry creatures and I defy anyone not to think them the cutest things on earth.
There were quite literally thousands of them, curled up like cocoons, hanging on branches as far as the eye could see. One fairly young critter fell off its branch and spent an age trying to crawl back to its perch while we watched in fascination, rooted to the spot, quietly willing it home. We got there at dusk, when everything was silent and must admit it was a little earie to begin with, first the complete silence, then hearing them slowly come to life. I don't know if it was mummy bat or daddy bat or Head bat, but there was most definitely an appointed waker-upper of the colony. He/she/they flew solo for several minutes, squawking loudly as it wove in and out of the trees, slowly bringing the others to life.
Melbourne has a very relaxed, laid-back vibe. It's easy to get around, easy to settle into and it feels safe. It sells itself well. Around ninety percent of Australia is considered uninhabitable, but still... pretty mind boggling to think that it's almost identical in size to America, whose population is almost fifteen times higher (27m vs 350m).
Brisbane, December 2025
It's four days before New Year's Eve. We’re at Woodfork Folk Festival near Brisbane. It’s the kind of gig that attracts a very clear (sic) mindset and you’re either it or you’re not. More Glastonbury than Tiree Music Festival, while still a long way from both in every sense. It’s all about peace, re-connection, cultural awareness and being at one with oneself and nature. Much of the youth is either smoking weed, popping pills or sharing mushrooms. Few are drinking alcohol. It has been infinitely easier to find a tab than start one. Dreadlocks abound. It’s all the stuff I left behind decades ago, taking what I got from it out into the big bad world of reality and ambition. I’m forcing myself to immerse in it again - without the drugs - because, well, we’re here now. Nowhere to run but in.
At this point it’s important to stress my hard and fast rule of never writing under the influence of anything other than the wonky steering wheel inside my head. Even when it may seem otherwise, it’s never so. Writing is the only thing in the entire world I do without need of a prop, a crutch or an excuse, naturally and effortlessly, even if badly. It’s the only thing I do that doesn’t trigger automated hesitation. Writing delivers without seeds of doubt. Everything is appropriate, even when it isn't.
It’s early. Six am local time. Our world is waking to playful children, chattering adults and a scattering of noticeably-out-of-place and out-of-sorts nocturnals. A busker has set up and is now giving it large on his gee-tar. He's already visibly warm. It’s going to be a hot one. Around 38o they say. Intolerable to this cold-blooded Scot but there are pockets of draught. We're together, all of us, it's wonderful. Suck it up, mother.
This place where we are now, this free world in the Outback, is not natural and effortless. Not for me. For me, it’s at times pained and awkward. It’s a five-day stretch with no possibility of parole. Everyone else is having a real high ball. I’d be happy with a highball, but it’s not the same thing and it’s not here. I know it’ll get better when I lean into it. Which isn’t today. I’ll grow to love it, to revel in it and accept it for what it is; an all-round, wholesome family affair with something for everyone at one with love and land. It’s not routine, it’s not settled, it’s not peaceful or structured. It’s chaotic, busy, noisy and disruptive while at the same time providing everything mindful, free-spirited and harmonious. It has all the right ingredients in all the wrong order. Everything is here and nothing is not here and there’s no escape from it. We are locked in. Ten thousand bodies embracing three thousand alternative options in a village of hot sweaty tents.
Our glamping tent is the same as the type you see at Tiree Music Festival and, glamorous though it may appear at first glance, within 24h it looks and smells like a teenager's bedroom. As already stated, there is, quite literally, nowhere to run, nor are there gyms, exercise classes or workouts. No sign of anyone vaguely resembling Will. Within twenty-four hours I've eaten the equivalent of one Kate in noodles and pizza and making good progress with a second Kate in ice cream and pancakes by day two.
Thoughts of Tiree have settled in the creases of an unsettled mind. It began in the meditation class. All of us stretched out on the floor. Allow your mind to wander, he said; think about what matters, where you are, the land on which you lie, allow yourself to be the natural you, he said. Breathe. Be at one. Drift. It took less than a minute to drift out of the thicket, traverse the land, skim across the entire ocean and bring into view the familiar outline of Tiree. Just like that, I was there. I hadn’t meant to be. I’d let my mind drift. I’d wanted to think about the exotic birds and the fruit bats and the kangaroos because they were all around us, a welcome reminder of where we were and why. But no. Tiree had come, pulled up a chair and sat as a parent might do, naturally and without asking. My mind continued to wander, now focused somewhat grudgingly on Tiree and the similarities, or in this case radical differences, between the festivals here and at home. The similarities were obvious. Music offered in a variety of stages, pop up shops, merchandise, food vendors. Where it began to separate wasn't just in its numbers; 10,000 at Woodford against 3,000 - 4,000 on Tiree, it was in both the atmosphere and the people it attracted. The ethos of the Tiree Music Festival seems simple, easier, and less complex than this one. Tiree feels almost entirely about gathering for the sheer pleasure of seeing familiar faces and enjoying a certain kind of music. The focus here is more intense, however unintentionally, its roots embedded in history, tradition, culture and belonging, and the music too varied to settle on one genre. I can't help but wonder if this is what Tiree Music Festival could become if it was allowed to grow exponentially, rather than being dictated by infrastructure as it is now, and if that would be a good thing. I'm not so sure. I think its smallness, the intimacy of it, is what makes Tiree Music Festival special. There's always quiet to be found somewhere. Sea, land, song and solitude are all within easy reach.
A few children are now crying, parents already fractious, with a full day stretched out ahead of them, waiting to be filled. It’s 9am, the sun is bearing down on all of us. There's no breeze. I can’t comprehend living in this, actually choosing to live day-to-day, all year round, in such heat. It’s not so hot every day but they can’t predict when it’s going to be, other than to say January and February are the worst. It’s still only December and I’m cooking. Even the showers
are hot. Who on earth provides hot showers in a 30o heat? I probably reek and could not care less. Give me a wide berth. I’m fine with that. Everyone’s radiating heat, I don’t want them near me. I refuse to wash until we reach civilisation. I’ll probably be put into quarantine at Glasgow airport. I wonder if they hose you down with freezing cold water… I’m salivating at the thought. I’d register now if I could.
There are all sorts of workouts swirling around my head. Working out how to get rid of the smell, or escape the heat, or stem the infernal chorus of snoring that I have become part of. I startled myself awake twice last night. But we love our daughter and are happy to be here. It's all bloody marvellous.
I'm frequently asked if I'm Irish, seldom assumed to be Scottish. I've discovered with some dismay that I'm the only one of my family with a proper Scottish dialect of the kind not easily understood. The others apparently have a mostly-English accent. I accept this of my Southern-born husband, but our children? Have they always had this and I haven't ever noticed? Did it happen as we crossed the equator? I find it inconceivable that Harvey could work five seasons at Yellow Hare without someone pointing out that he doesn't sound anything like me.
Folk are gathering for the bells except they don't call it that here. I'm in a tizz because there are seven stages playing different things through midnight and not a hooch or a teuch between them. Jazz, blues, folk, bluegrass, honky-tonk, electric rock, didgeridoo. Everything but ceilidh. Where to go...
Nathan, an Australian drummer who has recently taken up the pipes, is standing before us in full Scottish kit, all ready and waiting to join Harvey in his crusade to bring Hogmanay to Woodford, and off they go, the pied piper and his accomplice, heading up the hill to do what they must. They are competing with a techno band as midnight strikes but they don't care, nor does their audience. Everyone loves it, or are perhaps too high to care. That's my boy, I think to myself, as I head back down the hill at five past midnight. Time for bed, said Zebedee. We leave tomorrow. Looking back, it really was not all bad. I leaned into it and didn't fall over. I'm a firm believer in never saying never, but never again shall I sleep in a bell tent.
Brisbone to Melbourne Roadtrip, January 2026Byron Bay (pop 7,000) - Coffs Harbour (pop 80,000) - Manley, Sydney (pop 17,000) - Holbrook (pop 1,700) - Melbourne (pop 5,500,000)
We had flown to Brisbane from Melbourne, where we'd booked a hire car to take us to the festival 30-minutes' drive away, after which we planned to do a 1,200-mile road trip back to Melbourne. We would take it easy, spread it out over five days. It would be a great way to enjoy the open countryside. We'd stop at interesting cities and small towns. Discover more about grass roots Australia.
When we land, we find that the car we have booked is much too small for all of us and our luggage. The salesperson leads us to the only available upgrade. As she walks, she's smiling in a way that suggests something is not quite right but I can't put my finger on what it could be. She stops in front of a large, gorgeous, gleaming red beauty. "This one is free," she says, one hand on her hip and the other swishing over a car like we'd just won it in a competition. "It's all-electric and runs very well." We huddled to one side for a brief and very naive discussion about what fun it would be to let the car dictate the journey. Our only nagging concern was whether we'd be able to charge it up. "There's a large network of chargers all the way to Melbourne," our smiling salesperson assures us. Sold. When I think back to that moment of that first day of our road-trip, all I see is the fixed smile on a face that has since morphed into Joaquin Phoenix's Joker.
Today was Day One. With almost 300 miles of charge in the tank, we were optimistic of hitting our 100 mile target. It was a scorching 37o. Finally, we were free of our hot, sweaty tent. We'd take it easy. We could see the open road. We wound up the windows, cranked up the music, set the aircon to high and set off. We could not have been more ready for this. This really was life on the open road. Bliss. And that's how we like to remember it.
We hadn't taken into account the effect aircon, music, phone chargers, drag, and excessive temperatures would have on the over-all charge allowance. A 'full tank' of 300 miles was worth nearer half that in real money. We had to drive at a snail's pace to minimize this. Aircon was switched off. Everyone was forbidden from charging their phone. Charge points along the way were often broken, unavailable or non-existent. They all took an hour minimum to charge, often longer. Every charge point used a different App. Every App had to be downloaded. Many wouldn't accept UK debit or credit cards. Stress was building, tempers were fraying. It didn't help that we couldn't book accommodation more than two hours in advance because we weren't confident of reaching a destination. It was high season. Charging points were in small-time towns off the beaten track, which meant our accommodation would have to be too. We took what we could get and were thankful.
Eighty miles between charge points and any sign of life, we hit a ferocious electric storm with hail the size of mint balls that threatened to smash the windscreen. It was both exhilerating and terrifying, not least because very suddenly we could neither see ahead nor behind but knew there were vehicles around us. Reducing speed to a snail's pace, we found a spot to pull in and wait it out behind a stationery line of cars doing the same.
It took us seven hours on that first day to drive one hundred miles. This set the pace for the remainder of our trip. We stayed in places I'd only ever seen in low-budget films. One of them, a motel in the city of Coffs Harbour, could have been straight from the set of Schitts Creek. Our room had two bunk beds and toilet-shower combo with a sliding door that didn't slide. It pushed from the bottom, like a tent flap, so that you had to edge yourself in from below and instruct everyone to turn the other way. Aircon was a desktop electric fan screwed to the wall. We turned it on and were immediately splattered with dead flies and cobwebs. There was a drive-through off-sales adjoining the building. It fascinated me to think we could order a six pack or a bottle of wine in much the same way as we might grab a drive-thru MacDonalds in Edinburgh.
We got to know several service stations, sleepy towns and industrial estates. Unsurprisingly, Electric charge points are seldom found in National Parks or tourist attractions.
Another authentic gem - and we sincerely began to view them as exactly that - was accessed via the metal fire escape around the back. The family bathroom, which took a while to find, was shared with six other rooms. It contained two showers with clear glass doors, a toilet and a large sink and was a family bathroom in every sense; a place where we might all to do as required, together, in harmony, without having to queue. We saw no staff. Continental breakfast was advertised on a note laid against a tray on a sideboard that had known better days. The tray contained sugar sachets, teabags, UHT milk cartons, a kettle and real teaspoons. Large double doors at the end of the corridor opened wide to the world and stayed so all night. We had arrived close to midnight and saw no sign of life, so Harvey had gone through the double doors onto the large balcony area to strum his guitar for a bit. When I popped my head round half an hour later he was chatting to an elderly man wearing only underpants like it was the most natural thing. Granted, it was a balmy evening but still. Neither he nor Harvey seemed in the least perturbed. Apparently he had been sleeping and followed the noise, which he claimed to enjoy. Using the loo in the middle of the night, I was more nervous of chancing upon twins than predators.
I don't recall ever seeing accommodation of a similar standard in Scotland - and I've been forced into some seriously questionable choices thanks to Billy - these places really were rock-bottom and yet there was something fascinatingly authentic about each of them and we were oddly pleased to have experienced them first hand. We found a bar that served food. It was miles off the beaten track and so deathly quiet that everyone stopped what they were doing to watch us walk in. Now I know how strangers used to feel going in to the Scarinish bar. We'd barely sat down when a member staff approached and rather sheepishly asked if they could take our photo for social media. To know that places like that still exist is weirdly comforting. I'll never again view the Scarinish Hotel or the Lodge Hotel on Tiree as anything less than a comfortable 3*.
Whilst on the whole we all got on famously, there were moments when we were silently planning different ways to kill each other. When we finally got back to Melbourne we felt compelled to draw straws for who should return the car because we felt if we all went, mob mentality would see us join forces to throttle the sales rep and no-one wanted blood on their hands. It'll be some time before any of us will be able to view an electric charging point without triggering PTSD but there's some comfort in knowing that Australia is no more ready for the all-electric car than we are in Britain.
Of the places we passed through from Brisbane to Melbourne - Byron Bay, Coffs Harbour, Port Macquarie, Taree, Newcastle, Sydney, Manley, Albury - Manley was by far the winner when it came to deciding where we'd settle given the choice. The beaches are fabulous and the place had a great vibe and a lovely laid-back feel about it. Harvey enjoyed an afternoon surf lesson despite my protestations. I was paranoid about shark attacks, which of course was ridiculous. It was a full week later before that happened, four times in the same region. Our region. Where we had been swimming and surfing.
JAPAN
MUST HAVE: ICOCA card for travel on trains and tube - purchase online and top up as you need. Works like London's Oyster Card.
Tokyo, January 2026
We got here on Sunday. Tokyo has the highest population of any other city in the world, with forty million in the metropolis and fourteen million in its centre.
We last visited Japan twenty-four years ago and it has changed immeasurably in that time, much of it within the past five years. For example, it was very difficult to find anything sweet back then. One day we were walking through a park when a group of children raced over to seller who had parked up his shop-on-a-bicycle. We assumed he was an ice-cream seller, but no. It was frozen fish on a stick and the children couldn't get enough of it. We were ten days in when we chanced upon what Chris took to be the Japanese equivalent of McDonalds. He bought a jam doughnut only to discover it was filled with dried seaweed.
There was no Google maps or translate, and westerners were still in small enough numbers to attract attention, particularly tall females like me. Large department stores made a fuss about opening, with men in white gloves and smart suits standing to attention until the clock struck nine, when they would open the door with great flourish and a bow. Purchases were wrapped slowly and meticulously with gloss paper, stickers and ribbons. Heated toilet seats and the super-fast Shinkansen trains were commonplace even then. Restaurants and menus were mostly Japanese. Few spoke English. It was difficult to find your way around and enormously expensive.
All of that has changed. Walking in Tokyo, we are surrounded by a throng of differing nationalities, heights and fashions. Japanese and Korean faces dominate but many are blonde.. Mature women are well-dressed, fashionable, coiffured. Youth is grungy and boho. The streets are busy. Smoking is forbidden in open spaces. All toilet seats are heated, most are self-flushing with a 'front' and 'back' bidet function. Even the public toilets. Everyone waits for the green man. It's unusual to see anyone eating outside. There are signs in stations saying 'don't run'. Shops have microwaves for you to heat food you've bought. You are discouraged from talking on the trams. The Shinkansen does four and five-hour trips with no buffet car. Carriage cleaners rotate all seats in the direction of travel at each terminus.
Toilets provide toddler seats that they can't climb out of. Bargain-basement shops are lit up like Blackpool illuminations. There's neon and fluorescence everywhere, inside and out. There are department stores and ATMs on every corner. Kareoke rocks. People are largely quiet and compliant but it feels more like respect than repression. Being disrespectful is probably the worst thing you can do.
Our hotel rooms are each £100 per night and compact. Most are. Space is at a premium in Tokyo. Still, even modest three-star hotels have a four-star quality about them. The majority now provide pyjamas and slippers as standard. Also toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and the normal toiletries. This one goes a bit further, offering reading glasses, hairbands, facemasks and sweets. All rooms in hotels carry universal phone chargers, removing the need for a travel plug. Breakfast is buffet-style, catering to European, Western, and Asian tastes.
Today is the second Monday of January, Seijin no Hi - Coming of Age day. A Japanese celebration for everyone reaching the age of twenty during the twelve months commencing April of the previous year. Females are dressed in kimono complete with geta whilst males are all in suits. The streets are swarming with celebrating youth heading towards ceremonies and shrines. In my ignorance I wish everyone passing a happy birthday and some laugh into their hands. It's not their birthday, it's their year.
It was in Japan that I first came across plastic replicas of menu items in windows of cafes and restaurants and they still do it now. Each item on the menu is expertly recreated in plastic and arranged on a plate to look scrumptious then propped in the window to entice you in. This is not entirely unknown in other countries these days, but it was virtually unheard of elsewhere long after it was commonplace in Japan. And had it not been that way on our first visit, we would have returned home several pounds lighter. Nowadays most outlets in busy areas provide menus in English as well as Japanese, and even in rural Japan Google Translate ensures you don't struggle for long.
Hakuba Ski Resort, Japan
We are in the mountains, a beautiful blanket of white, and can't wait to get settled. The journey on the Shinkansen took us past picture-perfect Mount Fuji. The plan was for the others to ski whilst I read. They had a ball and found the entire week stupendous. The snow was plentiful and the lifts quiet, which is as much as you could wish for when skiing. The hotel we'd booked into three days before arriving was just what we deserved for our joie de vivre approach to accommodation. Ski resorts are generally not set up for visitors planning to read their time away.
Having skied in several European destinations over the years, I've perhaps developed an unrealistic expectation of winter resorts. I've become accustomed to a sliding scale of luxury. Every resort has one or two four-star and several three-star options with the rest trailing off into the kind of basic stuff cash-strapped backpackers are happy with. Cancellations in good places are rare but they do happen and sometimes, just as with hot destinations, you can strike lucky with a last-minute deal. This seemed less likely in our resort. The hotels tended to be at the lower end, although it could be argued that we have merely become fussy besoms who have lost appreciation of the simple things in life. Once again we are sharing a toilet and shower in the hall, and there's no bar, lounge or heating between the hours of 10am and 5pm. Reception, and any service that may accompany it, also closes during those hours. Most skiers wouldn't flinch at this because they're generally skiing during those times. Breakfast of lettuce, pickles and scrambled egg with tea is served between 7.30am and 8.30am. The others gleefully have this knowing that they are heading off into a myriad of choices in any one of three valleys. They get suited, booted and take off, leaving me to enjoy the silence.
I make my way uphill to the nearest cafe - the only cafe - about a kilometre from our hotel, intending to find a warm place to read for an hour or two. I've read three books since leaving the UK and this one - Eurotrash - is one of those novels one starts and feels compelled to finish, always hoping it'll get better. It's earned lots of plaudits because it's clever, which doesn't necessarily make it a good read. I pass two ski-hire shops and a tourist gift shop. Amidst all of this, I strike gold in the form of a warm, welcoming, cake-serving cafe. Granted, it's a vegan cafe but the coffee is perfect. This is unusual in Japan. If there's one thing we have discovered on this trip, it's that Japan does not do coffee as we know it. Iced coffee is hugely popular. Black coffee is also common, but no lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos and so forth. Hens teeth.
After an hour or so I make my way back to the hotel and it's at this point that I realise how much I have grown to depend on others when skiing. This is the first time I've not skied with the family. I've no idea which direction the hotel is in. I thought I did, but now that I'm standing outside the cafe, everything around me is white. The roads, the buildings, the roofs and even the signage. It had been snowing heavily whilst I read. It's only a kilometre - barely half a mile in old money - and I know it's sort of downhill, either first left or second left, possibly then uphill but could be straight on, then a sharp right or left. A bit like myself, Google maps is slow, unsteady and misleading. Not all pathways are on it. Twenty minutes of wrong-turns later I see the sign for the hotel and make for the door. This is not as straightforward as it sounds. The first thing we noticed on arrival the night before was the enormous amount of banked-up snow blocking the entrance and surrounding area. The only way in was via the partially concealed boot-store around the corner, and even that was precarious. I'd thought it might be cleared by morning, but no. So here I was, a grown adult, euphoric at having successfully navigated a full kilometre unaided, stepping through freshly fallen knee-high snow, circumnavigating a building trying to work out where the feking entrance was. Several frustrating minutes later I found the door, which refused to open. It's at this point that I look up and realise I am attempting to break into someone's house. Our not-entirely-dissimilar hotel was directly opposite. No sooner was I tucked up safe in our room when an earthquake struck. My first experience of a proper several seconds-long tremor, jelly-wobbly building and all. Turns out the epicentre was twenty miles away, so nothing very worrisome at all, really.
Kyoto, Higashiyama Ward, Japan
Amends have been made. We’re settled in an amazing Ryokan-style hotel in Higashiyama Ward, Kyoto, which is as traditional as they come, in an area famous for its historic architecture and geisha. Everything about the hotel is old-style Japan for the modern day. Beds are Western style rather than futon but the room is measured in tatami and there are silk screen sliding doors and geti-style wooden flip flops to be worn indoors. Shoes must be removed. Pyjamas and tabi socks are provided fresh daily. Staff greet us in twos with a bow each time we leave or return. It is heavenly, calming and peaceful escapism, as far removed from our western culture and habits as could be. Everything about it is welcoming and friendly.
How times have changed. The last time we were in a room similar to this was in 2000 at a temple lodging in the mountains which we deemed so strict in its rules that it put the fear in us. We’d opted for the full immersive experience, which sounded ideal from the comfort of our sofa in Edinburgh. When we arrived, we were advised that guests attended prayers in the morning and that we mustn’t speak in corridors etc. Use of phones was strongly discouraged and there was no internet. We had an uncomfortable feeling of being watched at all times. The small village that the temple was in, had public loudspeakers dotted throughout, high up on poles, and every now and then a monotone voice would announce something in Japanese which we took to be some form of communist instruction. In the absence of knowledge we imagined the worst.
On our first night in that temple, I’d got up around 3am for the loo, it was dark but there was a dim light coming from the hall that I used to edge my way to the door. I slid the screen open and stepped out, only to hit another wall, and realised with horror that they’d locked us in our room for the night. I was pleading with Chris to wake up, that we were trapped, that they’d actually quarantined us. Half-asleep and totally disorientated, Chris tried to work out what was happening. “You’re in the wardrobe,” he hissed. And I was.
But here we are now, in Gion district, home of geisha. It is undeniably, visibly historic and fairly expansive. Most impressive of all is how a populous area of 36,000 has so successfully maintained its culture and traditions with so few structural modifications whilst at the same time growing and evolving with the modern world. Masses of it is tourist-related and whilst a lot is tatt, there are lots of hand-made, traditional pieces to be had. Walking through the narrow streets with its merchant buildings and tea houses feels like stepping into a bygone age. This time without the fear.
The three most common forms of accommodation in Japan are Western-style hotels, which dominate, Ryokan Inns, and Pensions. The first is self-explanatory. Ryokan Inns are traditional Japanese rooms with tatami mats and futons and offering traditional breakfast. Beware - pillows are often rock hard. Rooms are measured in tatami mats, a 5-tatami being small-average with an 8-tatami being considered fairly large. Pensions are essentially Japanese versions of our B&Bs.
Between the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, the hills and isolation of Hakuba and the back-street Japan of old here in Kyoto, it’s been a real mix of experiences. Japan has changed enormously since our visit pre-children. It’s so much more accessible and easier to navigate both literally and in language. Nor is it anywhere near as expensive as it once was. In fact, quite the opposite. In other words, if you get the chance to go, grab it… a fabulous cultural curiosity, if ever there was one.
We have had an exceptional time and I wouldn't have missed it for the world but I'm also very happy to be home. If there's one thing that screamed out during our travels, from the festival in rural Australia to the back streets of Kyoto in Japan, it's the importance of small communities and recognising that the people who make it special the world-over are not always the most obvious, the most vocal or those with the deepest pockets. They are the ones with the biggest smiles, the steadiest hand, the strongest shoulders, the most irritating laugh and the quietest voice. They are the illusive puzzle piece, the shawl on a cold night, the jump leads in a stranger's boot, the last slice of cake. They are the small things that make a big impact. They are all the things we don’t notice until they are no longer there. They are the faces that come to mind when you are 10,000 miles from home.
Kate MacLeod January 2026
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