IMAGES: ©GUNTÛ; BERKOK YÜKSEL; STOCKFOOD
JAPAN
The chef’s hands move with the assurance of decades- long practice. He shapes and turns rice still faintly warm, then settles a soft nugget of fish liver on top.
I pop it into my mouth and it melts instantly, nutty and rich with a subtle hint of sweetness. But my gaze drifts past him. The scenery is moving — because this sushi counter isn’t tucked into a Tokyo backstreet. It’s on a boat. Islands rise and fall with the waves as Guntû
charts her course on this slow, three-day journey through Japan’s Seto Inland Sea. There are more than 3,000 islands here, scattered like marbles across a slate-blue carpet with some no larger than a tennis court, home only to a scattering of pines and the occasional lost-looking seabird. From a distance, the boat’s gabled roofline
resembles a house set adrift — the source of its nickname, the floating ryokan. Dating back to the samurai era, traditional ryokans were designed to anticipate a traveller’s every need, bringing bathing, dining and rest together under one roof. On guntû, that philosophy has simply been carried out to sea. “The view is like watching a picture scroll,” says
Yasushi Horibe, the architect behind the ship’s design. “We want guests to feel harmony between the landscape and the vessel itself.” Inside, pale woods and muted tones create an atmosphere of almost monastic calm. At sunrise and sunset, light pours in through wide windows, bathing corridors and cabins in an amber glow. It feels like walking through a jar of honey. This serenity is reinforced by the setting itself.
Often called the Mediterranean of Japan, the region is shaped by hot, humid summers, gentle autumns and late winters. While spring and autumn are the most popular times to travel, each season has its own charms. I’m here in November, when the islands’ cascading green hills are transformed into a painterly sweep of colour. Bright golds, rusty oranges and the occasional flash of fiery red turn the landscape into something straight out of a Bob Ross masterclass — warming rather than overwhelming. Yet this calm masks a more volatile side. On
my second morning, after a pale winter sunrise, we’re ushered onto a small motorboat for an off- ship excursion. The crew’s careful precautions — life vests handed out and straps checked — feel
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excessive at first. Minutes later, I’m grateful for every buckle. Whirlpools open and close around us — some no larger than a draining bathtub, others wide enough to swallow a person whole. Sunlight skitters across the foaming spirals, drawing excited, slightly nervous murmurs from the group. These waters have always been treacherous, their
currents unpredictable, and sailors once landed on Omishima island to pray to the mountain gods for a safe passage. Among them were the Murakami pirates, a powerful clan who dominated these channels for centuries. “The Murakami were so ubiquitous in this region that you could walk into a classroom and half the students might share the surname Murakami,” says our guide, Sakochi Moto, a woman in her sixties from nearby Fukuyama. But these weren’t pirates in the Hollywood
sense, nor the heroes of Japanese comics. “They were kaizoku,” Moto says. “More like maritime samurai, established powers who controlled these waters. Many later answered the emperor’s call and became part of the imperial naval forces.” We finally make it to Omishima, landing beside
a white torii gate that rises seven metres from the water’s edge, marking the passage from sea to sanctuary. Beyond it, a short path slips through the sleepy town of Miyaura. The streets are silent, scented with a gentle sweetness drifting from the Murakami Yokando bakery where mamju (warm treats filled with bean curd) are being prepared.
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