From Fukuoka’s Hakata station, I hopped on a bus bound for Nagasaki. Pictures and films I’d seen showed Nagasaki as a gorgeous, green-hilled seaside paradise. As I left the grey, rain-soaked streets of Fukuoka I was pretty hesitant.
Luckily, my timing was almost supernaturally good. As I passed through the tunnel in the mountains and out the other side, the skies turned Sega blue and the scenery emerald green.
From Nagasaki I boarded a smaller bus, and took a twenty minute bus ride into Mogi, a small village by the coast where I’d booked my hostel. I fancied a change from inner-city life, and it was the best decision I ever made.
Nagasaki House Burabura is sat right on the coastline of a glorious bay. The beaches and green mountains stretch to the horizon on either side, beckoning you to spend a day just strolling or cycling without any plans. The rooms feature enormous wall-to-wall windows, covered with classic paper sliding doors.
You can’t argue with waking up to a view like this every morning.
There wasn’t shopping, or fine dining, or technology in Mogi. There was very little English comprehension, or opportunity to speak to the locals anyway.
What was there was a cute fishing village, skies full of impressive sea hawks, and a coastline to die for.
I took a Saturday, wearing a hat because I’ve learned my lesson about the Japanese sun and bald heads, and just walked as far as I could one way along the coast before turning around and doing the same thing the other day.
It’s not a bad life.