A Love Letter to Onsens

I recently made it my goal to visit all the onsen towns in Japan. 

This is a secret desire that’s been knocking around (violently) in the back of my mind for a few years now, but one I’ve kept firmly confined to the realm of wishful thinking and commuting fantasies. 

This all changed a couple months back. I was killing time at Narita airport, wandering up and down the aisles of souvenir stores, when I came across a bath towel that had a map of Japan on it labeled with twenty-something major onsen towns. “It’s a sign from the universe”, I nudged F excitedly as we made our way over to the checkout counter, "Maybe we can play darts - go wherever it lands."

From afar, onsen towns look like a land on fire, with jets of thick white smoke spurting out from over a patchwork of roofs. It’s no wonder the Japanese often name various parts of these towns after “hell”, from Noboribetsu’s “Hell’s Valley” to Beppu’s “Blood Pond Hell”. In fact, you’re quite likely to encounter a conspicuously stationed red oni armed with a spiked club sometime during your stay [1]. 

Most onsen towns have a main shopping street lined with souvenir stores selling everything from fans and kanzashi to hand-woven slippers and crystals. These would alternate with snack shops, which can be easily spotted from the crowds milling about with their cups of soft-serve and bags full of the local variation of onsen-steamed manju. There would also be this one mandatory honey store - Sugiyohoen - which seems to have infiltrated every onsen town in Japan. 

Upon arriving at the town, I’d always wind my way in and out and through, nabbing as many free tasters as my stomach would allow, before eventually breaking away from the main crowd to follow the river deeper into ryokan territory. The stench of rotten eggs would thicken as I’d pass ryokan after ryokan, and group after group of people in yukatas struggling with their geta to various degrees. Now and then, I’d come across one of the many footbaths scattered around town, pause, briefly consider my perpetually icy feet, before continuing my aimless trek that always seemed to culminate in a bowl of soba noodles [2]. If time permits, I’d visit the staple random attraction that every onsen town seems to feature, be it a Little Prince or Venetian Glass Museum, a bear park, or a Ghibli-themed street [3]. Most towns also have a ropeway that scales up the nearby volcano. On an exceptionally fair weather day, I’d be able to see patches of green and blue, as well as nearby towns dotting the landscape, but four times out of five, I’d find myself staring into a blank canvas. 

Over the past year or so, I’ve spent much less time, if any, doing activities, and have instead taken to going to the onsen 2-3 times a day: in the morning before breakfast, late afternoon before dinner and late at night before turning in for the day. I’d like to think it’s because I’ve become a true onsen connoisseur, but it’s likely just a sign of aging. 

***

Some of my earliest memories of onsen are of Rusutsu Ski Resort. My family and my best friends' families — a big but happy group of 13 — have a decade-long tradition of going there every Christmas. After a long day of boarding, we'd all jump into the onsen and relish as the stiff fatigue in our limbs peeled away. My friends and I would then chat and chat until our fingers and toes pruned, the snow tickling our necks and backs. 

Indeed, there’s something inherently cleansing about soaking in an onsen. The hot water loosens, unravels, and leaves one feeling reborn, baby-pink skin and all [4]. 

I remember going to Noboribetsu one cold summer during my university years and hiking up Sounzan to see the famous waterfall. The weather was abysmal that day and the raincoats we had on did little to shield us from the absolute downpour. It was a miserable hike, with the fierce wind stinging our faces and water gushing out of our socks with every step. We spent a good hour looking for the waterfall, taking random detours and straining to hear the heavy rush of water beyond the roar of wind and rain, but to no avail. After intense discussion and brochure photo comparison, we came to the conclusion that the white solid patch that’s been hovering in the distance for the past half an hour was exactly what we were looking for — and I say solid because it was frozen. Soaked to the bone and heavy with exhaustion and disappointment, we hitched a ride on a chairlift back down the mountain, my drenched clothes clinging to me like an undesirable, ripe-for-shedding second skin and my lower half getting wetter by the second from the layer of water covering the seat. How good it felt after, sinking into the onsen and feeling all that damp coldness melt away. 

F and I booked an impromptu trip to Kyushu recently. What started as an off-hand comment about ramen turned into a conversation about Hakata ramen. Next thing we knew, we were booking flights for the following week and scouring booking.com, ikyu.com and every alphabetical permutation in between for last minute ryokan deals. 

Despite Fukuoka being the きっかけ for this trip, we spent most of our time in the countryside around Yufuin, Aso and Kurokawa. Bopping to our 20th ABBA song of the day in our white Toyota Rent-A-Car Sedan, we’d pass by Ghibliesque towns with old-style homes and telephone lines, zero English signage (barring the occasional misspelled one - "Ladey's Fashion", a faded blue sign would scream at us in block letters), and to F’s utter shock as a seasoned HK driver, free parking space every two blocks. 

Kurokawa is a tiny town with two pottery shops, one of which only opens from 10am to 12pm four days a week; four main souvenir stores, two on the main street, one up the hill and another one on the ground floor of a local’s house a 15 minute walk from town [5]; as well as a very out of place Rilakkuma store. There were only three lunch places in the entire town, a lovely 10-seater restaurant run by an old couple that served don and udon, a chainstore eel brand that was way overpriced and had mediocre texture, and this beef and curry cafe that was empty most days. While F worked during the day, I’d roam the streets end-to-end some half a dozen times, peeking my head into the same choux cream shop whenever I walked past, and sifting through monpe, floral handkerchiefs and everything the stores had on offer. 

On our first day, we dropped by the Tourist Centre to buy an Rotenburo-Meguri pass that would let us visit 3 of the 27 participating onsens in Kurokawa. “You’ll get a stamp for every onsen you visit,”  the tourist centre staff explained as he handed us the passes which were two thin slices of log, “if you want to know what’s open on the day, just have a look at the brochure.” I flipped through the sheets of paper he handed over and saw that it featured a short description of every onsen and a corresponding 3x5cm photo, as well as the opening statuses and times of the 27 onsens that day. “I’m sorry”, the staff bowed in apology when I asked if they had the timetables online, “you’ll have to come by in person”. 

Deciding on which onsens to try was more stressful than anticipated. With a finite amount of time and onsen-capacity in me a day, I had to prioritize. I ended up spending a good two hours doing research by skimming through several dozen Google Maps reviews and various travel blogs, re-reading the pamphlet fifty times and asking the odd ryokan staff for recommendations. For obvious reasons, there weren’t many photos of the public onsens beyond the official materials (as there shouldn’t be - shame on you people who posted photos!). 

The first onsen I visited for my Rotenburo-Meguri was Kounoyu, a ryokan nestled up a small hill about a 20 minute walk from where I was staying. It was a beautiful day, all blue sky and lush greenery. On my way uphill, I passed by farmers in the field hacking away at the soil, and couldn’t help but feel amused at the fact that I was hiking somewhere just for the sake of taking a bath, like a villager in the olden days. I initially wanted to go to a different ryokan, Nonoyu, but was informed by the staff there that there was no shower available which was a no-go for me as I wanted to wash my hair. In an act of unexpected swiftness, I made an instinctive decision to visit Kounoyu instead. 

There were two outdoor baths at Kounoyu. One was your standard outdoor onsen with the usual aesthetic arrangement of rocks and trees, plus the bonus addition of a mini-cave that doubled as a natural sauna. The other was a standing onsen (the first I'd been to) in an open-air hut that had a bamboo swing-like contraption dangling from under the thatched roof. Succumbing to my childish urges, I leaned my arms against the bamboo, swung my upper body back and forth, and lifted my toes up now and then to test the weight of the swing. Perhaps it was the fair weather, or the endorphins from the walk, or the insanely delicious Oyakodon I had for lunch, but this has to be one of my favourite onsen experiences. 

The next onsen I went to was unlike any other I’d been to before. It was an onsen inside a cave that was dug by the third-generation owner of the ryokan Shinmeikan. To my utter confusion, there were two entrances into the single cave bath for women. I chose the side entrance that required you to duck low and soon found myself deep into the cave with only a few steps in. There weren’t showers available, just a couple of baskets strewn on some rocks and a single lamp that provided minimal lighting. The next step past this area already took you into onsen territory, though the water itself was quite shallow and didn't even go up to my hips. Based on the photo in the official tourist pamphlet, which did an abysmal job of selling this place may I say [6], I expected a single concave space with some water added in, a small pool of sorts. Instead, the cave onsen featured a mini network of paths. Stabilizing myself against the rough cave walls, I stumbled my way to a small nook that gave me a good view of the two separate paths. There I sat for a good thirty minutes [7], with nothing but cavernous walls and a hinoki bath bucket for company. Letting droplets of water fall over my arm, I ran my hands up and down, savouring the silky quality that only onsen water has.

On our last day at Kurokawa, F and I drove up to Yamamizuki to enjoy the final onsen stop of our Rotenburo-Meguri. In general, Kurokawa is great for onsens that are deeply rooted in nature and Yamamizuki very much exemplified this.I recall racing down the forest path like a nymph, the waterfall gently rushing down beside me as I hopped into the onsen, giddy and wild, barely feeling the stinging rushing up my icy limbs. Sliding past any fallen leaves and fellow multi-legged onsen companions, I leant over the edge of the pool and watched the gentle rushing of the water. 

On my walk back to the main hut, I threw many backward glances, my gaze jumping from the waterfall to the trees and back again. “How was it?” F asked as I walked in, poured myself several glasses of ice water and knocked them back. “So nice”, I closed my eyes and tried to find the words to describe the lightness I was feeling. Soothing? Healing? That didn’t quite cut it. Warming? 

Even now, I struggle to articulate all the shades and textures that make up that post-onsen glow. But what I can say is that I’ve always felt the most beautiful after a soak in the onsen, with my cheeks rosy, eyes bright - both my body and mind soft, languid, and warm like liquid sunlight. 

The ryokans we stayed at during our Kyushu trip were fairly standard: the usual flurry of staff rushed out to greet us as we pulled in; tea and wagashi were served over check-in [8]; passports were exchanged; forms were signed; a piece of cloth was laid on the tatami with our luggages on top; dinner times were settled on. As with most ryokans, each room was uniquely and beautifully named, often after some flower, animal, archaic term or literary reference. At Nonohana, we walked past Hanezu, up the stairs past Sakura before finally stopping before Hototogisu.

I try to stay in traditional Japanese style rooms wherever I can. I love the feel of cool tatami under my feet; the clean lines of the shoji doors and the way light filters through them in early morning; the kotatsu in the winter, my legs shoved in and baking in the delicious warmth as I read; the little tokonoma with a single flower and a hanging scroll, a point of stillness in the backdrop; the futons they set out for you when you’re having dinner, which I make sure to roll on several times. If we’re lucky, the room will also have a private onsen, which almost always takes the form of a small outdoor pool the size of a large box. I’d spend my afternoons at the public baths and save the private onsen for midnight and sunrise soaks. I loved curling my legs up and sinking my entire body in, taking in the mountains, trees and sky before me. 

Our first night at Kurokawa was an exception to the ‘outdoors private onsen’ rule. When exploring our room, I spotted an inconspicuous door that opened to a series of stairs leading down. Walking down the steps and past a lonely looking sink and storage baskets, and sliding open the heavy wooden door to my left, I found myself facing a very worn-looking onsen swallowed in the dark underbelly of the Ryokan, more cellar than room. “Damn”, F whistled as he shuffled in beside me, “this must be hundreds of years old” [9]. 

One of my favorite parts of ryokan stays is the kaiseki dinner. Although kaiseki originated as a simple meal for monks [10], it has now blossomed into a seasonal multi-course feast with its own set of rules outlining the types of courses to be served and in which order. The menu typically changes every month, with each dish crafted around the freshest ingredients that season, be it puffer fish in the winter or bamboo shoots in spring. With kaiseki, you eat with your eyes as much as you do with your mouth. Each course is treated as a work of art, an interplay of colour, texture, and seasonality. The Hassun is my favorite course for that reason, as it sets the seasonal backdrop for the ingredients to come, and is often one of the most beautifully arranged courses. 

Despite each course being only a couple bites, by the time I’m partway through the Shiizakana, my obi would feel tight enough to warrant a post-dinner digestive walk. Teeter-tottering in our geta afterwards with an obligatory glass of umeshu and two different local varieties of sake sloshing around in our stomachs, F and I would shuffle about in our Yukatas under the gentle caress of moonlight. 

The morning after would consist of a very hearty breakfast that is fairly fish and fishcake heavy (and mentaiko served alongside the rice or porridge - if F is lucky), followed by a send-off à la omotenashi spirit. The staff that took care of us at the Ryokan, sometimes a couple others, would line up near the entrance in formation. As F started the engine, they would call out “ありがとうございます” collectively, bow deeply for several long moments, and start waving. I’d keep my eyes on the rearview mirrors as we pulled away, and there they were, hands waving like wheat stalks in the wind - ten seconds in, twenty seconds in, thirty seconds in - even as we travelled further and further and became nothing more than a speck in the distance. 

Now for some quickfire ryokan recs: Madoka no Mori (or Gora Hanaougi) in Hakone, Takinoya in Noboribetsu and Gettouan in Yufuin if you’re looking for something more high-end and don’t mind a decent number of tourists around; Ichiitei in Hakone if you’re looking for something more traditional and intimate, as well as in-room Kaiseki; Bettei Soan in Minami-Aso if you want a private indoor onsen; Kobayashiya in Kinosaki if you’re wanting Spirited Away with a light modern touch. A special shoutout to Yufuin Mori No Hotel Shan in Yufuin as well - it’s not a traditional ryokan per say, but the owner and lady running it were so lovely, the rooms were clean and very spacious, and the semi-private onsens were also pretty nice as well [10]. 

Let me know if you end up visiting any of the above! And of course, do shoot me a message if you have any suggestions on which onsen town I should go to next.  

Lots of love,

Kelly 

[1] What poor soul decided to take a dip in steaming volcanic water? No wonder they call them "hells".

[2] I still haven't tried an onsen foot bath to this day!

[3] Hakone, Noboribetsu and Yufuin respectively. 

[4]  Historically, onsens in Japan grew in popularity as they were seen as a form of ‘purifying’ — misogi — in Shintoism; this was compounded by the arrival of Buddhism which also prized cleanliness and purification  I’ve also heard about different kinds of onsen water having different healing properties, for example hydrogen chloride being good for smooth, beautiful skin etc. In fact, Goto Gonzan, a Japanese medic, prescribed hot springs for medical treatment in the Edo period, with Kinosaki Onsen supposedly being his favourite.

[5] If one could call it a souvenir shop - from old purses to bucket hats to floral reefs, it seems to feature a hodgepodge of things with little coherence. The shopkeeper wasn’t even in the shop. He was outside in his garden whittling wood and gave me a subtle nod as I walked in. 

[6] Classic Japanese humility - when having omakase in Japan, there have been one too many times where the chef introduces a piece of red sashimi that looks suspiciously like chu-toro as “maguro”.

[7] There was no clock but this trip taught me that I have an excellent psychological sense of time. 

[8] Some of these smaller ryokans don't offer private showers in their rooms, which has always made me wonder how us women would wash ourselves when that time of the month rolls around…

[9] Kaiseki [懐石] literally translates to the hot stone plate that monks would keep on their bellies to stave off hunger.

[10] ‘Semi-private’ because you can book a time to have the onsen to yourself.