Kyoto, shiwasu. Though snow had not fallen yet, daylight was scarce as the sun set by afternoon. I was sick of Gion, kaiseki so colourful it turned into white noise, courses after courses they put in front of me in disoriented clusters.

Kamogawa was shockingly empty since tourists flocked to temples instead, and perhaps would catch the pandemic from one another and go extinct altogether. When gentle sunlight hit, the golden and red leaves on the wild roots hanging off the wall gleamed in natural winter beauty more than any golden statue.

On the coldest day, I took the train to the mountains of Saga. Even though I was supposedly heading west, the sky darkened at an ever accelerating pace. By the time I stepped out of the station I was greeted by a refreshing change of scenery.

Shop lights were replaced by faceless residential buildings. The crowd had disappeared. As I ascended the slope, even cars were nowhere to be found, leaving nothing but meaningless traffic lights and bone-chilling gusts. Luckily the white sign of the restaurant beckoned in the dark.

The menu itself was packed from edge to edge with near illegible cursive calligraphy. From there I was to pick among the abundant items those which caught my eyes. Grilled honmoroko and fried taro were followed by mixed delicacies to nibble on with cold sake.

Suddenly the chef lifted a block of tuna out from nowhere (despite being deep in the mountain) onto the center cutting board for another guest. The visual impact was simply impossible to ignore. Noticing my gaze, he asked, "would you like sashimi?" to which I responded, "no, please make negima nabe."

Local Kyoto dashi is extra sweet, not by the sweetness of sugar but one with a very strong presence of negi. For that reason, this Edo dish, blessed by season, terroir and man, was bound to be infallible.

Their specialty, two slices of Morika's fried tofu skin, were served topped with a shred of scallion, grated ginger, and soy sauce for dipping. The chef called it "taste of the slums of Kyoto". Meanwhile, I believed I was in paradise.

In an attempt to break out of the cocoon of big cities, I ventured out to the inland sea for a change. Unlike the olives trees of Avignon, the olive trees of Kagawa do not perfume even if one were to lean in to smell the leaves, leading to my conjecture that these olives prefer absorption over dispersion, like a yakumi whose role is the purification of taste by suppressing that which detracts from it.

I originally did not think I would have a chance to verify this, but in the morning, when both udonyas I had planned happened to be closed outside of schedule, I was fed up and, perhaps out of an unwillingness to submit to the obligatory, seized the opportunity to try olive pork tonkatsu instead.

Amaku kiken na kaori — sweet and dangerous scent — played inside the restaurant. There was a certain hint of fragrance brought forth by the salt, almost as though it was fried in olive oil as one would to make milanese veal cutlet. There was also a natural smoothness to the meat.

It distinguished itself from the recent boom of marbling pork brands whose tenderness often exceeds the realm of pleasantness, for its fibers were clear and well aligned yet not perfectly aligned, which brought about a wildness to its texture as a result. Across was a thin stretch of fat, vivid but not overly pronounced.

The sauce was strong in chili flavour; had there been garlic, this might have unintentionally become the taste of aglio e olio. Cabbage slaw was finely shredded and mounted with care. Coffee to end the lunch in a not very Japanese fashion, for by now it was surely not Japanese.

Whereas the marine liner was cramped with buffoons and nobody was enjoying despite the sunshine, the rainy yosan line was one of peaceful solitude in contrast, ideal for reading Takamine Hideko's written account of Shiba Ryotaro, who himself wrote a succinct sketch of the destination city.

The rain of Matsuyama was unwelcoming. Even when equipped with an umbrella, a few steps onto the street would still leave one soaked from knees down. Eyeing a small window of clear dawn sky, I ventured up the stairway towards the castle.

Thanks to the weather and the timing, I was alone under the shades of trees. Aside from the worry of impending rain I was in no hurry, and perhaps as a reward, discovered at the joint of some rocks, next to moss and dirt, what appeared to be chanterelles of all things! How many people have walked this path, with their heads raised and minds glued to the castle, only to miss out on these little wonders?

When the rain resumed right as I reached the apex thoroughly wet and dehydrated, I took shelter in a shop to have myself a mikan shaved ice empty-stomach.

Through olive, chanterelle and orange, I was brought back to memories of Prieuré Baumanière. The late summer sun had not yet set while we dined in its inner garden, drinking Collet champagne and Les Gruenchers wine to olive black tomato tartar, salmon bass in orange broth and duckling breast with chanterelles.

The seafood of Setouchi was calm and lean, making it a poor match with sweet sauces. A sushiya served springy octopus and shirasu as tsumami to start. Koaji nigiri had layers of complexity, its taste evolving as it tumbled inside the mouth. We at the counter shared local sakes, sometimes as local as a sole metre away.

As I mused over their differences, the neighbouring violinist hinted at the concept of sharpness, whose impression I understood in theory but had trouble internalizing, and I ultimately left without success.

However, as all coincidences go, the answer eventually found its way to me weeks later when I listened to Ginette Neveu's performance of Sibelius violin concerto. Blade-like and fleeting were her final notes of the first movement, yet they were in no manner thin; their presence sucks every attention away.