Given that the Shiretoko peninsula claims to be one of the last pristine wilderness areas in Japan, I'd expected the sole road which leads through the mountainous National Park to be empty of traffic. But my arrival coincided with Japan's Obon holiday, a 3-day period when the nation finally stops working. I fought for a spare patch of ground to pitch my tent and decided that I'd tackle the 18km climb, weather permitting, soon after it got light the next morning, rather than have to breath in the diesel fumes of tour buses later in the day.

        It had been several days since I'd had a good wash and my handy map, which marked the location of onsens, (Japanese public baths) showed one close to the campsite. In fact onsens, alongside the proximity of finding a cold beer in the evenings, heavily influenced where I decided to set up camp each night. They're a cycle tourer's dream, and because of all the volcanic activity one finds them everywhere in Hokkaido. To have a good clean and be able to relax in a hot bath or two for no more than about 500￥, is just what a cyclist needs at the end of the day. I'd visited about half a dozen up to this point in the trip. But here in Shiretoko I'd stumbled across quite a distinctive onsen. It wasn't a mixed sex onsen, as some are, but as I followed the trail through the woods, which ran alongside a mountain stream, I discovered that this public bath was no larger than a children's paddling pool. Squeezed into the natural rock bath were about 10 men, and around its edge were at least another 10, scrubbing and cleaning themselves as they perched naked with a bar of soap on the rock face.
        Now I've always enjoyed going to onsens in Japan - a certain when in Rome experience, but there is always that mild discomfort of being stared at by your fellow bathers, particularly when you first enter the bathing area. Whether it was my farmers tan that added to the shock I'm not sure, but once I came into view of the 20 or so naked men there were more than muffled exclamations of "gaijin san" (a foreigner) from the bath. I was equally shocked of course, not to see all the nakedness, but just how close it was together. I know that Japan is a nation where people are used to living close to one another, but this was like I'd happened upon some secret club in the woods that I'd rather not be a part of. There was no turning back however as I slowly stripped off and put on a brave smile to join them.
        Sunburn and hot sulphurous water equals pain, and the temperature of the water in the bath rendered anything longer than a 3-minute soak somewhat dangerous. Even my fellow bathers, half of whom had seemed to climb out once I entered, were having trouble with their usual onsen soak-time. This was an onsen experience that I wouldn't forget. I only wish I'd taken a photo. But back to the cycling.

         Pedaling 18km uphill is a fair old way, but I found a nice gentle rhythm once I set off the next morning, and the switchback bends, which offered views through the early mist towards the sea below, were not as steep as I imagined. Less than 2 hours later I was at the top of the pass, standing beside the first tour groups of the day who were taking their obliquitory photos, some even wanting a picture of me drenched in all my sweat and preparing for the long descent down the other side. I would have liked to stay longer, perhaps do some hiking, but I decided after my last climb that I'd stick to the bike for this trip. And so the 'wild' peninsula disappeared quickly as I passed several waterfalls on the other side and rejoined the coast, the sea shimmering blue under the clear skies I was lucky to enjoy for the day.

I'd been cycling for two weeks now and my body seemed to be accustomed to covering 100-130km each day. The muscles in my legs were starting to harden and there was that great farmers tan from being exposed to the sun all day. The simplicity of waking up in the morning, getting on the bike and cycling to new places with the road in front of me and my legs to power me along reminded me of the reasons why travelling by bicycle is so much more rewarding and in a sense easier than using public transport. One can also splurge on all manner of calorific delights knowing that six or seven hours of pedaling, which seemed to be about my daily average, would burn it all back off. And Japan isn't short of places to fuel up on food at the road-side. Convenience stores or service stations are as much a part of Japanese culture as onsens are. One seems to find a 7-11 or one of its many equivalents at practically every intersection. Ice-cream stops on hot days became a common feature, and even when I only planned to use the store's washroom to fill up on water I rarely made it out without purchasing some kind of pastry or snack. They were just too tempting too much of the time and meant I never really had to worry about food for the trip.

The sea of Okhotsk was a fairly new one to my geographical knowledge and I wasn't even sure how to pronounce Okhotsk at first. Its waves break over Hokkaido's north eastern coastline, which from December through to April becomes covered in drift ice that migrates south from the arctic. It's a sight I'd like to see, but not from a bicycle. I followed the coastal road some 300km along its shoreline, and with small white fishing boats dotted upon its blue surface it was hard to imagine the same sea being covered in ice. There was also an Okhotsk museum that I visited, and which proved to be 300￥ well spent - depicting with some fantastic displays and photos information about the ice flows and the history of the area. With its blue and shimmering appearance the sea actually looked quite inviting too, and in some places there were empty golden beaches, which were quite unlike the grey sand and pebble ones along the south coast of the island.

 I was heading towards Cape Soya, Japan's northern most point, and a target for many motorcyclists and cyclists during their tour of the island. A tailwind sped me forward and I seemed to be cycling along at 20-30km/h for much of the time with little effort. Milk farms were like mile posts along the way as they separated the flat green fields which bordered the sea. A cool wind would also blow during the night and gave me several pleasant mosquito-free campsites, which allowed me to erect the tent and make dinner without that annoying whine around my ears.

The further north I cycled the more wind turbines seemed to dot the road side. And they increased in number like the number of motorcyclists that passed and waved. During one stop at a convenience store there were even two other cyclists, but our conversations as we sat outside and ate our bentos (boxed lunches) didn't extend much beyond the small talk of where we had cycled from and where we were going.
         I've realised during my time here how Japan in so many ways is a reserved nation, and strong friendships don't always develop so easily or quickly. It's also very much a group culture, which runs quite against the concept of individual travel. In Hokkaido, and particularly at the campsites I was staying in every night, my observations led me to propose that the tourers, in their little one and two men tents, were essentially like fish out of their own little pond. They were in new ponds at each campsite with other fish they didn't know, and mixing together wasn't something that happened straight away. Perhaps I had too much time to think to myself, and perhaps many of the tourers who'd come to Hokkaido by themselves wanted their own company, but it often struck me how quiet the campsites were,(which is nice in a way) and largely devoid of different individuals and groups mixing. Being foreign in Japan of course makes me the true outside fish and I often found it amusing how motorcyclists who'd wave and smile as they passed me on the road, would then say nothing when we were together at the campsite.
         But I met someone a little different when I reached Cape Soya. Amongst the tourists and motorcyclists posing for a picture I spotted a Japanese man with a clipboard, who soon approached me and asked if I was German because of my German made panniers. He spoke excellent English and it soon transpired he'd spent seven years cycling around the world. He was interviewing cyclists for a magazine he wrote for in Tokyo, but I was more interested to talk to him of his travels, which he did so with a friendly modesty. It was refreshing and inspiring, particularly as I'd always found it difficult on the small island I lived on for two years to find someone who wouldn't view me as completely crazy for wanting to cycle from Japan to England.

Wakkanai is Japan's northern most town and lies a mere 40km from the Russian island of Sakhalin. The grey windswept streets held no special interest except for the fact that there were a fair few number of un-Japanese faces walking them. In a country whose society is largely mono-racial, foreigners are sometimes grouped together and perceived as one race too. And with my unshaven and scruffy looking appearance I suppose I made quite a good Russian sailor. I'm sure the lady in the DIY shop thought so, who refused to make eye contact with me when I enquired about whether a piece of metal tubing I needed for a broken tent pole could be cut. "Dekinai" (its not possible) came the response. "Well is there somewhere else in this town that I can get it cut"? I ventured to ask. "Wakaranai" (I don't know) came the next answer. I thought she was lying, which she probably was, and considered probing more questions to annoy her, but then decided to cycle straight to the ferry port and find times for boats departing from Wakkanai to the island of Rishiri, famed for it's conical shaped mountain, which dominates the small island and rises to a height of 1721m. Most people who visit the island climb the mountain, but it was covered in clouds the entire time I was there. So I decided to just lesuirely cycle the 50km around it's base, never in fact seeing the beautiful view that so many postcards showed.
         I could have waited a day or two for the weather to clear, but sitting in a tent listening to the rain as I did for several hours one morning becomes rather boring, and so I donned my waterproofs for the first time and jumped on a ferry back to Wakkanai, after spending just one night on the island.
         I wanted to cycle out of the town, but my camera battery was low and I'd forgotten the charger. A bigger smile and a kinder lady in a camera shop resulted in me being allowed to use one of the store's battery chargers, but that left me with several hours to kill and not enough time to reach another campsite outside of Wakkanai. I bought some food and sat in a park for lunch, surrounded by several groups of Russian men passing a bottle of Vodka between them, (who says stereotypes aren't true?) before joining a large group of people who were crowded around a TV in a department store and watching a team from Hokkaido beat another team from Osaka, in what I gathered to be the all Japan high school baseball championship final. The Russians in the department store seemed less interested than I did.

With a week left of my trip I realised I would have more time than initially planned to reach the airport for my return flight to Fukuoka. South from Wakkanai I cycled down the west coast of Hokkaido, which faces the Sea of Japan and which owing to warmer sea currents stays free of drifting ice in the winter. Lowland salt marshes bordered the long and flat road, which made the going easy despite a strong cross-wind, but out to sea the island of Rishiri still refused to display its famous peak.

The Obon national holiday was now officially over but cycling away from a quiet campsite one morning I found myself caught up in the middle of a triathlon. People were lined on the streets and some at first seemed to be cheering me on, until I got closer and they saw that my loaded bike was not designed for racing. The cyclists in fact were going in the opposite direction and the first foreigner I'd seen since leaving Wakkanai a few days earlier was a bean-like figure, who with his head down whizzed past some ten minutes ahead of the remaining Japanese competitors. I cheered them as they went by - "Ganbare" (keep going) being the standard roadside call.

         Travelling alone means making decisions alone, and on the same day as the triathlon I'd planned to head to a campsite, which on my map was marked beside an onsen. What the map didn't show was that the onsen was at the bottom of a hill and the campsite at the top. And so I decided to cycle to the next campsite, which was in the town of Rumoi some 20km further south. I soon started to curse my decision however when a light rain began to fall, but then shortly afterwards a white van stopped, and out popped an old man. "Do you like tomatoes"? was the first thing he asked. Yes I said. "Do you like melons"? came next, and then sweet corn. Five minutes later I was carrying four large tomatoes, two corn-on-the-cobs and a melon on the back of my bike. How kind but random I thought. But it didn't quite end there. An hour later, with my tent pitched beside a group of elderly people sitting down to a tableful of seafood, I got invited over and practically forced to eat and drink as much as possible on the table. Now this was a rarity for the trip, and I seemed to eat a month's supply of raw fish, shell fish and all manner of other Japanese goodies that my budget wouldn't stretch too, whilst responding to a myriad of questions about my trip. "Sugoi sugoi" (that's amazing) came the replies, as I drank my way through beer after beer that was poured before me. They spoke quickly in their salubrious state, and after a little Japanese from myself seemed to assume I spoke and understood it fluently, which is far from the truth. Nodding and making typical exclamations and occasional remarks to show I was listening (a skill the foreigner learns in Japan) I politely pretended to understand the three hour conversation that ensued around the table. Two of my elderly guests were keen runners, so perhaps our interest in exercise brought some mutual understanding, but most of all it was so pleasant to be invited into the company of my neighbours for a change, and I was glad to have decided to cycle that extra 20km to reach the campsite.

  My last few days along the coastline, by-passing Hokkaido's main city of Sapporo to avoid the traffic, took me through many more tunnels, which were interspersed with the spectacular scenery of steep sided and rugged cliffs dropping into the sea. My final seaside camping spots were rewarded with beautiful sunsets that I could watch from my tent, falling asleep shortly after as my body clock was now attuned to the times of light and dark. I'd actually camped every night, and only paid about four times, but the tent itself was on it's last legs - the weak aluminium poles sounding like a gun-shot from inside the tent every time one snapped. This happened about eight times and the poles required some careful make-shift reinforcements.

The roads had become much quieter and there was less waving to fellow two-wheeled tourers as I turned back inland and headed east for my last 200km towards the airport. A pass of 600 metres close to the coast and beside the beautiful cone shaped Mt Yotei seemed rather easy after 2000km on the bike, and made me think of the much greater climbing challenges that await me in southern China and south east Asia. There are plenty of hills in Japan, but the smooth asphalt and generally gentle gradients are kind to cyclists.

My only remaining challenge was to find a bike box before flying back, and as luck had it there was a bike shop opposite the train station I would need to go to for the short connection to the airport, and whose owner spoke English. I arrived a day early in case I might need to travel far to find one, but it wasn't necessary. The only dampener to my last day was that it was raining, and when I checked the forecast it showed a typhoon was approaching. It was just as well as I'd finished my trip and was heading back to Fukuoka.