The wheels on my bicycle were spinning faster and faster as I zoomed downhill on the hot asphalt. To my left, a rocky wall ran along the road, cut out from the seaside cliffs that defined this region. To my right, I had an incredible view of the Sea of Japan, a great blue expanse shimmering in the sunlight of a warm September afternoon. The coastline was dotted with rest stops, well-maintained viewpoints, and dreamy, pleasant little towns that rarely see any tourism.

I was riding along Japan’s western coast, somewhere between Niigata City and Joetsu. I was halfway along my countryside bike tour, and I was blissfully enjoying myself. Up until this point, my ride had taken me through mountain valleys, forests, floodplains, and endless fields of grain and rice. And while every single day had been a rollercoaster of physical effort, joyful discovery, and breathtaking views, to this day I still consider the days spent riding along that idyllic stretch of coastline one of the absolute highlights of the trip.

It could have been the well-maintained roads that made that part of my trip stand out, although I had to share them with a lot more traffic than the countryside byways I rode on before. It could also have been the wind in my back and the long, easy downhill sections that provided some respite from the hilly backcountry I crossed getting here. But I think one memorable, unique encounter I had in those hills played a big part in my state of bliss as well. It was my first insight into a deeper, hidden part of Japanese culture, and it took both me and my impromptu hosts completely by surprise.

A humid start

A month earlier, somewhere in mid-August, I bought a bike in Tokyo. I was planning on visiting a small mountain town called Nozawa Onsen in the Nagano province, some 275 kilometers northwest of where I was. It was a good, light road bike, with a slightly too narrow saddle that would undoubtedly cause some discomfort, but I was eager and happy to leave the metropolis behind and set off exploring the Japanese countryside.

After weeks spent wandering around Osaka, Kyoto and Tokyo, I felt I had seen enough of the urban aspects of the country. Besides, I was starting to feel somewhat lonely. Contact with other foreigners was limited, and any insights into authentic Japanese culture through mingling with locals seemed impossible in the private, emotionally closed culture of the big cities. Not that I thought the countryside would be any different; the Japanese are known for their strict and distant social etiquette, or so I thought.

No, if I was to be alone, I preferred to strike out on a solo cycling adventure and be away from the crowds and the social activity I couldn’t be a part of. I discovered a long time ago that being alone in the wild is far less lonely than being on your own in an urban environment.

So, I set out on a hot, humid August morning without saddlebags or proper touring gear. My backpack weighed just under 15 kilos, and my tent was strapped to the bike’s frame. When thinking back on it, I still don’t know how I thought this would be in any way bearable on a narrow saddle, but I was underway and ready for a 4-day ride to Nozawa Onsen. That night, I found a campsite in a small park outside the city limits, and I settled in for the night.

The following day I googled “How to take a bike on a train in Japan,” bought a sheet of plastic to wrap my bike in, and took the train all the way to Nagano.

As it turned out, my 4-season, stormproof, synthetic tent was not at all suited to the hot, humid Japanese summer nights. And after a sleepless night deciding between humid suffocation or opening my tent flaps to the swarms of mosquitoes outside, I decided to spend some weeks in the Nagano mountains until the weather cooled down enough for a proper bicycle tour.

Countryside delights

The village of Nozawa Onsen, famous for its winter tourism and no less than thirteen natural hot springs, turned out to be the perfect cure for my feelings of isolation and loneliness. Earlier that month, I arranged a volunteering stay with some local Australians who made that mountain town their home. I was to help them renovate some of their rental properties, and between my hospitable hosts and the camaraderie with the other volunteers, I spent an unforgettable three weeks in that scenic little town.

However, as the weather started to cool down, the wanderlust set in, and I planned a 10-day bike tour to revisit my plans of exploring the countryside. So once again, I strapped on my heavy backpack, tied some more equipment to my bike frame, and set off northeast, following the Shinano River Valley towards Niigata.

Those first days on the road were filled with beautiful little moments of discovery, inviting rest stops filled with local delicacies, sunny weather, camping spots near hot water springs, and an endlessly changing scenery as I slowly approached the open landscapes beyond the Shinano Valley. I rode past shimmering reflections on clear blue mountain lakes, past waving crops in green wind-blown fields, past dozens of villages with neatly kept gardens and small communal parks hiding centuries-old temples and shrines.

At one point, I was even asked to join two passersby in a small ceremony at their temple home, just because they were interested in my journey and wanted to send me along with their blessings. My cycling trip would be full of these small, precious encounters, where time and time again the people surprised me in how far they would go to show me hospitality and kindness. However, as I mentioned before, one encounter stood out most of all, as it happened both wholly unexpected and at a moment where I was truly getting desperate for a helping hand.

Darkening skies

I was well into my 10-day trip when I turned away from the inland country roads and turned towards the hills west of Nagaoka to reach the coastline. It was getting dark, and I had no idea if I would find a campsite for the night. I had no trouble finding suitable spots to pitch my tent until now, despite most campsites in Japan being set up along major highways or used like nothing more than glorified picnic spots; something that would be likely to attract unwanted nighttime bear visits.

Finding a camping spot that was not only safe and conveniently located but also provided enough clear, flat ground for my tent proved to be nearly impossible that evening. I came to realise that the Japanese countryside consists of either hillside forest, developed agriculture, private land, or overgrown jungle. And as the sun was disappearing behind the treetops and darkness started to settle in, I knew I had to take the initiative and start knocking on some doors. Politely, of course.

As I zoomed along the darkening road, I started scanning the farmyards I passed. Most of the farmyards and gardens were either fenced off or simply seemed too well-kept to even consider asking to pitch a tent on. The daylight was almost gone, and my headlamp started flickering as my battery neared its end when I spotted a perfect little patch of grass behind one of the farmhouses.

I carefully approached the front door, fully aware that a foreign stranger knocking on someone’s door in the dark could be a little confronting, to say the least. Before I rang the doorbell, I prepared a polite opening speech using my phone’s trusty translation app, explaining the situation, that I would leave no trace and be gone early the next morning.

An elderly woman opened the door, her somewhat stiffening demeanor betraying her shock at the unexpected situation in typical Japanese fashion. As she read the text on my phone, a younger woman appeared behind her, three curious kids in tow. While the second woman was reading my plea, I waited patiently for their answer while preparing myself for the inevitable. After all, here was a tall, somewhat grimy foreigner with a shaven head and big beard, arriving on the doorstep of two women with their kids after dark. To decline his request would be the sensible thing to do in most parts of the world, right?

I received their answer through the app: “Sorry, we cannot let you stay on the grass behind the house.” Understanding, I politely thanked them for their time and started to turn around towards my bike. “Ah, sorry!” the younger woman exclaimed while pointing to my phone. After typing for a while, she showed me the rest of their answer: “We cannot let you stay outside because of the bears. Please come inside while we wait for my husband to return from work so we can make sure he is okay with you staying the night”.

Merriment and genuine hospitality

As it turned out, the husband’s approval wasn’t the deciding factor but merely a formality. He arrived shortly after, and by then I had the chance to fully explain what it was I was doing, why I was on this cycling trip, and why I couldn’t find a camping spot anywhere along these backroads. Apprehension quickly turned to understanding, and I was offered food and a shower.

But it was their three children who quickly decided I was not a threat but an unexpected and more than welcome diversion from their evening routine. After I washed up and put on some new clothes, it wasn’t long before the youngest two children designated me as their jungle gym for the evening. They started climbing my shoulders and legs to see how much the tall foreigner could take, and the house filled with joyful screams as they tested their wild hypothesis.

As with most parents, the infectious laughter and the disarming scene of their children having the time of their lives quickly softened whatever apprehension the adults still felt towards this stranger in their house. The rest of the evening was filled with more food and conversation, during which it turned out the mother actually spoke English quite well, and that her earlier dependence on my translation app was mostly out of shyness.

They gave me a futon bed in one of the paper-walled, tatami-floored rooms on the original ground floor of the house. The upstairs area was built later and therefore more modern, they explained, but they loved to keep as much of the old traditional structure intact. The house was shared with the husband’s elderly parents, who also occupied a small room on the ground floor. Their family had been rice farmers for four generations, but recent times have seen them selling off most of their land to their neighbors. The husband was a civil engineer, so rice farming wasn’t really necessary to provide for the family anymore. During our conversations, I got the sense that the elderly parents were the main reason the family still lived in the old house and that this young family was already subconsciously saying their goodbyes to this place, however picturesque and nostalgic it might be.

The next morning, I awoke to curious glances from young eyes between the paper sliding doors as the children were wondering if I would be up for another jungle gym session. Not being a morning person, I politely declined, something their mother silently thanked me for as she was herding her children into their morning school routine. I was offered breakfast and was promptly treated to a lunch bag containing homemade onigiri rice balls, made with aromatic Niigata rice from their own rice patch.

After offering depths of gratitude to rival the Japanese seabed, I said my goodbyes and made ready to go on my merry way. While I was preparing my bicycle, I was told the elderly grandmother wanted to show me the local shrine before I left, which apparently was a beautiful hidden gem tucked away in the woods above their house. And so I said my final goodbyes and accompanied the old lady to the uphill path leading to the shrine. It was a beautiful spot, and after a few photos and a small moment of silent contemplation, I helped her back down the path and got ready to continue my cycling tour.

Platitudes in gratitude

However, before I left, the grandmother pressed a small envelope into my hands. My initial refusals were not only culturally motivated; I really felt they had given me more than enough already. The old matriarch insisted, however, and I reluctantly accepted this final gift. I didn’t open the envelope until I was several kilometers down the road. After peeling away the Hello Kitty sticker that sealed the paper, I suddenly held a 10,000 yen banknote (roughly 70 USD) in my hand. As I stared out over the coastline below, I wondered at the exceptional level of hospitality I received.

Nothing I experienced during my weeks in the big cities, nor even during my weeks volunteering, came close to the care, the authenticity, and the sheer generosity I received in the last twelve hours. And while the Japanese are known for their somewhat closed demeanor and seemingly stiff social interactions, I just witnessed the true face behind that veneer of politeness and social etiquette. Because when that mask comes off, the Japanese might just turn out to be one of the most hospitable and generous people in the world. A family not only opened their door to a complete stranger in need but also fed him, accommodated his needs, and invited him into a private environment that is so seldomly seen by strangers, let alone foreign visitors.

And just when you think they couldn’t possibly give more, they put a significant amount of cash in your hand. However, thinking back on it now, that last gift might have had less to do with generosity and more with the details of my financial situation being lost in translation the night before, resulting in a somewhat misplaced sense of pity for the poor writer traveling alone on a bicycle.

What this encounter really illustrates is the level of cultural insight travellers can gain when choosing Japan’s countryside over the well-worn tourist trails of the country’s main urban centers. Choosing to explore these parts with a bicycle or with your own vehicle gives you access to experiences that transcend any pre-arranged tours or saturated tourist hotspots. From discovering hidden wonders to experiencing the local culture without curated filters, the unexplored potential of Japan’s backroads should occupy the top of any traveller’s bucket list.