Day 20 – Hiroshima to Osaka

For some reason accommodation in Osaka is harder to find than a donut in Kirstie Alley's dressing room. I spent over two hours on the internet being thwarted by a variety of  'no availability' messages and Japanese websites.

The hotel manager where I am currently staying then spent over an hour attempting in vain to locate me a room before, with a rather grim face telling me, she had found 'something, but not of a high standard'. With bowed head and quivering lower lip she a admitted that the room had 'A lamp that did not work'. Gravely insulted, I immediately called for the name of her superior, her first born child and front row seats at her impending hair-kiri.

My worst hotel rooms:

1. Osaka, Japan – A lamp that didn't work, upon arrival it had been fixed.

2. San Salvador, El Salvador – This particular hotel had a 10pm curfew as a courtesy to it's guests whose safety on the surrounding streets was dubious at best. The walls separating the rooms were pieces of plywood, that only rose to just above head height – the remainder was chicken wire. None of the rooms had locks so rather than be murdered in my sleep, I spent the night drinking vodka with a heavily home-tattooed Mexican who had recently been released from a Texas jail for drug running.

3. Oaxaca, Mexico – Having spent a night on the Tequila I was in need of a good nights sleep. Around three in the morning having been constantly woken by strange gushing sounds, I lifted the wooden planks under my mattress to find it had been built over a sewer – a unique feature you won't find on Grand Designs.

4. Kuching, Borneo – The smashed window was unsatisfactory, but it was hot so It gave a nice breeze and a decent view. The bed frame that looked like a medieval torture instrument was just about bearable, however, the flimsy sponge mattress stained with enough substances (blood being the principal one) to keep the CSI Borneo boys busy for a number of days was just to much. The floor turned out to be even dirtier.

Day 19 – Naoshima to Hiroshima

We decided that one day in Hiroshima was not enough, and with Japanese trains being as good as they are, a backtrack of 170kms is an easy enough journey to make. Without this backtrack I would not of had the pleasure of seeing a station cleaner pushing around a rubbish cart that, whenever the wheels were in motion, played 'The Camptown Ladies' – that fella must go home the happiest man in the world, either that or one day he will snap and kill 80 commuters with an automatic weapon.

Having returned to Hiroshima the only thing left to do was decide what to do with the day, ancient castles? sacred temples? or, how about a 7km long production line in the Mazda Factory? Yes my inner Clarkson was released as I watched in amazement as workers and robots armed with all manner of power tools swarmed like Doozers (for those of you who remember Fraggle Rock) over slow moving cars.

For dinner in the evening we have another Okonomiyaki, which I suspect is the real reason Ciara wanted to return.

Day 18 – Naoshima

Naoshima Island has been given over to art, indoor and outdoor installations dot the island including; enormous fibre-glass pumpkins on the beach, inexplicable glass and mirror cubicles, art galleries and entire houses that have been turned into art projects. 

Many are very good – I particularly liked the almost pitch black house that had transformed the living room into a neon-light filled pond, and one installation by James Turrell in Chichu Art Museum that was nothing short of sensational – pop out and have a look at it yourself.

Inevitably a couple suffered from the curse of modern-art blather 'The twigs on the floor are symbolic of my struggle', Really? Or are they just something that was picked up in the park on a Friday afternoon having been laying into the sake.

The nights in Naoshima are slow, boasting only a handful of restaurants and bars that are dotted inconvieniently around the island, I find myself with less things to do than Amy Winehouse's cleaning lady. Having bought a can of beer from the Seven-Eleven store, I walk around the ferry station and go to the Seven-Eleven store again. Fearing the lady behind the counter may think I am casing the joint if I visit for a third time I go back to the tent.

Early night it is then.