A cloudy yet hot day, with a cool breeze—a perfect setting for cycling. Today, I’m filled with motivation. My first stop is a small park along the way to yesterday’s failed destination, Dazaifu.

Inside this lovely park, three old ladies play bowls on a synthetic lawn while beautiful fuchsias wave in the wind near a natural stream. Japan currently recognises almost 110 species of fuchsia. These particular flowers boast the classic blend of purple and red hues.

As I arrive at Dazaifu around 3 p.m., the first thing catching my eye is a hill crowned with ruins. Parking my bicycle, I decide to climb it. From the hilltop, I’m greeted with a view of traditional Japanese houses in the distance. At the bottom of the hill lies Gakugyouin Temple.

I cycle around, admiring the greenery and scenery. In Tokyo, the greenery was often overshadowed by the buildings, but here, the mountains seem adorned with temples. A swarm of dragonflies gracefully drifts above an open allotment. This place exudes tranquillity, likely absent from any guidebooks. This is precisely the Japan I’ve yearned for since my arrival—a serene experience I hadn’t yet encountered.

Kanzeon-ji is a seventh-century temple, once the chief Buddhist temple in Kyushu. It houses a multitude of historical, artistic, and religious treasures. Beside it lies the ruins of the once-marvellous seven-story high pagoda.

Dazaifu is starting to remind me a lot of Kyoto. In eight days, I’ll be heading to Kyoto for one week. Then, I have two weeks without plans before I head back to Tokyo. The thought has crossed my mind to cycle back to Tokyo from Kyoto, stopping off at interesting places along the way. The two cities are only 367 kilometres apart.

The sign next to the temple mentions that the pagoda was restored in 741 A.D. at a scale of 1/10. Conveniently, that’s available to see outside the Dazaifu City Fureai Cultural Hall. That’s my next stop.

I enter the cultural hall, and the woman at the desk seems startled by my presence. Politely, I ask if I can look around, and she agrees—it’s also free. Inside, there are various objects encased in glass, mostly old roof tiles. After a brief tour of the building, I take my leave.

Next, I cycle to Komyoten-ji Garden to see the Government Ruins—the remnants of the medieval Dazaifu Administrative Buildings. They rest within a vast public park at the foot of Mount Ono. As I arrive, I notice some boys playing football, using jumpers for goalposts. The goalkeeper rushes forward, expertly dribbling the ball past six players before scoring an excellent goal. Applause erupts from everyone watching.

All the children in Dazaifu say ‘Hello’ to me. Surprisingly, there’s a distinct lack of tourists for such a historic place. Maybe I’m the first Westerner they’ve ever seen. With a wry smile, I reply to them, ‘Konnichiwa.’

As I cycle by, insects chirp loudly near one of the men employed to direct traffic. However, there’s no traffic on this road; I don’t sense a car has come this way for hours. He smiles warmly at me, signalling with a wave of his hand and a deep nod for me to continue.

As I pass Kaidan-in Temple, I see a sign for an Exhibition Hall. Carnival Cutouts wait for me outside. Inside, there’s no one present—no tourists, no staff members, no one to take my money. It’s just more objects enclosed in glass. A sign prohibits photography, but I snap a cheeky shot; no one will ever know.

My final stop in Dazaifu is the Kyushu National Museum, seemingly tucked away in the woods. I leave my bike; I really should lock it up, but I don’t bother. There are more temples around here too.

A sign simply saying ‘Museum’ points up a mountain path. I follow the path for a good ten minutes before encountering a new sign, indicating that the museum is 2.1 kilometres away. Quite odd. I retrace my steps to my bicycle and head off in the new direction.

I cycle up into the mountain and reach the museum car park; a sign indicates ‘last entry 4:30 p.m., exhibitions open until five.’ Glancing at my watch, it reads 4:28 p.m. Swiftly, I park my bicycle in one of the bays intended for cars and start running up the many steps to the museum.

A man with a red lightsaber appears out of nowhere. He insists that I must cycle all the way to the top and park my bike in the designated parking area. I protest, saying, “But the museum closes in two minutes, and I came all the way from Hakata!”

He makes a phone call and speaks in Japanese for a few minutes. Afterward, he tells me they can still let me in. Lucky me. As I make the final approach to the Kyushu National Museum, its sheer size almost knocks me off my bike.

Opened in 2005, it stands as the first new National Museum to open in Japan in over 108 years. It’s also the first to emphasise history over art and boasts an on-site conservation centre, the largest in Kyushu. The museum primarily focuses on prehistory to the Meiji era.

Once inside, I ride the escalator to the 4th floor and pay a ¥420 entry fee. The rooms are impeccably clean; the glass seems polished on the hour. The museum is enormous. Separate rooms display various collections of historic artwork or fossilised ruins. Photography isn’t allowed here—not even an opportunity for a quick shot; two staff members stand guard in every section. With just twenty-five minutes to look around, I leave dead on closing time.

After the museum, I cycle 18.2 kilometres back to the hostel. It takes me an hour, stopping once for a bottle of Pocari Sweat, and a second time to photograph this building:

At the hostel, I realise that I’m starving. I decide to keep my stomach empty and write up some of the day’s events. At 8 p.m., I head back outside and run on my empty stomach, finding the red lights of traffic intersections providing nice little rest stops from time to time.

I run for almost fifty minutes, passing packed restaurants offering any choice of cuisine imaginable. Even though it’s been twenty-three hours since I had any food, nothing really draws me in; my appetite is oddly missing.

I see a random square:

As I run, I notice some red lights in the sky that resemble a tower. Intrigued, I head in that direction. As I get closer, I spot planes floating by in the distance. A sinking feeling hits me; I might have circled back to Fukuoka Airport, recognising the tower used for Air Traffic Control. Oddly, I didn’t see any signs indicating the airport, though.

To my relief, my assumptions were false. I arrive at Hakata Pier, realising that the tower I saw was Hakata Port Tower. Calculating the distance, I note I ran for 5.7 kilometres to get here. Earlier today, I cycled at least forty kilometres. It’s surprising—I’ve never had so much energy.

Fishermen line up along the pier, and finally, my appetite for food returns, specifically for fish. However, the only fish I find here are sandwiched between glass in another small, free aquarium. I scout out the area and stumble upon another temple—I seem to have come across quite a few of these today.

The pier looks picturesque at night, adorned with its myriad of lights. Entering the food court, I find that the only place with any appeal is a French restaurant. However, as I approach, the lights suddenly go out. Closed at nine o’clock sharp.

I head back to Hakata and unexpectedly stumble upon the all too familiar Reisen Park. Spotting other runners doing laps around the park, I decide to join them for a while. When I finally locate the camera shop, I get my bearings.

The area around the park is bustling at night, with outdoor izakayas lining the streets. The enticing aroma of barbecued meats fills the air. I’m rather fond of the monument in the park, so I try to take a photograph, but unfortunately, it doesn’t turn out so well. Quickly, I make my way back to Hakata Station.

I undo all the hard work of the day and opt for McDonald’s. It feels like I’m a death-row inmate having his last meal, as I’ve decided this will be my final indulgence in junk food for a while. It costs me ¥986, effectively for fish and chips.

As I walk back from the station to the hostel, it unexpectedly starts to rain—for a grand total of exactly five seconds. Umbrellas shoot up, and just as quickly, they come down. Since I don’t usually carry an umbrella on hot days, I get ever so slightly wet.

Back at the hostel, I find I still have an abundance of energy. It’s been a remarkably productive day. I spend a few more hours writing, followed by some reading. Then, I head to bed—stone cold sober.