There is something inherently poetic about journeys to the north. Perhaps it is the promise of solitude, the crispness of the air, or the quiet understanding that the further one travels from the metropolis, the closer one comes to nature's embrace. Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island, had long been on my list of places to visit, not for its famed powder snow or its summer flower fields, but for the simple reason that it seemed so unlike the Japan I knew.
With most of my relatives in Tokyo and Kyoto, and one in Osaka, I had never found a reason to visit Hokkaido—until now.
As our plane descended over New Chitose Airport, I pressed my forehead against the windowpane, hoping for a glimpse of the island's famed landscapes. Unlike the dense urban sprawl of Tokyo or the historic charm of Kyoto, Hokkaido stretched out in vast, uninterrupted swathes of wilderness. There were no skyscrapers racing towards the heavens, no train lines crisscrossing like the lifelines of a pulsing city. Instead, there were forests blanketed in white, roads flanked by towering snowbanks, and the occasional farmhouse standing alone in the elements—a scene that would not have been out of place in northern Europe.
The airport itself was unhurried, a stark contrast to the sensory overload of Narita or Kansai International. Even the staff seemed more relaxed, their movements less choreographed, their greetings more subdued. Outside, the cold hit me like an old friend I had not seen in years. It was not the damp, bone-chilling winter of Tokyo, but a dry, crisp cold that sharpened the senses and made every inhalation feel cleaner, purer. Hokkaido, it seemed, had already begun to distinguish itself.
Sapporo, the island's capital, was our first stop. A city built on a grid system, it was refreshingly straightforward to navigate. Yet, for all its modernity, it lacked the relentless pace of Japan's other major cities. There were no salarymen sprinting for their trains, no umbrella-wielding crowds squeezing through Shibuya-like crossings. The city breathed differently—its rhythm dictated not by neon signs and corporate towers but by the slow fall of snow and the warmth of a well-timed bowl of miso ramen.
Hokkaido's people, too, bore the markings of their environment. They seemed hardier, their demeanour more reserved than their counterparts in Honshu. But there was a kindness in their quietness, a warmth that emerged in small acts—a shopkeeper offering us extra napkins as we fumbled with our hot coffee, a station attendant who took the time to explain the train schedules without the brusqueness of someone bound by efficiency. It was a hospitality that felt effortless, unembellished, and deeply genuine.
Perhaps what struck me most in those first few hours was the silence. In Tokyo, silence is a rarity, snatched in the moments between train announcements and the hum of conversation. But in Hokkaido, silence is abundant. It rests between the falling snowflakes, lingers in the stretches of road that seem to lead to nowhere, and settles in the way people carry themselves—deliberate, unhurried, and content in their own space.
As the first evening fell and the streetlights cast a soft glow on the snow-covered pavements, I realised that Hokkaido was not merely a destination but an entirely different state of being. It was Japan, yes, but a Japan that existed at its own pace, shaped by its landscape rather than by industry, by seasons rather than by schedules. And for the first time in a long time, I felt no urge to rush anywhere.40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqpAP2sd1qR
