Tired day, rising earlyish to open the sliding shutters and enjoy the maple-syrup coloured slanting sunshine as it hits the futon. We leave today for Kyoto.

The ryokan owner materialises as we're going, and we have a very J-exchange wherein we thank him for a wonderful stay, and he replies, 'Oh, no, it is a very traditional ryokan ... it might have been inconvenient for you. I am so sorry ...'

When we robustly assure him that it is fabulous and we can't wait to come back, his face cracks open like a fresh quail's egg: 'Really?' he beams at us, seeming genuinely thrilled.

'Oh, yes,' he continues wistfully, 'you mean you will return some day...' He trails off in a sad-happy reverie, like we've all just stepped out of the brushstrokes of a poem.

Neither the walk to Hakata Station nor validating our Japan Rail passes is hard. We sit on Platform 11 watching schoolkids board a bullet-train while two young, neat-as-a-pin mums anxiously videotape their children's last minutes on home turf.

The mothers have a forced-festive air about them, and I feel for the one who stays behind, still running her digicam to catch the train's sleek body as it streams her baby away from her. Her handbag falls from her shoulder into the crook of her arm as she finally presses the 'Off' switch and turns to leave.

Our own train, a RailStar bound for Osaka, is the epitome of modern, plush comfort. Its warm interior and feather-soft, straight-as-a-die momentum make me want to lull to sleep. But at 13.44 (on the dot) we'll be in Shin-Osaka, needing to hop off smartly to change to a Kyoto train.

Lots of the Japan that flashes by our bullet train pass reminds me of aspects of the US: big roads, fast cars, concrete, megamalls and hypermarkets. Ugly, and yet stupefyingly ordinary. Modernity is in the washing powder aisle, it would seem.

Arriving at Kyoto, we head for the Information Counter (staffed by members of the local English Speakers' Club). As one man helps Andrew work out where our hostel is located, the other says to me in excitement, 'Look now: geisha!'

Clap-clapping into the station on wooden shoes in a cloud of white makeup, upswept hair and delicate kimono are a cluster of twelve or so geisha and maiko (younger geisha). They stop and greet one another deliberately, exchanging gifts and bows. Achingly familiar with one another, but ever-so-formal all the same.

The Japanese around us go insane. Suddenly, everyone has a camera in hand and is furiously snapping away.

People are incredibly bold: they walk right up to the geisha with their mobiles flipped open and snap pictures up next to the women's powdered cheeks. In contrast, I don't even dare to turn my flash on.