At Otemon Gate, the Gravel Crunches

The hum of the Pacific at Muroto Cape fades in the rearview mirror as the campervan pulls away from the coast, pointed west along Route 55 toward Kochi City. The morning light is already sharp over the sea, and the road hugs the shoreline with a kind of intimacy — cliffs on one side, the endless blue of the Pacific on the other, the occasional fishing village tucked into a cove where nets dry in the sun. This is the southern edge of Shikoku, and it feels like the edge of something larger too, a place where the island tapers into wind and salt. The campervan handles the curves with ease, and the window rolls down to let the sea air fill the cabin, carrying the smell of kelp and brine and distant rain.

Kochi City appears as a low sprawl between the mountains and the bay, and the route steers toward the castle first — Kochi Castle, one of the only original castles remaining in Japan, its keep rising from the center of the city like a stone declaration of permanence. The campervan parks in the lot near the Otemon gate and the driver walks through the grounds, where the gravel crunches underfoot and the air smells of old wood and dust. The black-and-white silhouette is sharp against the sky, and the steep stairs inside lead to rooms where tatami mats still hold the faint scent of incense and history. From the top floor, the view spreads across the city and down to the bay. Below the castle, the street transforms into a market on Sunday — chaos of stalls selling everything from fresh yuzu to hand-forged knives, the air thick with vendors calling out prices and the smell of grilled squid on skewers. A bag of mikan oranges, small and sweet, joins a piece of katsuo no tataki — seared bonito, a Kochi specialty — eaten standing at a counter, the fish still warm from the flame, its surface crusted with salt and garlic. Improvised, local, eaten with hands in a crowd of strangers.

From Kochi, the campervan points west again, following Route 33 toward the Shimanto River. The road leaves the coast and climbs into the interior, where the landscape shifts from coastal scrub to forested valleys and terraced rice fields. The Shimanto River is one of Japan’s last free-flowing rivers, and when the first bridge is crossed, it appears below — wide and green, snaking through the valley. The Shimanto River Auto Camp comes into view just as the afternoon light begins to soften, a spot right beside the water. The campsite is simple — just a flat grassy area with electric hookups and a basic toilet block — but the setting is spectacular. A folding chair on the bank watches the river flow past, the water clear enough to see the stones on the bottom. Dinner is a simple affair: vegetables and tofu simmered in a dashi broth picked up at a supermarket in Kochi, served over rice, eaten from a bowl balanced on knees as the stars begin to emerge. Sleep comes with the sound of the river, and in the morning, the mist rises off the water like a veil lifting.

Day 12 starts with coffee brewed on the camp stove, the river still murmuring beside the tent, and then the route heads north through the mountain passes toward Matsuyama. The road climbs through forests of cedar and cypress, the air cooling as elevation is gained, passing through tunnels that cut through the rock like wormholes. The campervan labors a little on the steeper grades, but the views at each summit are worth the effort — ridges folding into ridges, the occasional glimpse of the Seto Inland Sea far below, the sky a pale blue that seems to go on forever. A stop at a roadside station, a michi-no-eki, yields clean toilets and a bag of local chestnuts from a farmer selling them from a table. These roadside stations are the backbone of campervan life in Japan — everywhere, reliable, free to use, and often with small markets selling regional produce. In the bathroom, cold water from the tap refreshes the face.

Matsuyama greets with the sight of Dogo Onsen’s main bathhouse, a three-story wooden structure that looks like it belongs in a storybook — all dark beams and tile roofs and lanterns that glow amber in the afternoon light. This is one of Japan’s oldest hot springs, and that history is felt stepping through the entrance, the air thick with steam and the smell of sulfur. A ticket to the kami no yu — the bath of the gods — leads to a tiled room with high ceilings and arched windows, the water so hot it takes the breath away. The etiquette here is specific and by now learned: wash thoroughly before entering the bath, tie up hair, keep the towel out of the water, sink slowly into the heat. Stay until skin is pink and fingers are pruned, then shower off and change into a yukata provided by the bathhouse, wandering out to the second-floor tatami room where cold barley tea is sipped as heat radiates from the bones. Afterward, streets of Dogo Onsen in the yukata are walked, wooden clogs of other bathers clicking on the pavement, and a steamed manju filled with sweet red bean paste is bought from a vendor outside the bathhouse — warm, soft, eaten standing on the street.

From Dogo, the drive goes up to Matsuyama Castle, which crowns a hill in the center of the city. The ropeway ascends, the cable car swinging gently over the treetops, emerging onto a ridge with a view that stretches across the city to the sea. The castle is another original, its stone base rising from the hilltop like a natural extension of the rock, and the interior holds displays of armor and swords. The castle park below is a green expanse where families picnic and couples walk hand in hand, and a moment is taken on a bench to watch the afternoon unfold. The campervan is parked at Matsuyama RV Park just outside the city center, a simple but well-maintained lot with electricity and a small building with coin showers — a key part of the campervan routine, since most vans don’t have onboard bathrooms. Dinner is cooked in the van — a stir-fry of local vegetables and pork, seasoned with soy and ginger — eaten at the small fold-out table, the windows open to let in the evening air.

The morning of Day 13 brings the Shimanami Kaido. The drive goes north from Matsuyama to the coast, where the first bridge appears on the horizon — a long suspension span that arcs over the water, connecting Shikoku to the first of the islands that dot the Seto Inland Sea. The Shimanami Kaido is a series of six bridges that leap from island to island, crossed one by one, each with its own character: some steep enough to make the stomach drop, others low and sweeping, and between them, the road passes through small fishing villages and citrus groves and patches of forest where sunlight filters through leaves. A pull-over at a rest stop on Ikuchijima Island leads to a short path up to a viewpoint that looks out over the bridges, the islands scattered in the sea like pieces of a puzzle, the water a deep blue-green flecked with whitecaps. The wind is strong up here, and time is spent just watching the ferries and fishing boats move between the islands.

On the other side, the road descends into Onomichi, a hillside town that clings to the shore, its narrow streets lined with temples and cafes and old wooden houses. The stop is brief, but a moment is taken to walk through the temple district, where cats nap on stone steps and bells chime in the wind. The road south to Hiroshima is a straight shot along the coast, arriving in the city in the late afternoon, the sky turning pink over the delta. The campervan parks at Hiroshima Port Campground, a basic but functional site with views of the bay, and the walk into the city begins as the lights come on. The Peace Memorial Park is quiet in the evening, the Atomic Bomb Dome silhouetted against the fading light, and the memorials are walked through slowly, reading the names. A bench by the river follows, watching the water move past.

Day 14 is the final day, waking early at the campground, the morning light soft over the bay. The campervan is packed with ritual care — folding chairs, stowing the stove, checking that nothing is left behind — and the short drive to the ferry terminal for Miyajima begins. The ferry ride is short, just ten minutes across the channel, and as the island approaches, the great torii gate of Itsukushima Shrine appears in the water, rising from the sea. Stepping off the ferry onto the island, the air smells of salt and grilled oysters — a local specialty. A skewer of them is bought from a stand near the pier, the oysters plump and briny, grilled over charcoal and served with a squeeze of lemon, eaten as the walk along the shore toward the shrine continues. The torii gate is a study in perspective: from the shore, a monumental presence, but walking out onto the sandbar at low tide allows standing directly beneath it, looking up at the immense beams that frame the sky. The shrine itself is built over the water, its vermillion columns reflected in the bay, and the walk through its covered corridors has boards creaking underfoot, the sea visible through gaps in the structure.

The ferry returns to Hiroshima, and a final stop is made before returning the campervan: a lunch of Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, the layered pancake the city is famous for. Sitting at a counter in a small restaurant near the station, watching the cook spread the batter on the griddle, layer it with cabbage and pork and noodles, then flip it with a flourish, all bound together with a sweet-savory sauce. The first bite is crispy on the outside, soft within, the flavors of cabbage and pork and sauce combining. Each bite is eaten slowly, knowing this is the last meal of the trip. Afterward, the campervan drives to the return depot, a nondescript lot near the port, and the final ritual begins: emptying the trash, wiping down the surfaces, checking for anything left in the compartments. When the keys are handed over, there’s a moment of absence — the space the van occupied, the rhythm it gave the days. The walk away from the depot with a backpack on shoulders brings the city noise rising around, the road still humming in the legs, the memory of bridges and onsen and rivers and castles folding together.