The late morning light cuts cleanly, throwing sharp shadows across the road as we depart the onsen town of Yufuin. From the valley’s western edge, Prefectural Road 216 winds outward in a single lane, its path lined with moss-darkened stone and swaying silver grass. Before long, it joins a feeder road, where green-and-white expressway signs announce Japan’s national network.

A canopy of steel and LED boards stretches across the lanes ahead. Cash-paying drivers peel off to the right into the ippan lane, while ETC, Electronic Toll Collection, traffic flows left. Our rental carries an ETC tag, a small device linked to a prepaid card, and we move into the left-hand lane. The barriers remain down until the vehicle draws close, when an electronic chirp signals the reader’s handshake with the card. The arm rises at the last moment and we whistle through.

Past the gate, the road merges into the Ōita Expressway. In an instant, Yufuin’s winding lanes are gone, replaced by the engineered mass of the highway. Traffic noise settles into a constant hum. I tap shuffle, and the strings of Sachiko Kobayashi’s rendition of Michizure ring out. The enka classic, its title meaning “travelling companion”, makes a fitting soundtrack for the long green arc ahead.

We’re on the road to Fukuoka City, a journey that spans Ōita and Fukuoka Prefectures, covering the northern tip of Kyūshū, the south-westernmost of Japan’s main islands. Ridges rise and fall around us like the swells of an unsettled sea. Beneath them lies an ancient caldera complex—a vast volcanic bowl formed when a volcano collapses. Over millions of years, repeated eruptions have reworked its floor into a terrain of plateaus, rivers, and uneven hills—rugged yet intricately formed.

The expressway curves west-northwest, its surface immaculate against the textured land it crosses. The car settles into a glide, slipping through tunnels bored cleanly into the ridges. Each portal is edged with cedar, drawing us in and releasing us onto viaducts that seem to hover over the valleys. There is always something faintly unreal in passing through the heart of a mountain. As we do, the road tilts and steadies—rising, falling, then levelling again. Here, human design runs improbably in step with the scale of the land.

We pass Hita, a hot spring town resting on the Mikuma River, its waters unfurling below in glinting braids. Around it lies a patchwork of rice fields and vegetable plots, folded tightly together. The soil here is dark, mineral-rich, and easily turned—and with Kyūshū’s humid subtropical climate, it produces crops year-round. Across the region, farming towns knit themselves into quilts of land like this, their gabled roofs rising in the seams. I want to stop at every one, though the journey would barely advance.

As it is, the Ōita Expressway winds on, and I’m struck by the sheer continuity of forest—hills and valleys entirely cloaked in foliage. Each opening reveals a new order of green: cedar and cypress plantations in close rows, persimmon orchards on terraced slopes, and tea fields in disciplined ranks. This richness above ground echoes what lies below, where Kyūshū remains warm at its core. Both its tilted slopes and fertile soils are bequests of fire.

Amid the hills, faint plumes rise—white threads unspooling against the slopes. They are onsen vents, born where groundwater meets the heat of magma far below. Some vent freely, others stream from the chimneys of bathhouses and ryokan. In the cooler air of midday, the vapour holds its form. It reminds me we are crossing a live geothermal field, the earth breathing evenly beneath us, like a dragon at rest with one eye half open, allowing passage for now.

The expressway curves northwest, then funnels into the looping geometry of Tosu Junction. The carriageway tilts into a wide arc, lanes spiralling over and under each other in concrete loops like a vast calligraphic knot. Green signs point north to the Kyūshū Expressway (E3), the main artery leading toward Fukuoka. The merge requires focus: one moment we are circling through the turbine interchange, the next we are finding our place in the northbound flow. Trucks settle into the left lanes, while cars—mostly boxy wagonsha—pass to the right in orderly fashion.

Service areas mark the journey at steady intervals. At Kiyama, we pull in. The forecourt gleams, and inside, shelves of omiyage are arranged with architectural precision. Yuzu jellies from Hita, shiitake from the Ōita hills, miso bricks from Mameda, Hakata mentaiko, and Amaou strawberry sweets from Fukuoka—each box declaring its prefectural origin with pride. The food court offers the usual staples—udon, ramen, curry rice—but I choose a plain black coffee and a sweet bean dorayaki from the on-site konbini before we head on.

Upon leaving, the horizon opens. To the west, the Sefuri and Minami-Hata mountain ranges recede in layered silhouettes, their contours blue-grey in the haze, mist clinging like strokes of ink wash. To the east rise the Kuju peaks and, beyond them, Mount Aso, the volcanic heart of Kyūshū—out of view from here, but central to the land. These uplifted remnants of ancient volcanic systems give the skyline a sense of unending depth, enclosing the landscape in what feels like a full circle.

Just before Dazaifu Junction, the lanes divide, the signs steering us west onto the Fukuoka Urban Expressway (C). The mountains fall away and the rugged corridor dissolves into urban density almost as swiftly as Yufuin’s lanes had vanished two hours earlier. Warehouses and harbour cranes signal Hakata Bay, and the city rises fast—towers, bridges, blocks of apartments. At Tenjin-kita, we exit, sliding onto Watanabe-dōri, a north–south boulevard crowded with cars, buses, and pedestrians in the afternoon light. We are unmistakably in Fukuoka, the journey’s next stop.

Each time I travel to Japan, my primary focus is on Tokyo. The capital offers a lens through which much of the country comes into view. But to grasp the distinctions of region and place, there is no substitute for time spent beyond it. So on every visit, I make sure to venture into the prefectures. I left Tokyo only ten days ago, and already there is so much I want to tell you—more than these lines can hold. But we’ll come to it, all in good time.

Until we meet on the expressway,

AJ

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