A few words of caution: Kyushu is home to Japan's most active volcanoes, and its most famous contribution to the country's cuisine is a deadly poisonous fish. In summer, it bakes in its own heat before the arrival of autumn heralds a wave of powerful typhoons.
But in winter the health warnings are no longer necessary. That is when millions of Japanese seek refuge in Kyushu's mild climate, immersing themselves in its numerous hot springs, surrounded by some of the country's most breathtaking scenery. There is a fortunate natural synergy at work: the steaming, mineral-rich waters are the ideal balm for tired walkers returning from hikes around Kyushu's rugged interior.
Japan's southernmost main island is a 90-minute flight from Tokyo, but I decided to take the scenic route south by bullet train, making the most of the ample legroom and well-stocked trolley service, while the rice and tea fields whizzed by in a verdant blur outside.
The line ends on Kyushu's northeast coast in Fukuoka, a thoroughly modern city that boasts Japan's longest bar and biggest hotel, and the finest ramen noodles this side of the East China Sea.
Our search for the perfect bowl of ramen took us away from the downtown Nakasu district, where noodle stands compete for space with massage parlours, to Ganso, a spartan, prefabricated building catering to workers from the nearby fish market. At first sight, it resembled an oriental greasy spoon, but our apprehension proved misplaced as we were served steaming bowls of spindly noodles, garnished with slices of pork and strips of bright red pickled ginger.
Early next morning, I continued my journey south to observe the time-honoured Japanese approach to health and wellbeing. Beppu enjoyed a postwar heyday built on bawdy entertainment and ostentatious hotel developments, but despite the recession of the early 1990s and changing tourist fashions, Beppu's appeal has endured, attracting 10 million Japanese visitors a year.
Plumes of steam hang over the town, the byproduct of more than 100 hot springs, known as onsen. But before I could check them out, I needed to be buried up to my neck in sand. The famous Takegawara sand baths were still under repair after being washed away in one of those ferocious typhoons, but Hyotan onsen, a short taxi ride north of the town centre, was a worthy substitute. Mixed bathing is de rigueur at its indoor sand baths, but you are provided with a cotton yukata robe, not only to spare your blushes, but also, as I soon discovered, to keep the sand out of the places where sand will always be unwelcome.
This was nothing like playing on the beach. I stretched out in a steaming hollow and was covered in hot, volcanic sand. In minutes, I had worked up a sweat and began to loosen up and drift off under the sand. From there, it was a short walk to the segregated onsen baths. Hyotan has half a dozen of them, from an outside rock pool, shielded from the world by wooden fences, to an indoor tub made from fragrant hinoki wood. Close your eyes and you could be bathing in a forest of newly felled pine.
Pink of cheek and mercifully free of sand, I paused on the way out to sample onsen cuisine — hot-spring-steamed eggs and bread — before taking up the offer, written in English above a pipe protruding from a wall: “Open your mouth and inhale the hot-spring steam. It will smooth your throat.” It did.
A few minutes up the hill from Hyotan, the water at Umi Jigoku (Sea Hell) is definitely not for bathing. The 120-metre deep pool of near-boiling water takes on a cobalt-blue hue on a clear day and the sulphurous steam clings eerily to the gate of a nearby Shinto shrine.
