Boiling breakfast in a hot spring:life in Nozawa

A valley of fields in the hills of northern Shinshu. Autumn leaves framed the torii of a shrine, and beyond it, white steam was already rising over the hot-spring town. This is Nozawa Onsen in Nagano, the only village in Japan with onsen in its name.

I set a bamboo basket on the wooden lids that cover the steaming source, with an ear of corn inside. Here, you can cook food in the hot spring itself. I lowered the basket into the water, and breakfast was under way.

At the heart of all this steam is the Ogama, a source where water close to 90 degrees wells up. A sign names it a natural monument, and another on the railing warns that the water is scalding. Locals still boil mountain vegetables and eggs here and wash their greens. The hot springs run deep in village life.

Right beside the Ogama is a cooking spot that visitors may use. I lifted the wooden lid with both hands and a cloud of steam hit my face. Up came the basket: breakfast was ready.

On a blue plate: steaming corn and a sasa-dango dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves. The corn and the dumpling had been boiled fresh by the shopkeeper who sold them. And then the classic, onsen tamago. All I had done was keep to the time, yet when I peeled the shell the white quivered like jelly.

The yolk was soft and runny. It was a cold morning, but with every steaming bite the chill slipped away. I sat on a bench under the little shelter and ate breakfast looking out over the rooftops of the town.

Steam rises without pause from the pools of the Ogama. I passed the shops with their painted signs and climbed a lane between stone walls. In a hot-spring town, you eat as you walk.

My first stop was a shop selling nozawana pickles and dried goods: bags of lightly pickled nozawana, nozawana seeds, apricots wrapped in shiso, jars of this and that, and price tags for dried zenmai fern and azuki beans. I bought a bag of nozawana for tonight.

Beyond the Ogama signpost, steam wrapped the stone steps in white. First, Nagano's famous oyaki. Breaking one open with my hands revealed a filling packed with nozawana. I once made oyaki by imitation in an old house in Nagano, but the real thing is in a different class: the sweet-salty filling goes perfectly with the warm dough.

Then an onsen manju. Eating a steamed bun in a hot-spring town is as essential as soaking in the hot spring itself. At a shop whose sign read 'Famous onsen manju, made here', I split one open to find it packed with smooth bean paste.

I left the town's main street and headed for tonight's lodging. Mountains stretched beyond a house with a red roof, and as I walked a leaf-strewn lane, a bell tower appeared among the autumn colors, with bundles of white vegetables hung to dry under its eaves. A beautiful village landscape, the kind people call the original scenery of Japan.

My home for the night was a beautifully restored farmhouse, 200 years old. A straw raincoat and a hat hung on the wall of the earthen-floored entrance; a spinning wheel and straw crafts stood before the board walls; an iron kettle and pot hung over the hearth. Outside, pampas grass swayed in the afternoon light against the wooden siding.

In the dim tatami room hung a carved wooden fish. I slid open the shoji onto a quiet village evening.

I set a tray on the porch and poured tea from the pot. A breather on the pleasant veranda. Pampas grass swayed along the road, and the ridgeline turned the color of sunset. Time passed slowly and peacefully.

After dark, back to the town. Past the steaming wooden lids, I headed for the Oyu, the village's symbol: a bathhouse with a sweeping karahafu gable in the traditional yuya style. Thirteen of these sotoyu, communal baths, are scattered through Nozawa Onsen.

At the entrance hung a sign for the men's bath and an offering box. A notice explained that the Nozawa-gumi supplies the spring water and that the local yunakama, the bath fellowship, fund and run the place. I looked up at the wooden plaque reading 'free-flowing from the source' and slipped through the curtain. Along the night street, the lights of inns and souvenir shops were glowing.

Into a body warmed by the free-flowing spring, I poured, without a moment's pause, that other famous water: a lemon sour. The tavern was Hatoguruma, with a red lantern hanging out front. A hot-spring town truly is a paradise.

The starter was simmered mountain vegetables. The local specialty with a twist, nozawana shumai, is a dumpling coated in chopped nozawana instead of a wrapper, dipped in sauce and eaten in a bite. A small bowl of white soup came with green onion and chili. And in Nagano, with its horse-meat culture, the horse sashimi was superb.

Out on the street again, under the lamps, the night deepened over the hot-spring town.

Back at the farmhouse, I set rice cooking in the rice cooker. The finale was the nozawana I had bought in town. I chopped the stems and leaves finely and stir-fried them in a pan with strips of fried tofu.

A generous heap went over the hot rice, and an onsen tamago was cracked into the middle. A scattering of shredded nori and white sesame, and the nozawana and hot-spring-egg rice bowl was done.

In the tatami room, under a round paper lamp, I dug into the bowl with a glass at my side. When I broke the egg, the yolk ran into the nozawana.

These hot springs have been cherished since ancient times. To have lived, even for a day, a life that enjoys their blessing: I am grateful.