Chasing the cherry blossomsacross spring Japan

I'd always thought Japan's cherry blossom season began in Kyushu. Travel from south to north, I figured, and you could follow the blossoms as they opened one place after another. But when I checked the forecast, the first Somei-yoshino were due to bloom in Tokyo.

So I started at the Sumida River. The trees along the bank were in full bloom, with Tokyo Skytree rising beyond the branches. People strolled the promenade beneath the flowers, and a train rumbled across the iron bridge.

This is the Sumida River in spring, the river sung about in Rentaro Taki's "Hana." Cherry trees ran like a pink ribbon along the far bank, and boats came and went on the water. The song about the Sumida in full bloom dates back to the Meiji era.

In Asakusa I stopped at Asakusa Soratsuki, a shop making Japanese sweets with strawberries. The menu showed strawberry dorayaki and strawberry dango, and I came away with a skewer of white dango topped with strawberries, wrapped in paper.

Dango in hand, I walked the grounds of Senso-ji. Around the vermilion halls, weeping cherries spread their branches wide.

Cherry blossom viewing in Tokyo, the imperial capital of the Meiji era. It must have been wonderfully romantic.

Next was Ueno Park, a short hop from Asakusa. At the top of the stone steps, an avenue of cherry trees hung with lanterns stretched on and on. It's said to draw more blossom viewers than anywhere else in Japan.

Food stalls lined the paths. Rows of little ningyo-yaki cakes sat in an iron mold, and at the next stall someone was prepping takoyaki. The whole place had a lively, festive buzz.

Colorful boats drifted on Shinobazu Pond. Viewing the blossoms from the water looked lovely too.

At Chidorigafuchi, the cherry trees stretch their branches out toward the moat. The blossoms dipped almost to the water, and rowboats slid slowly beneath them.

People stood along the railing, taking it all in. I raised my phone for a shot too. Thick boughs reached out from the trunks and spread over the moat.

Then the Meguro River, popular with young people for its many stylish cafés and restaurants. At a shop by the river, strawberries were being dropped one by one into slender glasses.

A sparkling strawberry drink with a skewer of berries on top: I held it up against the blossoms for a photo. Branches from both banks met over the water, and the bridge was packed with people.

These cherry trees were born in the Showa era. They began, I learned, when local people planted both banks during river works in the early Showa years. They have grown up alongside the development of this modern part of Tokyo.

Next, a tour of Sakurazaka, the "cherry blossom slopes." There are said to be three of them in Tokyo.

First, Akasaka and Roppongi. A street climbing between office buildings had become a tunnel of blossoms. According to the marker post, the road was laid in the mid-Meiji era, and took its name from a large cherry tree that stood at the bottom of the slope until the war.

Past a pedestrian bridge, a row of cherry trees ran along a glass-walled tower. An urban oasis, a little removed from the bustle of the city.

The third is in Den-en-chofu: the Sakurazaka made famous by Masaharu Fukuyama's song of the same name. Petals carpeted the slope, and a Sakurazaka marker post stood by the road.

From a clear bag I took out a sweet of strawberries and cream wrapped in pink dough. A red bridge spans the top of the slope, where people gathered to look down on the blossoms. From the bridge, I took a photo of the slope buried in flowers.

Even in a metropolis like Tokyo, time seems to slow down just a little in cherry blossom season.

While I was enjoying Tokyo's blossoms, Shikoku's reached their peak. So it was back west to Shikoku, to one of Kagawa's most spectacular cherry blossom spots: Mt. Shiudeyama.

On the way up stood a tent for the "Shiudeyama drive-up commemorative lottery." The sign read, "If you win, take one item from the box of that color." I reached into the colored boxes and drew one out.

From the summit, the view was breathtaking. Islands floated on the hazy Seto Inland Sea, and a town followed the curve of the cove below. Walking under the cherry trees along the fence, I saw nothing but clear sky blue and blossom pink. It was like a dream.

Shiudeyama is tied to the legend of Urashima Taro. When Urashima opened his treasure box, the white smoke that rose from it became a purple cloud trailing over this mountain, and that, the story goes, is how it got its name: shiun means "purple cloud."

Through a grove where cherry blossoms filled every branch, the sea peeked between the trees. Beside a cluster of rocks, an old cherry tree spread its limbs wide. Had I wandered into a fairy tale?

Near the summit stood a building with a guide board about the Shiudeyama archaeological site and figures dressed as Yayoi-period people, most likely the Shiudeyama Site Museum. I sat at its window counter, the glass filled with islands, an ice pop piled with strawberries in hand. This mysterious scenery, it seems, really is part of the real world.

I crossed to the islands of the Seto Inland Sea, too. Hirakiyama Park sits on Hakata Island in Ehime, along the Shimanami Kaido. Seen from the air, the whole summit was dyed pink with cherry blossoms, a wooden lookout tower at the top and a bridge in the distance.

The sun sank toward the islands. Beyond the blossoms glowing in the sunset lay the scattered islands of the Seto Inland Sea.

Bridges link island to island. A white cable-stayed bridge spanned the evening sea. Watching the water from beneath the cherry branches, I was truly moved by this springtime scene in Shikoku.

When you come to Kagawa, there's one thing you absolutely have to eat. The udon shop I wandered into was self-service: order at the counter, then help yourself to tempura.

I picked a piece from the row of tempura, collected my bowl of udon and found a seat, along with a small bowl topped with green onions.

Lifting the noodles, I found them astonishingly fresh and chewy. Is authentic udon really this different? The journey of chasing cherry blossoms had only just begun. Still, why is udon in Shikoku so unbelievably good?

Next, Kotohira-gu Shrine in Kotohira, western Kagawa. Known affectionately since long ago as "Sanuki's Konpira-san," it enshrines a god of the sea. It's famous for the long, long stone steps of its approach: 785 of them to the main shrine.

Souvenir shops lined both sides of the steps. One had a sign hanging out front: "Cold drinks available!" Looking back, I could see the town and the mountains beyond the rooftops.

Cherry blossoms bloomed by the stone lanterns, and I climbed on toward a bronze torii hung with a banner reading "Shiawase-san. Konpira-san." The higher I went, the wider the Sanuki plain spread below. When the blossoms are at their peak, you can enjoy them while strolling the main approach, the back approach and the shrine garden. The beauty of the spring grounds blew away all the fatigue of those endless steps.

I also made my way to Chichibugahama, one of Kagawa's most popular beaches. The shallows ran far out to sea, and someone had set up a tripod to photograph the water. I stopped by a "bookshop" standing by the beach, its noren curtain reading Hyakusai Shoten. What it offers isn't books, but local products rooted in the area, along with the stories those products carry.

I picked up a jar of anchovies from the Seto Inland Sea and opened the booklet propped beside it. The cover read "A Thank-You from the Seto Inland Sea," with a founding date of Meiji 45 (1912).

As the sun went down, the tide pools turned into mirrors. Chichibugahama is also called "Japan's Salar de Uyuni," and at dusk especially, the water reflects the beautiful sky. The setting sun and my own silhouette floated on the water a second time.

Dinner was honetsukidori, a Kagawa specialty. On a night street in Marugame I found a shop with a sign reading Honetsuki Marugame Dori, and a big honetsukidori sign standing by the door.

A mug of beer to start. Then came a bone-in chicken leg, heaped with radish sprouts. I gripped the bone with a paper napkin and bit right in. With this dish, the very act of tearing into it makes it taste even better.

This cherry blossom trip was supposed to start in Kyushu and simply head north. Instead it took me unexpectedly east and west. Only the cherry blossoms know where I'm going next, and that's part of the fun.