It’s uncharacteristically chilly for the first few days of Japan’s green season. Enduring downpours feed the canopy around us and a low-hanging cloud hovers over our mountain abode.

So much for my summer vacation.

Quickly, our days fall into a rhythm: drip-brewed coffee from a hole-in-the-wall cafe, a scenic drive to a lookout, a variation of conbini onirigi or cold soba. If the weather permits, an icy plunge into the Matsukawa River.

And always—a visit to an onsen to close the day.

Despite the tenacity of the rain and a very drawn-out spring, I get to enjoy the sacred baths outside of winter.

The Japanese Alps boast some of the most idyllic hot springs I’ve ever seen—nestled into moss-covered valleys or perched on cliffside ridges with panoramic views. With full credit to my partner’s digital sleuthing and his commitment to doing things that no one else does, I’ve found myself knee-deep in some of the most beautiful, natural pools, rich in minerals of the Earth. Soaking beneath rustling leaves, with nothing but nature as company.

We do have a local onsen we return to often. Not quite as remote, but charming nonetheless—tucked into the heart of a quaint little town in Nagano. We time our visits just before the last entry. Not entirely to avoid other humans, but mostly for the quiet luxury of having it to ourselves.

Annoyingly, I’ve yet to fully shake what onsen regulars have come to call “beginner’s modesty.” So I’ve mastered the art of stealth—timing my entrances when the bamboo-lined change rooms are unoccupied.

I like to think that my apprehensiveness towards nakedness is sourced from my more orthodox upbringing. But here, those inherited boundaries feel obsolete. Almost as if I’m the one out of place for clinging onto them.

There is a desire to bask in eternal forty-degree bliss, at odds with the pervasive fear of getting my rack out in front of petite strangers. Around me, delicate silhouettes slip quietly into the space. Mine barrels in with curvaceous vengeance.

When all is said and done, it’s foolish to assume I can get away with enjoying the baths by myself one hundred percent of the time. At some point, it starts to feel like I’m cheating the whole experience—like when gaijin wear their bathers in the water.

Eight hundred yen is a steep price to loiter by the changeroom Asahi machine, waiting sheepishly under the neon flashing lights, anyways.

When I do share the space though, it’s almost always with older Japanese women—composed, unbothered. After the first bare-bum barrier dissolves, it feels like no one is watching at all—or even cares to watch. It is a realisation that is uniquely humbling and freeing.