Set within a narrow valley where cedar and maple filter the light, the inn has been here since the 1870s. The first guests arrived on foot along a path that still serves as the approach. Five rooms, each with sliding screens that open directly onto the garden, offer a proximity to the seasons that this region has never quite relinquished.

In the kitchen, the principle is shun: ingredients at their peak. Morning brings grilled river fish and miso from a local producer; evening, a kaiseki course — a sequence of small dishes, each shaped by the season — that follows the hillside's own calendar. The onsen, a hot-spring bath fed by a source that has run from the same fissure for over three centuries, is open through the night. There is something to be said for sitting in it long after dark, when the valley is audible but no longer visible. Each season here makes its own case. One is welcome in any of them.

Before entering the bath, please rinse at one of the shower stations along the wall — a courtesy extended to the water and to fellow guests. There is no need to hurry; the bath will wait. The waters are at their quietest before seven in the morning and after nine at night. Guests with tattoos are kindly asked to use the private bath. To reserve it, please call the front desk — dial 9 from the telephone in your room.

The suite faces south, and on clear mornings the mountain appears above the garden wall — unhurried, as if it has always been part of the room's composition. Below, the garden is arranged so that each season offers a different foreground: plum blossom in February, the dense green of maple through summer, a controlled fire of autumn colour by November.

The interior is the work of a Kyoto-based atelier: lacquered surfaces, hand-woven textiles, a writing desk positioned to catch the afternoon light. The bath, lined in hinoki cypress, holds the scent long after the water has cooled. Nothing that does not belong.

The yukata folded in your room is yours to wear throughout your stay — not just for sleeping, but for moving through the inn: to the baths, along the corridors, and to dinner. Wrap the left side over the right and secure it loosely with the sash at the waist. (The reverse — right over left — is reserved in Japanese custom for the preparation of the deceased, and is best avoided.)

Wearing a yukata through the inn is not informal dress but the expected and entirely appropriate way to inhabit the space — a quiet signal that you have arrived, and that the evening has properly begun.

This evening's kaiseki is arranged in courses — each dish smaller than one might expect, each intended to be finished before the next arrives. The sequence follows a quiet logic: lighter tastes first, the palate gradually led towards richer ones, then returned to simplicity by the end.

There is no need to pace yourself against a full plate. The meal unfolds at its own rhythm, and the kitchen is in no hurry. A note beside each course explains the dish and its place in the sequence — the ingredient, the season, and why it arrives at this particular moment.

Check-out is at eleven. If the morning allows, there is no need to rush through it — the garden is at its quietest before the other guests stir, and the bath is open until nine for those who would like it to themselves.

When the time comes to leave, a stop at the front desk is all that is required — or, if preferred, a call from the room (dial 9) will arrange everything. The only request is that the room be left much as it was found: the bedding folded, the yukata returned to its place. The valley, meanwhile, will still be here. It does not mind being returned to.