Hakone

Hakone has been Japan's retreat of consequence since the Edo period, when the Tōkaidō road's most formidable checkpoint stood above Lake Ashi and feudal lords paused at its hot springs on their way to the shōgun's court. The mountains still perform their old duty, absorbing Tokyo's urgency within a single hour. Steam rises from the valley at Ōwakudani; Fuji appears and vanishes above the lake according to its own counsel. For generations the capital's most prominent families have kept villas among these cedars, drawn by waters that have soothed travellers for twelve centuries — and by a quality of silence the city cannot manufacture.

Hakone is Tokyo's most effortless escape: the Tomei Expressway south, then the Odawara-Atsugi Road toward the mountains and the climb through switchbacks and cedar shade — around ninety minutes door to door. The Mercedes S-Class takes the mountain roads with composed authority; families favour the Alphard Executive Lounge, its rear cabin a drawing room in motion. Some guests request the Hakone Turnpike for the ascent, Fuji filling the windscreen at the summit on clear mornings — your chauffeur will know by dawn whether the mountain is receiving visitors. Doors open without a word; umbrellas appear before the first drop of mountain rain. The journey is brief, but nothing about it is hurried.

Gōra Kadan, built upon the former summer villa of an imperial family, remains the valley's definitive address — private open-air baths, kaiseki served in-room, silence as policy. The Hakone Open-Air Museum sets Picasso and Henry Moore against the mountainside; the Okada Museum of Art rewards a slower afternoon. Ask your chauffeur for Hakone Shrine at first light, its vermilion torii standing in the lake before the photographers arrive. In autumn, the silver susuki grasses of Sengokuhara turn gold by late afternoon; in winter, snowfall deepens the pleasure of every bath. One returns to Tokyo altered, and somewhat reluctantly.