"As the steam rises from the water, soft, slowly moving clouds that waft in the night air, you see them. I watch them swirling amongst the rocks that line the edges of the outdoor bath and the trees whose leaves offer a discreet glimpse of the bathers to those walking along the paths, their steps lit only by occasional glowing tōrō, the low stone lanterns that illuminate the garden. The steam vanishes and you are left with the night sky and its stars. The only sound is the occasional clink-clonk of wooden geta on the path and the whispering swish of a passing yukata.
Bathing alone, outdoors and at night, is when you see the ghosts. Perhaps they are the spirits of those who have also sat here naked under the stars, calmed by the silence of the night and the warmth of the water. Those, too, who have watched the mist swirling in the night sky, like milk slowly poured into amber tea.
Winter nights are best, when your body is warm under the water and the frost prickles your face. When you must watch your step on the newly frosted path to the wooden changing room, the grey stones having been worn smooth by centuries of wet feet. There are noises, muffled and mysterious. The sound of the water breathing. Soft rustling from the spindly magnolia and azalea bushes that surround the onsen. A leaf falling from its twig {...}
I remain still, moving my hands occasionally to send ripples through the cosseting water. It is so quiet I can hear the movement of the noren — the split curtain that hangs in place of a door — and footsteps on the tatami matting. I hear slippers being placed on a wooden shelf, yukata and the shorter, thicker hanten jacket being folded and placed in one of the rows of whicker baskets that stand in for lockers, and I know I am to be joined. As my fellow bather gives a nod of acknowledgment and steps silently into the water, I remind myself that they are a kindred spirit rather than an invader.
Night bathing feels different to that done in early morning. More meditative, a time to reflect rather than refresh. Enveloped in warm, still water, with just the scent of witch hazel or winter jasmine carried by the steam, the body, if not the spirit, feels at prayer. One night I will fall asleep in the onsen, my head slowly sinking under the water, never to return. I cannot tell you how happy I would be to leave that way."
— Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts
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