Once we were under way the twenty-minute bus trip had more to do with traffic conditions than the actual distance, and the distance we travelled was considerably longer than a crow would have taken, but I still wouldn't want to be walking it without a cut lunch and, more importantly, a compass or a good mud map.
Hotel Shoho is an impressively large structure on the eastern outskirts of Matsumoto that operates on a considerably larger scale than some onsen establishments, and the girl who showed us to the room once we’d been reunited with the luggage stressed that we had to use this particular lift on our way travelling to and fro between room, restaurant, lobby and onsen facilities.
I’m not the world’s greatest fan of the hot spring experience, but I invariably surrender to the inevitable expectation, donning the bathrobe and making the obligatory excursion to the steamy facilities. Interestingly, on my way there I observed a handy vending machine sitting right beside the elevator, and once I’d done what was required and made it back to the room I thought a couple of beers would constitute a suitable reward.
Dinner involved a semi-private booth in the restaurant rather than the room, and arrived with the usual wide variety of dishes where I’m often unsure about the exact identity, but in a damn the torpedoes full speed ahead approach end up having a go at them.
There's the odd item that's obviously and definitely one to avoid and they’re usually identified as such, but by and large I’ve found that if you're willing to give it a go the particular item you're not overwhelmed about usually works well with others around it. In most cases they’re bite-sized pieces, so it’s a damn the torpedoes and down the hatch approach.
There was sashimi to follow, something I'm not usually a fan of, but the salmon and tuna were good, and the octopus, which I'd generally avoid, was ok with wasabi and soy. The attendant had fired up the hotpot bowl while we were working through the first courses, and things would have been better if we 'd got to it a little bit earlier. There was also a hot plate arrangement in the middle of the table that was less than satisfactory (at least as far as I was concerned), largely because the wagyu splattered fat across the rest of the area. Frankly, it wasn't the best I've encountered, and seemed to be fatty offcuts rather than prime steak. Or maybe extremely well marbled prime steak. Anyway, it was something Hughesy and his shirt sleeves could have done without.