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We camped on the Japanese coastline, along the Omotehama Highway, which shares space with agricultural land. The sea completely hidden by 50 meters of trees, you couldn’t smell it, see it or hear it over the farm dust and aroma. Like a poorly chosen trimming by a dress maker the beach didn’t belong. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t great.

The coast, wasn’t anything I had ever associated with Japan, when I thought of their relationship with water I thought of the whales and the dolphins they are famous for murdering, and not much more. The beach was one long, misty, disappearing strip, the swell was big perhaps because of the wild weather the week before, it was a beautiful mild temperature, the water was muddy with sand churning, one family sitting on a camping table, and as you look each way, a long dense freckling of rubbish. Yet it still had a cleanness about it, despite the rubbish. It was like the rubbish were the shells and driftwood, littering the sand, but the smooth glass bottles and pastel plastics didn’t make it unsightly. It was organised, cleaned by the ocean and gently placed there.

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