This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
The chef’s hands move with the assurance of decades-long practice. He shapes and turns rice still faintly warm, then settles a soft nugget of fish liver on top. I pop it into my mouth and it melts instantly, nutty and rich with a subtle hint of sweetness. But my gaze drifts past him. The scenery is moving — because this sushi counter isn’t tucked into a Tokyo backstreet. It’s on a boat.
Islands rise and fall with the waves as guntû charts her course on this slow, three-day journey through Japan’s Seto Inland Sea. There are more than 3,000 islands here, scattered like marbles across a slate-blue carpet with some no larger than a tennis court, home only to a scattering of pines and the occasional lost-looking seabird.
From a distance, the boat’s gabled roofline resembles a house set adrift — the source of its nickname, the floating ryokan. Dating back to the samurai era, traditional ryokans were designed to anticipate a traveller’s every need, bringing bathing, dining and rest together under one roof. On guntû, that philosophy has simply been carried out to sea.
“The view is like watching a picture scroll,” says Yasushi Horibe, the architect behind the ship’s design. “We want guests to feel harmony between the landscape and the vessel itself.” Inside, pale woods and muted tones create an atmosphere of almost monastic calm. At sunrise and sunset, light pours in through wide windows, bathing corridors and cabins in an amber glow. It feels like walking through a jar of honey.
Guntû was designed by architect Yasushi Horibe, known for Japanese homes that blur the boundary between interior and exterior. Photograph by guntû
This serenity is reinforced by the setting itself. Often called the Mediterranean of Japan, the region is shaped by hot, humid summers, gentle autumns and late winters. While spring and autumn are the most popular times to travel, each season has its own charms. I’m here in November, when the islands’ cascading green hills are transformed into a painterly sweep of colour. Bright golds, rusty oranges and the occasional flash of fiery red turn the landscape into something straight out of a Bob Ross masterclass — warming rather than overwhelming.
Yet this calm masks a more volatile side. On my second morning, after a pale winter sunrise, we’re ushered onto a small motorboat for an off-ship excursion. The crew’s careful precautions — life vests handed out and straps checked — feel excessive at first. Minutes later, I’m grateful for every buckle. Whirlpools open and close around us — some no larger than a draining bathtub, others wide enough to swallow a person whole. Sunlight skitters across the foaming spirals, drawing excited, slightly nervous murmurs from the group.
The powerful tidal currents make the waters around the islands extremely difficult to navigate. Photograph by Ella Rogers
These waters have always been treacherous, their currents unpredictable, and sailors once landed on Omishima island to pray to the mountain gods for a safe passage. Among them were the Murakami pirates, a powerful clan who dominated these channels for centuries. “The Murakami were so ubiquitous in this region that you could walk into a classroom and half the students might share the surname Murakami,” says our guide, Sakochi Moto, a woman in her sixties from nearby Fukuyama.
But these weren’t pirates in the Hollywood sense, nor the heroes of Japanese comics. “They were kaizoku,” Moto says. “More like maritime samurai, established powers who controlled these waters. Many later answered the emperor’s call and became part of the imperial naval forces.”
We finally make it to Omishima, landing beside a white torii gate that rises seven metres from the water’s edge, marking the passage from sea to sanctuary. Beyond it, a short path slips through the sleepy town of Miyaura. The streets are silent, scented with a gentle sweetness drifting from the Murakami Yokando bakery where mamju (warm treats filled with bean curd) are being prepared.
Stone lanterns lead us to a camphor grove that shelters Ōyamazumi Shrine, a historic Shinto complex hidden deep in the forest. The courtyard lies in shade, anchored by a vast camphor tree at its centre. Around 2,600 years old, its limbs are wrapped in braided ropes, with shide papers hanging in careful folds, quietly declaring the site’s sacred status. Beneath it, two priests in white robes and turquoise hakama (trousers) move with unhurried precision, sweeping leaves from the stone steps that rise towards the shrine.
Stone lanterns lead the way from Miyaura Port to Oyamazumi Shrine. Photograph by Ella Rogers
Ōyamazumi Shrine is more than 1,000 years old and houses Japan’s largest collection of samurai swords. Photograph by Ella Rogers
Standing at its centre, calm settles over me, a palpable counterpoint to the treacherous whirlpools and unpredictable currents offshore. The shrine is famed across Japan for its collection of ancient samurai offerings, from armour to weapons, and it’s easy to picture the Murakami pirates here centuries ago, offering prayers for a safe passage across the waters we’ve just crossed.
But the stillness is fleeting. Soon, we’re back on the boat, engines straining as we edge once more into open water. Our captain expertly adjusts the throttle to hold position beside a slowly forming whirlpool, clearly knowing every contour of the seabed by heart. Still, the thrill lingers. It’s difficult to fathom how 16th-century sailors, navigating wooden vessels, dared to cross these channels at all, with tidal differences reaching up to four metres in a single day.
We circle the most volatile points, where opposing streams visibly collide, before approaching Naoshima Island, which served as a Murakami stronghold for more than two centuries. Rising in layered tiers above the bay, it once functioned as a pirate fortress — not of stone walls, but towering tents, with the clan leader’s residence at the highest level. From this vantage point, with natural defences above and treacherous tides below, I understand how the kaizoku maintained control — not merely as raiders, but as guardians of the region’s sea routes.
Back aboard guntû, the energy shift is immediate. The sea is calm again; hills drift past as they did at sunrise and I settle onto a lounger on the forward terrace, a glass of junmai sake in hand. Inside, the sushi chef continues his choreography, slicing sashimi with the same precision I watched that first afternoon, the steady rhythm of the blade echoing the lapping of the waves outside.
The onsen-style baths on guntû are designed as viewing spaces as much as places to bathe. Photograph by guntû
Wherever I am onboard, I remain a spectator of the sea: at the sushi counter, in the library, in the onsen-style baths where green citrus fruits bob beside me in the steam. Each of the ship’s 17 cabins has floor-to-ceiling windows framing the panorama beyond. On the top deck, an open-air engawa terrace (a traditional Japanese verandah) is strewn with mats and low stools for watching the islands slide past in a slow procession of green silhouettes.
Unlike vast ocean cruises that draw guests inward with constant activity, guntû does the opposite. It gently pushes you outward — to watch, to listen, to connect with the seascape. As dusk settles and the sea darkens, I find myself wondering if the Murakami kaizoku once paused to take in this view, letting the water still before venturing back into the currents. Different vessels, different centuries — yet the same sea, carrying all of us quietly onward.
Published in the Islands Collection 2026 by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
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