Three years ago, I was lying on the beach of a package hotel, watching a pair of jet skis churn the sea to muddy silt. J-pop blared from the shore-side Tannoy, and two lifeguards were pinning down a hysterical toddler, while a third doused vinegar over a scarlet welt of jellyfish sting.

I'd come here to northern Okinawa, looking for some reprieve from my Tokyo life, but I could feel myself becoming more and more stressed by the minute.

On the other side of the bay, perhaps 6 or 7 km distant, there was a stretch of coast void of any of the hotel blocks which pressed in all around me. I could just about make out a mass of dark green jungle fronted by a strip of white sand. It seemed so far away but so much closer to the holiday I wanted. I stood up and looked for someone to ask about what was over there.