Everyone loves a little souvenir of somewhere special. Most of us search for something to bring home that will remind us of our trips, whether it’s something unique to a countries culture, or an item that is entirely symbolic of that place.

I’ve been thinking about this story for a while. All of the daydreaming I’ve been doing while locked away in Australia with borders closed to the big wide, wonderful world, has led me to write it now.

It’s a special story for me. Yes, there is a souvenir involved, but I didn’t search for it as a memento to bring home. The best ones, to my mind, are those that are collected spontaneously, and above all, with a purpose. These are very special souvenirs, often with wonderful stories attached to them. Stories that unfold throughout your trip.

This is the story of a very simple “ochoko”, a Japanese sake cup. It’s not much to look at. Probably factory made by the thousands, lying in little gift stores all over Japan. Nothing special at all. From memory it cost around 200 Yen, just over USD $2.00. But to me, it’s the most precious ochoko I own.

When I look at it, I remember its story, one that brings me the warmth that I sought when I purchased it, some years back on a special trip to Japan.

Matsumoto, in Central Honshu, is a lovely small city. Famous for its magnificent castle, nicknamed “crow castle” for its distinctive black walls, it’s on many tourist radars but never feels overwhelmed. I arrived there straight off the JR “Azusa” Limited Express early one fresh Autumn morning in 2017. My little ryokan (traditional inn) was located just a short walk from the station.

Anyone who has been to Japan knows that it is almost always impossible to check into your room early. It’s extremely rare to be allowed entry even a single minute before. This day was no exception.

With so many hours to kill before I could unpack and freshen up, I decided to explore the city. My backpack contained all the essentials for a day’s exploration: a water bottle, my camera and lenses, phone, guide book, headphones, passport, wallet, sunglasses, towel and wet weather poncho. And a special something. This trip marked the beginning of my education of sake. My bag also contained a beautiful bottle of Junmai Daigingo sake that I purchased at a wonderful outdoor tasting event in Tokyo, a sake festival called Sake Flea, with some of the country’s top toji (sake brewers) and representatives in attendance.

I was only in my ryokan for around half an hour that morning, at the front desk, completing the paperwork before setting off. Japan is notorious for its quickly changeable weather, but nothing prepared me for what I faced upon leaving that morning. In that short space of time between arriving at the ryokan and venturing out, the temperature must have dropped over ten degrees. Suddenly, Autumn had turned to Winter in the blink of an eye.

I didn’t have anywhere near the layers one needed to cope in those conditions. Living in Australia all these years has never prepared me for the extremes of the Northern Hemisphere. It was breezy, drizzly, and freezing. My thin sweater wasn’t doing me any favours.

Like in all of Japan before around 11am, nothing was open. The city was almost deserted. I wandered to Matsumoto Castle, only a short stroll from my accommodation, but found it too was closed, looking forlorn but still majestic under the cloudy, grey skies.

By now the chill was really setting in. It was getting colder by the minute. I walked briskly back to the station, believing that surely there must be a coffee shop open there. Nope. Everything shuttered.

I was beginning to lose hope, when just around the corner I stumbled upon a little shop, with only two small aisles, selling newspapers, candy, stationery and a couple of rows of ordinary, cheap souvenirs.

It’s always in the moments when you are most uncomfortable, that the brain kicks into survival mode. Right in front of me was the cure to my pain, the key to the warmth I was seeking. A row of quite ordinary, ceramic “ochoko”, small cups, designed as gifts, but for me they were my lifesaver.

If ever there was time to crack open the bottle of sake in my possession, it was then. I reached for the cheapest ochoko I could find, at the time not even considering the look of it. It was generic, plain, but not entirely unattractive. After my purchase I made straight for the small park across the way from my ryokan.

I sat in the small sheltered pavilion in the centre of the park, my shivering hands reaching for the bottle of sake. I wrapped it in my towel, endeavouring to keep it at around room temperature. I didn’t want chilled sake on that icy day!

Naturally, upon first sip of the contents in my little ochoko, that sake tasted better than any I had ever enjoyed. My first shot was immediate and quick. No small sipping to begin. Warmth instantly overcame me. And then, after a deep breath, no doubt one of relief, I felt a lovely calm. Only then did I start to get a sense of this new place I had travelled so far to see.

No longer did I mind that the city was so quiet. For now, I saw so much in its silence. The park was beautifully manicured in classic Japanese style. A family wandered through with a young Shiba-Inu. There was more movement on the streets beyond. The skies began to show signs of clearing, and the day was slowly warming up. I found my quiet contemplation over that hour very meditative. There was a clarity that previously was not present amongst the mild anxiety I felt while trying to find some warmth.

The small sips of sake that followed made my time of waiting some of the most satisfying and precious of my trip. Of course, I realise I may be sounding like a bit of a drunk at this point, but it wasn’t like that at all. If anything, I had a realisation that this remarkable, uniquely Japanese drink is an amazing beverage that when sipped slowly, worries are released, like a magical elixir.

I began to understand the pleasure of such a small cup, and how its contents are treated with such reverence. It would be ill-considered to pour a huge glass of sake. The nuances of the drink are best enjoyed slowly and in small, savoured sips.

Upon leaving the park, the day had returned to Autumn and the city had sprung to life. I wandered the streets aimlessly, enjoying it all, and soon found myself on the outskirts of the city. In an instant I knew I was lost. I walked several blocks, but no matter which direction I went, I knew I was in unknown territory. And you can forget using Google Maps in Japan.

In this area of Matsumoto, there were no landmarks and the streets and buildings were grey and generic. After around an hour believing I would find my way back to the Castle area, I knew it was a lost cause.

With the limited Japanese I knew I asked a young woman for directions back to the Castle. English was even more limited for her. She appeared to be somewhat confused herself about how to get there. Eventually, she became confident about where I should head, and decided to walk with me, with great determination.

On every second street corner, the woman looked around, slightly puzzled, before we trotted off again. I was happy to be guided, even though I was somewhat sceptical about whether we would be successful in reaching our destination.

At one point during our walk, the woman noticed my sake bottle protruding slightly from my backpack. I showed her the bottle and she was surprised and said in broken English “you like Sake?”

I then bumbled through an explanation of the morning’s events and showed her my ochoko, to which she seemed in awe. She held it and said, “so beautiful!” She was completely dazzled by it.

I realised then that the cup really was lovely. Simple it may have been, but the simple things in life are often the most beautiful. The Japanese certainly understand that.

Within minutes after that moment, we turned a corner and found ourselves with the Castle in sight ahead of us. I tried to explain that I was fine now, but the woman would not leave me until she had escorted me all the way there.

Once we reached the castle gates, I said a very thankful goodbye. The young woman was so happy and appreciative that I had come to her country. “Thank you for coming to Japan!”, she gushed, bowing several times. She then turned around and walked back in the direction from which she came. I realised then that she had gone completely out of her way to take me to the castle. Such is the polite hospitality of the Japanese. I was amazed at her action that day. An unforgettable moment I will always cherish.

My beautiful, little ochoko was my constant companion the rest of that trip, and a cheeky sip of a lovely sake or simple shochu became instantly transformative, easing tricky situations or making the passage of time when little needs to be done, a little less ordinary.

I bought many lovely Japanese ceramics and homewares on that trip, but nothing meant more to me than this little ochoko, with its simple purpose serving me so well when I needed it most.

I rarely use it at home. I have many other beautiful ones that are in high rotation for my sake sessions with friends. But that ochoko stands alone and holds a special fondness. I have it placed where I can see it every day. The memories of my trip to Matsumoto and beyond flood my mind whenever I see it.

When I am able to leave Australia again and get back to Japan, I will take it with me. It is a companion during my adventures there. As future travel will no doubt be focused on much outdoor, nature-based activities, I see the filling of the ochoko as a well-deserved reward for whatever I achieve on my travels.

Perhaps it’s my version of the travelling gnome. You know, the garden gnome lawn ornament brought on a trip and photographed in front of famous landmarks. Instead of “gnoming”, I can do “ochoking”. My ochoko can appear in the most unlikely places. I can see the clever Instagram account now.

I look forward to more adventures, surprises and the joy that travel, and spontaneous purchases, will bring.