’ve had a picture of Japan in my head for more than a decade. Skyscrapers, flashing lights, crowds, technology, sushi, girls in cute outfits and dogs in clothes and a random mountain floating in the air somewhere behind it.

In other words: Tokyo.

As we drive away from Shin-Fuji train station, I suddenly realise there’s an entire country that I had ignored completely.

Huge green fields full of tiny purple flowers, dense thickets of gnarly woods with tiny roads winding through them. Huge bright blue skies, silence and rustling and birds; little restaurants with wooden chairs and paper lanterns hanging from the ceilings; regal red temples built into rocks. In between the trees and the flowers are enormous shining lakes: sometimes seasoned with tiny boats and fishermen, sometimes with windsurfers, sometimes completely empty.

And – looming behind it all, reflected perfectly – Mount Fuji.

Proud and completely alone.

The only thing that could possibly make the journey more amazing would be not being squidged against the van door, curled into a stiff, semi-fetal position. I’m squashed next to Nick in the front, and every time we go round a corner, his left knee brushes against my right knee, or his left elbow brushes against my right elbow, and I spring a little further into the door as if I’ve just been electrocuted.

And there appear to be a lot of corners.

Wilbur’s not helping. In fact, he seems to be going out of his way to make it worse. “Nick, Sugar-pot, tell Harriet where we are now.”

“This is Fuji Five Lakes.”

Three minutes later: “Nick, Monkey-bum, tell Harriet where the name Fuji comes from.”

“I think it translates to without equal.”

One minute: “Nick, Orange-pip, tell Harriet what those flowers are called.”

Cue laughter. “How would I know, Wil? Purple ones?”

I’m not a naturally violent person, but after three-quarters of an hour of this I am seconds away from smacking Wilbur’s head against the seat in front to get him to shut up. Just so that I can stop blushing scarlet and avoiding eye contact and trying to hide my sweaty palms by cramming them between my legs. Just so I can stop saying ‘ah’ and trying to sound all mature and indifferent.

Just so I can stop pretending I can’t feel Nick’s shoulder knocking sporadically against mine or his foot three centimetres from mine or that it’s slightly killing me.

Finally, we pull into an enormous, muddy car park. I’m out before the engine’s switched off. Next time, I am so sitting in the back.

I hop straight into a puddle.

Nick laughs and carefully climbs over it. “That was pretty selfless of you, Manners, protecting my jeans like that. You’re like some kind of girl knight.”

I blush and shake the muddy water from my leggings.

“Owl-cakes,” Wilbur says, clambering out and stretching like an enormous pink sparkly cat. “Can I leave you to entertain yourselves? I’m just going to go pull the brief out of Yuka.”

I glance nervously at Nick and then away again. I’m not entirely sure that entertain is the right word. When a frog vomits, it ejects its entire stomach and uses its forearms to empty out the contents.

There’s a small chance I may be about to do the same thing.

“Sure,” I say.

“Absolutely,” Nick says, and – to my distress – his nonchalance sounds totally genuine. “Take your time.”

“My darlings,” Wilbur sighs. “If time belonged to me I totally would.”

And he skips towards a familiar big black car waiting on the other side of the car park.