Arimasansoh Goshobessho

A woman in white gloves is standing beside the gate, scanning the road. This would feel less alarming had we given our ryokan, Arimasansoh Goshobessho, a useful arrival time. Our satnav says 5pm. Dinner is at six. We’d told the team that we would arrive 'sometime in the afternoon' — the most precise answer we could manage on the final leg of our road trip. Nobody has technically said we are late, but I know that we are. Oh dear.

The woman spots us, breaks into a broad smile and appears to multiply before we’ve opened a car door. Five, maybe seven, white-gloved staff descend to take our bags and offer to park the car while we make futile grabs at the detritus from several konbini sweeps. Our road-trip rule had been to buy one thing we hadn’t tried before on every visit. Fun at the time. Less so now, with an audience and just a glovebox to hide the evidence.

Rather than hurry us towards dinner, they suggest pushing it back so we can freshen up. To be fair, Arimasansoh Goshobessho had tried very hard to prepare for us. Before our stay, the team asked not only the ages of our children, but their genders too. 'Maybe they’re working out how much the children will eat?' Mr Smith suggested. 'Do they think boys eat more than girls?'

They had also wanted to know whether our seven-year-old daughter would like a children’s dinner 'based on the adult creative kaiseki course'. We pictured plain rice and some kind of katsu, though five days’ notice suggested the kitchen had grander plans. Then came the question about our arrival time and transport, followed by an apology for asking so much. Please don’t be sorry, I wanted to reply. Detail and control are my love languages. And yet: 'sometime in the afternoon'.

Our villa is number one, which we decide must mean the best one. At 100 square metres, it is also enormous; after several days spent climbing over one another, we scatter gratefully. 'I love this room,' our daughter declares. Her 10-month-old brother drops to all fours and sets off across the mirror-polished floor. Thankfully, there are no paper screens for him to 'Here’s Johnny!' his way through.

Arimasansoh Goshobessho behaves like a ryokan (a traditional Japanese inn), but looks as though it spent its formative years in Europe. Dark beams climb overhead; deep leather armchairs that could swallow you whole sit on patterned rugs; curly-wurly wrought-iron winks from beneath the tables. Not a tatami mat or futon in sight. We later learn that its late artistic director, Hirosuke Watanuki, spent his formative years in Portugal.

We find four yukata — lightweight cotton kimonos — laid out in our sizes: blue for the girls and white for the boys. Arima is sweltering, and the water pouring into our bath is hotter still. A mineral-encrusted tap fills it with kinsen at the press of a button, stopping automatically once full. 'It looks like my baby brother’s pooed in it,' our daughter observes. Kinsen means 'golden spring', which is slightly deceptive. Rich in iron and salt, the water turns opaque and rusty brown when it meets the air, but thankfully lacks the aggressively eggy smell of many hot springs. Mr Smith, who put his back out somewhere along our trip, gives her a wink and lowers himself gingerly into what has now been christened 'poopy water'.

Aftwerwards, we settle into our private dining room. This is a mercy. Between courses, we spread bibs, bags, cameras and children across every available surface, then scoop everything up and sit straight at the sound of approaching footsteps. The children, it should be said, are behaving perfectly well; we’ve already warded off hanger with soba and issued one rule: no 'Errrr!' before trying it.

Then our daughter’s first course appears: lobster tartare. Her 'children’s dinner' is our kaiseki menu with fewer courses, smaller portions, but no less ambition: she gets sashimi, charcoal-grilled abalone and sukiyaki-seasoned steak. Not a breaded cutlet in sight. To our surprise, she tries nearly everything — enough to claim victory. My husband and I fight over the rest.

That night, a thunderstorm circles the Rokko hills for hours. Some rumbles sound like vast, grumbling bellies; others crack directly overhead. Both children sleep through it, which is probably the most persuasive thing I can say about the beds. By morning, the storm has lacquered everything outside: moss glows almost fluorescent along the walkways and water droplets glitter on every leaf.

Arima’s winding lanes, cafés and bath houses could easily have kept us local, but after some mountain quiet we fancy a city fix. A few easy trains later, we’re threading through Sannomiya district’s covered shopping arcades. At Caldo, a fifth-floor hideaway, we refuel with a tuna and rocket pizza that could hold its own in Naples, then track down Co les Donut’s summer special, filled with fresh peach and yoghurt cream. By the time we return, the city has done its job and we’re ready for mountain quiet again. The hotel van meets us at Arima station, saving our legs from the 15-minute steep climb.

We graduate from our villa bath to the communal one, which families can use privately for 40 minutes. Behind the locked door, a dim passage opens onto a pool ringed with thick, twisted shimenawa — the sacred rope used in Shinto to mark a boundary. In the centre, bamboo rises from the rusty water, its canes stained bronze by the minerals. In the low light, the surface gleams like burnished metal but gives away nothing beneath it. The room feels closer to a shrine than a spa. When we lower ourselves in, our bodies appear to stop at the waterline.

At check-out, the white-gloved team brings our car round. Mr Smith bends to rearrange a bag without wincing — the poopy water appears to have done its job. Then I open the glovebox in search of snacks and release the fug of a forgotten packet of squid sticks.

The staff line up to see us off, waving until we are almost out of sight before folding into a perfect 90-degree bow. They had been waiting beside the road when we arrived; now they stand watching until we disappear. If they noticed the squid sticks, not a single white glove faltered.