The old roads that run like rivers between mountain towns are dotted with gods. Known as dosojin, they are deities of roads and borders. Good gods for a traveller. As we drive further north the stone markers disappear under the deep strata of half a winter’s snow.

Nozawa Onsen clings to the base of volcanic mountains on the very edge of Japan’s true snow country. When we arrive in the little hot spring town it is still light. By day, it is a town like any other Nagano town. We walk along snowy streets between squat concrete buildings and elegant wooden bath houses and temples, waiting for dusk.

When night falls it comes suddenly. Just as suddenly, the town fills with people. Tonight is festival night.

Our ears lead our numbing feet across squeaking snow. Along the sides of the road, people hand out paper cups of shockingly cold sake. Voices ripple through the night: Japanese, American, British. Here I am not out of place. No one is. The crowd thickens. At its centre is the festival shrine.

An infectious excitement ripples through the air. Winter fireworks explode overhead in the dark sky. When the ash comes down it’s impossible to tell if it’s ash or snow falling from the high winter clouds. The edges between things have blurred.

Someone passes me sake from a tin cup on a chain. I drink, pass it back. My throat burns with the cold of it, and then I am suddenly warm.

Or is it, more than that – is it the way the invisible barriers come down and we are all let in? Just for this one night, the village opens and welcomes us. Just for one night, we, the strangers, are let in from the outside.