Okinawa tastes of ice cold 'Orion B', of satiating Awamori roku, of prickly goya cucumber, of juicy green skiikwaasaa, of sweet purple benimo. The soundtrack to everywhere is a captivating Sanshin, the beat of a drum, the melodic chant of locals.
Snaking a line from Naha to Nago, past the long U.S bases we see shisa lion-dragons, we feast on miniature tacos, we visit ingenious kilns and pottery workshops.
Nago is early Obon. Nago is Eisa dances at dusk. It's waking from a tatami hut and padding to a cove for a pre-breakfast swim. Nago is the generosity of new friends, of secret snorkelling spots, of burning sun and shady tropical trees and the cooling taste of love.