The guesthouse I was staying at in Kitsuki was named after the owner, a tough but warm-hearted example of Kyushu womanhood, someone who had learnt to stand her own ground on an island known for its almost theatrical levels of machismo.
The guesthouse, located at the edge of town, right on Route 49, suffered from a steady rush of passing trucks, the urgency of their progress sending shudders through the wooden building.
The owner's tough-love act no doubt evolved after years of dealing with the kind of itinerant workers who had temporary lodging there. A boisterous lot sharing a single room, they were in the habit of playing quarrelsome card games into the early hours until exhaustion overcame them and they snatched a few hours' sleep before an early rise and breakfast.