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Eat Fly Drive, No 7C-G, Jalan Besar, Brinchang, Cameron Highlands (2026)

06/04/2026

We probably shouldn’t have ended our trip in Cameron Highlands like this.

Breakfast at .ch, just before the drive down to Malacca, felt more like a quiet refusal to ease back into restraint.

It was already warm by 10am, unusually so for Cameron Highlands. The café was full, locals and tourists moving in and out with purpose. Inside, the space was lined with antiques and old memorabilia, the sort of place that looked like it had been accumulating stories for longer than anyone had been organising them. A sign mentioned two floors for diners and a lean kitchen crew. It showed, in a good way.

The Hainan toast arrived crisp and warm, kaya just sweet enough, butter doing what it was meant to. Simple and properly done.

Bridget’s pork noodles leaned fully into itself. Rich broth, unmistakably carried by pork lard, the kind of depth that doesn’t bother negotiating with modern sensibilities.

The prawn noodles took a slightly different route. Deep prawn flavour, a lighter hand with the lard, and a quiet hint of spice from the chilli powder that built slowly rather than announcing itself.

We added a side of char siew because the photos made it difficult to resist. It was tender, fatty, and unapologetically sweet, the molasses coming through more strongly than expected. It wasn’t subtle, but it wasn’t pretending to be either.

There was a point during the meal where it became clear this wasn’t trying to be balanced, refined, or adjusted for anyone. It simply existed the way it always had: full, direct, and unconcerned.

A few days earlier, in Johor Bahru, we had started the trip with something lighter and more measured. This felt like the opposite end of that spectrum – not better or worse, just more honest in a different way.

We left a little reluctantly, partly because the drive ahead was long, and partly because meals like this don’t really fit into daily life anymore. They belong to trips. To places that haven’t felt the need to change too much.

Probably for the best.

05/04/2026

We didn’t expect the best dish of the night to be kailan.

Dinner on our second night in Cameron Highlands came after climbing Coral Hill earlier in the day. We arrived a little tired, shoes still carrying traces of the trail, and walked into a dining room that was bright, busy, and entirely uninterested in dressing itself up.

The clams came in a clear broth that leaned sweet and savoury, though heavy on ginger strips. I spent a fair amount of time picking them out, but the flavour held.

The kailan was the one that stayed with us. Firm stems, finely cut leaves fried until they took on a crisp, almost kale-like texture, finished with meat floss. Slight bitterness, properly balanced – the kind of dish that sounds simple but actually isn’t.

We ordered the gracilaria out of curiosity. It looked unfamiliar, but settled into something more expected once we started eating. Garlic, greens, and a clean finish.

The mantis prawns were coated in batter, unrecognisable at first glance. The sauce did the work. Sweet, savoury, and confident enough to carry the dish without overreaching.

At some point, the table behind us filled with regulars. The woman taking orders sat down with them, as though she had been part of the group all along. It felt less like service and more like routine.

This is a restaurant that knows its place and what it’s doing.

05/04/2026

Cameron Highlands felt like a different country.

Strawberries, cherry tomatoes, and white corn that tasted far better than expected. Meals that leaned into flavour without apology. Evenings that didn’t need air conditioning to feel comfortable.

We found ourselves driving with the windows slightly down and the ventilation off, just to feel the difference.

05/04/2026

We broke the drive from Singapore to Cameron Highlands the only way that makes sense in Malaysia – by eating.

Johor Bahru gave us noodles and a polo bun with butter. Seremban gave us coffee that didn’t hold back. Bidor gave us kueh we couldn’t fully identify but we’re glad we bought anyway. Ipoh gave us rain, limestone hills, and a cup of white coffee strong enough to reset the afternoon.

None of these stops were the destination, but each one made the distance feel more deliberate.

25/02/2026

We started our last full day in Fukuoka at Pain Stock Tenjin. Warm, woody interiors, trays filling quickly, and locals moving with quiet efficiency. We took our time choosing, then sat with coffee and pastries, stretching out breakfast like we had nowhere else to be.

By noon, we were on our way to Dazaifu – except we boarded the wrong express train and massively overshot it. There was a moment of disbelief before we reluctantly accepted our fate.

Dazaifu, when we finally arrived, felt small and measured. It was perfect for a day trip and we began a mini food circuit.

Fukutaro first. Their grilled mentaiko yaki onigiri came crisp on the outside, deeply savoury within, finished with shiso. Comforting and direct. Then Tenzan for the Onigawara Monaka, shaped like a demon roof tile inspired by those excavated from the old Dazaifu Government Office. We chose the seasonal Amaou Strawberry Daifuku Monaka – Fukuoka’s pride. Oversized, sweet and photogenic. At Kasanoya, umegae mochi were baked golden and filled with sweet red bean paste. It was simple and enduring.

As tourists do, we queued for a photo with the Goshingyū Bull at Dazaifu Tenmangu Shrine. Locals say stroking the polished part of its head brings good fortune. We did our part. Still waiting.

Back in Fukuoka, our original dinner venue was closed by the time we arrived. We improvised and found すし酒場さしすワンフクオカビル店 in One Fukuoka – it was one of the best meals of the trip. Otoro sashimi at a price that felt almost suspicious. We ordered seconds. You’d have done the same.

And I finally ate at Ichiran. We missed it on my first Japan trip to Tokyo last year. No excuses this time.

A wrong train, a closed restaurant, and a few recalibrations. It felt like the right way to wrap up our trip in Kyushu – well fed and quietly certain we’d chosen the right city for our second Japan trip.

24/02/2026

At 9.30am we checked out and pointed the car north.

The moment the day shifted was on a wooden deck at Forest Cafe Midori no Oto. Coffee in hand, a small picnic basket between us, elevated treehouse seating above damp earth and cedar.

It felt lighter, like the trip exhaled. The tension had been building quietly. We’d been moving from highlight to highlight for days – volcanoes, shrines, castles, heritage dinners. Each stop was impressive in its own way, but impressive can be exhausting.

At Sakurai Futamigaura, the Couple Stones stood 150 metres offshore, bound by a thick shimenawa rope. Izanagi and Izanami. Union. Permanence. An all-white torii gate framing them against the sea. It was beautifully symbolic and photogenic.

Yet the question lingered: how many symbols can one process before they blur?

Back in Fukuoka, we returned the rental car and walked to おにぎりごりちゃん in Tenjin. Oversized onigiri, densely packed, warm in the palm. It’s the kind of place locals talk about – rice done properly, fillings generous, no pretence, just satisfying.

The day stopped being about scale or symbolism and became about weight – literal and otherwise.

Dinner at COWSICAMP carried that forward. A butcher-run space built around a live campfire in the middle of the room. Smoke rising, fat hissing. Kuroge Wagyu and Akagyu were handled with confidence. A lemon sour finished with citrus grilled over open flame.

Nothing ornamental, just fire, meat, and appetite. Sometimes what grounds you most is rice in your hand and heat on your face.

22/02/2026

Mount A*o’s active crater was violent. The wind threatened to push us sideways at Nakadake, sulphur thick in the air.

We drank the famous A*o milk earlier that morning – creamy, rich, faintly sweet with a subtle vanilla note. That lived up to its reputation. The charcoal latte at Kusasenri did not.

Helicopters lifted tourists over Mount A*o. The gift shop hummed with tourists scrambling to fill their baskets as their tour guide reminded them about their schedule. Scenic lookouts began to blur into diminishing returns.

It was a day of scale, but lunch at Takamori Dengaku no Sato slowed things down. A 200-year-old house, charcoal fire at the centre, Dengaku grilled patiently over embers. It was hospitality delivered with steady hands and quiet care.

And then, in Kumamoto’s Shinmachi district at the foot of the castle, we stepped into Okumura. Here, hanging scrolls mark the seasons, Higo inlay decorate the chopstick rests, and the tableware is from local kilns. History is literally in the dining experience.

Chef Satoshi Okumura trained in Kyoto before returning home in 1999. His philosophy is simple: local ingredients, local hands and local tableware, enjoyed in the place they belong.

Near the end of our meal, a claypot arrived. He brought it himself. He encouraged us to have seconds. Between servings, he pressed down the lid to maintain pressure. He spoke with us through Google Translate – about seasonal strawberries, Suizenji nori, the regions of Kyushu we’d visited, even durian from home. We hadn’t realised he was the chef-owner. For a man preserving centuries of culinary tradition to stand there and talk to two travellers felt disproportionate but in the best way.

When we left, he and the manager walked us outside into the cold night to say goodbye. They had no coats on, but it didn’t seem to matter.

After a day of volcanic drama and curated viewpoints, what stayed with us wasn’t the crater but the charcoal embers in an old house, a claypot lid pressed gently back into place, and people choosing to give their time.

Some places impress you. Some people remind you why you travel.

21/02/2026

We checked out in the morning and drove first to Miyazaki Jingu. Wide gravel paths. A calm atmosphere. The kind of shrine that quietly earns your attention.

By 1pm we were in Takachiho, pulling up outside みんなの店華々 – a place you’d miss if you blinked. It’s small and deliberate, run by a senior lady who seemed amused that two people from Singapore knew of her shop.

Counter seats faced open grassland behind the unit. No postcard framing, just space.

Champon for me – Nagasaki’s Chinese-inspired noodle dish, prepared with quiet confidence. Bridget had oyakodon. Coffee arrived with a slice of baked apple dusted in cinnamon. As we left, she handed us tangerines for the road. That generosity lingered longer than the meal.

At Kamishikimi Kumanoimasu Shrine, a long staircase cut upward through a cathedral of cedar, flanked by moss-covered lanterns. The air felt older than the road we’d driven in on. Behind the shrine sat the Ugetoiwa rock arch – pass through it, they say, and your ambitions will come true. We climbed and went through. Time will tell.

We stopped briefly at Komezuka for a photograph, then carried on to Kurokawa – mercifully free of concrete towers and neon lights. Our ryokan at Kurasako Onsen Sakura had both indoor and outdoor baths. Bridget embraced the rotenburo. I struggled with the winter air slicing through the steam. The contrast felt too sharp.

Dinner at お食事処禪墅（ぜんや） closed the day. A traditional Kumamoto meal, composed and meticulous, grand without being loud.

Some days are about spectacle. This one felt like accumulation – small kindnesses, quiet rituals, effort made without certainty of reward.

Reflective, in the best way.

19/02/2026

Two dinners, one influencer, and a quiet test of taste.

First stop: Ogura Segashira for Miyazaki’s most famous local dish – chicken nanban. Bright, casual, family-diner energy. No English, not even in the digital tablet’s menu. We relied on photos.

The chicken arrived, firm and coated in a batter that was more marinade-soft than crisp, closer to Korean fried chicken. The sauce was sweet and tangy, well balanced. It made sense but it didn’t quite move us.

Part two: 鬼まで笑う馳走あり was cosier, more intimate. To get the waiter’s attention, we squeezed a rubber chicken at the table. That set the tone.

The black charcoal chicken, which was their signature, was tougher than we expected – almost rubbery. Even the skin had chew. We wondered why this was the dish locals swore by.

Then came the lettuce maki. Fresh. Sweet. Topped with uni, tobiko and ikura – seafood dialled up unapologetically. This was the dish we could most easily return for.

A simple salad arrived with our drinks – a small gesture that reminded us of Granada, where service is attentive and hospitality is quietly generous. When we left, they handed us warm cans of coffee for the January night.

Following a Japanese influencer’s recommendations across borders was interesting. Maybe our palates diverge. Maybe context matters. Food is subjective, especially when it’s local.

In the end, it’s always worth forming your own view.

18/02/2026

Our day in Miyazaki began at a small table outside uminoie coffee stand. Lattes and a portion of fish and chips on a bloody cold morning. Our fingers were so numb, Bridget couldn’t get her gloves back on properly. And yet, calm. Clarity. Blue water washing in. No rush to move.

We walked to Aoshima Island after, stepping across the Devil’s Washboard. Bridget moved lightly over the rocks while I tried to make the photos look intentional. The formations felt ancient and composed – nature doing geometry without asking for approval.

At Aoshima Shrine, we paused and threw clay discs for better luck in the year ahead. We landed a successful throw at Udo Jingu too, though we’re still waiting for the good fortune to materialise.

Lunch at UPPER YARD meant burgers – less conventional options topped with guacamole and salsa, and a triple cheese too photogenic to stay hidden under its bun.

Cape Toi was Bridget’s idea. Wild horses, supposedly descended from samurai stock since 1697. I was quietly sceptical at first, then less quietly so. She found that amusing. We eventually saw the horses. They were… horses. Slightly underwhelming. A lot of actual horse s**t to avoid on the grass.

History is often less cinematic in person. I suppose that was the point.

14/02/2026

We walked into GYUZO bettei from a January night in Miyazaki and let the grill do the talking. found this place. I just showed up hungry.

The ¥8,250 menu was the “entry” tier and already made a statement. It started with beef sushi, torched at the table, flame catching sauce, fat loosening into something buttery. A small, controlled explosion to set the tone.

Then the rhythm: namul. Single-slice vegetables (eggplant, pumpkin, mushroom) were a restrained palate reset. Thinly cut slices of beef tongue laid under a decadent arrangement of lemon slices.

Strip loin. Two special kalbi. Lean cuts that didn’t feel lean. At some point I stopped distinguishing and just paid attention to texture – marbling dissolving into heat.

A pork wiener showed up mid-sequence – comic relief that actually worked. We let the fat render down over the heat as the flavour tightened.

The yakisuki was the moment. A staff member changed our grill before draping a thin slice of Miyazaki-gyu over the hot charcoal, brushing it against the flame with the precision of someone who respects the ritual. It was then folded beside egg yolk and rice, almost ceremoniously. It had the perfect fat-to-meat ratio.

Cold naengmyeon in dashi followed. Clean, citrusy, and necessary.

Dessert was a single strawberry – no garnish or theatre, just confidence in the ingredient.

The price was steep but the standard was higher.

27/01/2026

Snow followed us most of the way from Fukuoka to Takachiho Gorge, thick enough to make the drive feel like a commitment. Then, just before we arrived, it stopped. The weather had done its dramatic scene-setting and stepped aside. The clouds thinned. A bit of sun found its way through.

From above, the gorge looks composed: dark water, columned rock, waterfalls stitched into the cliff. Up close, it’s less calm than it appears. You take your place in the slow choreography below, where everyone is trying to look serene while quietly negotiating currents, oars, and other people’s photo angles.

I had rowing duties. Bridget was navigator, alternating between confident instructions and the kind of direction that sounds suspiciously like hope. We edged towards the falls, sometimes in control, sometimes just letting the river decide for us — pulled forward, spun slightly, corrected, pulled again.

It’s a strange combination of effort and stillness: your shoulders working while the gorge does what it’s been doing for centuries, indifferent to your little blue boat.

The snow had cleared. The water didn’t care. For once, that felt like the point.

Eat Fly Drive

06/04/2026

05/04/2026

05/04/2026

05/04/2026

25/02/2026

24/02/2026

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27/01/2026

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