Four gates, and the streets cross in the middle. Nagasaki's Shinchi Chinatown has an unusually definite shape: gates at each of its four approaches and, inside them, two streets meeting at right angles in the centre. The paving marks the boundary, so you know underfoot at exactly which point you have entered it and at which point you have left. Alongside the restaurants there are grocers, and people buying dumpling wrappers and dried goods walk through the visitors without any particular ceremony or self-consciousness about it. The quarter is small enough to cross in a few minutes, and that compactness is most of what makes it pleasant to be inside. Being unable to get lost turns out to be an underrated quality in a district that has any history at all. The ground it stands on was reclaimed for the trade, which is why the shape is so regular.

Trams handle movement around the city, and the harbour and the hillside housing are both close by in different directions. The slopes are steep and living here means accepting them as a daily condition rather than a feature.

A district with an unambiguous edge is easy to understand from outside and from within, which is rarer than it sounds. The Chinese community here is among the oldest in the country and predates the opening of the other treaty ports by a long way. Champon and sara-udon were invented in this city for students who needed feeding cheaply, which is not a romantic origin. The lanterns that fill the quarter in winter are recent and enormously popular. What is enjoyable about this one is precisely that clarity — four gates, two streets, and no argument at all about where you are.