The village bar that sold itself to England

Until today, and the long-awaited arrival of the guests from England, the island of Awaji was one of the obscurest corners of one of the quietest parts of Japan. Its proudest moment was in legendary times when, as the ancient chronicles record, a god and goddess named Izanagi and Izanami descended to the island and formed a union there. They were the Adam and Eve of the Shinto religion; their offspring became the Japanese race. And after that nothing very much happened on Awaji for several thousand years.

In 1995, the Kobe earthquake caused widespread damage; three years later, the world's largest suspension bridge was opened, linking Awaji to the mainland. "There was a big flower show a couple of years ago," says Wasaburo Kashiwagi, the mayor of Tsuna town, racking his brains. "And, er, that's about it. The truth is that not all that much has ever really happened here." But if the ancient chroniclers were around today, they would be out in force to record the greatest excitement of Awaji's recent history.

In solemn and courtly Japanese, they would describe the convoy of coaches and police cars which made its way from the football stadium in Kobe and over the mighty bridge on to Awaji itself. Flags bearing the cross of St George have lined the roads for some time; banners of welcome, in English and Japanese, have been up for months. "England, do your best!" they say, and, "England Football Team, welcome to Tsuna town!" Over the next three weeks – and longer, if all goes well – Tsuna is the place which England will call home.

For Sven Goran Eriksson and his players there is a great deal at stake, but their anxieties are nothing compared to the nerves of the people of Awaji. The island, and particularly the town of Tsuna, have been preparing themselves for months. Teams of volunteers have dedicated their free time to welcoming the team. The whole event will cost more than half a million pounds. "It is a big, big moment in our history," says Mr Kashiwagi. "Until now, we have almost no experience of foreigners. Failure will be unforgivable."

Tsuna's unlikely relationship with England began last year, when volunteers were invited to host the training camps. Eighty-three towns offered themselves, including Tsuna, a small town on the east coast of Awaji where it always feels like Sunday afternoon. Few Japanese have heard of the place – if they have, it is because of a bizarre artefact: a giant gold bar, housed in a special museum which, for a few years, was the biggest in the world. But there are other handy attractions nearby: a large and luxurious hotel, the Westin Awaji Island, designed by the world-famous architect Tadao Ando; two airports within easy reach; and the town's strongest selling point – its smooth and springy football pitch, of a quality well beyond the requirements of the few local teams to have played there.

Last August, representatives of Camer-oon, Nigeria and Tunisia, as well as David Davies of the English Football Association, visited Tsuna on an inspection tour. The official request from the FA came a week later. "We raised our hands because we wanted to show off our nice pitch," says Mr Kashiwagi. "We thought we'd be lucky to attract any team. But we never dreamed of a team like England."

Several nervous months followed. For a start, England had to qualify for the tournament, then came the draw to decide where they would play their first-round matches. A framed photograph in the mayor's office captures the moment in December when England were drawn to play in Japan, rather than in South Korea, and Tsuna knew that it had its prize. Mr Kashiwagi is pictured, surrounded by Japanese photographers and TV crews, with an England flag in one hand, and an expression of rapture on his face. "It was as if I was jumping up to heaven," he says, a Japanese expression that can only be translated as, "I was over the moon".

The selection process for the training camps has attracted much whispered comment in Japan, and for a simple reason – rather than accepting bids from the national teams, the host towns are paying for the privilege of putting them up. In England's case, the sum in question is reported to have been 12 million yen, about £65,000. There is no suggestion that this was anything other than a transparent business transaction – although other, poorer teams are rumoured to have demanded (and received) vast sums via shadowy Japanese middlemen: free accommodation, complimentary flights, appearance money and straightforward bribes. "But people from England are always gentlemen," Mr Kashiwagi says. "They never ask anything unreasonable."

And yet the whole enterprise is staggeringly costly. The biggest single item is security. Even by Japan's exceptionally law-abiding standards, Tsuna is a quiet place – in the whole town there are just 10 police officers. England, however, require protection not only from overenthusiastic fans but from the threat of terrorism from land, air or sea. Apart from the special anti-terrorist police who will come in from outside, little Tsuna has to foot the bill for private security guards around the training ground and the Westin Hotel. High screens are being built around the pitch to block the view of spies from rival teams. On its own initiative, the town spent tens of thousands of pounds on a brand new clubhouse, only to be told that England had no need of it. "The cost will be atrocious," says Mr Kashiwagi. "I'm really worried."

But he has one thing to fall back on – Tsuna's pride and joy, the famous gold bar. In the late 1980s, at the height of Japan's so-called "bubble economy", when the country had more money than it knew what to do with, the government came up with an extraordinary plan to give 100 million yen (then about US$1m) to every town in Japan. All over the country, in the most insignificant communities, are the fruits of this extravagance: huge concert halls in tiny hamlets, enormous and unnecessary bridges spanning minute rivers. But Mr Kashiwagi and his councillors had a better idea: they spent the entire sum on gold ingots.

The biggest, weighing 63kg, was housed in a special museum and, for several years, coach parties from all over the country would arrive to touch, stroke and photograph it. It is no longer the world's largest, and the visitors have fallen off drastically in recent years. But, by lucky coincidence, the value of Tsuna's gold is almost exactly what the town expects to spend on England – 100 million yen, or about £550,000. "The reason we decided we could afford to have England is because of the gold bar," says the mayor. "The truth is that we may have to say goodbye to our treasure." How does that make him feel? "Lonely," he says.

But in spending the money, the town is having about as much fun as you can in a place with no cinema and a couple of karaoke bars. Fan groups have been organised, including the "Cute Supporters", a corps of toddlers who sing Disney songs dressed in St George's Cross smocks and soccer-ball caps. Calligraphers have created plaques bearing the names of the team members in Japanese characters: Suven Gouran Erikuson, Debiddo Bekkamu and Maikeru Ouen. Shinto priests have recited prayers for England's success, and there have been numerous games of kemari – a Pythonesque medieval Japanese version of football, played by men in loose-fitting kimonos. And an England Football Museum has been founded to preserve the excitement for future generations.

Early this morning, Mayor Kashiwagi was leading a convoy of dignitaries and local people to Kobe for England's friendly against Cameroon. A group of ladies were presenting 70 hand-stitched flags, and after all this it will be up to England to make the whole thing worthwhile.

"But this is something that we cannot measure by economics," the mayor says. "Superstars like Beckham will walk here – they will leave their footprints in the sand. People from many countries will come here. They will learn about the town of Tsuna, and they will carry its name all across the world."