I have arrived in Hamamatsu which lies on the east coast of Honshu, a bullet-hour south of the Tokyo skyline.

Although a city of 780,000, I knew nothing of Hamamatsu – a fact which tempers my outrage when the Japanese confuse Ireland with Scotland, and stare blankly at the mention of Dublin. A famous 1976 New Yorker cover, entitled A View Of The World From Ninth Avenue, parodied the cosmopolitan provincialism of Manhattan residents, by depicting 10th Avenue and the Hudson River as occupying most of the known world, with Kansas et al relegated to specks on the horizon.

Maybe this is true for us all.

Japan, for me, lies to the right of China, is subject to tsunamis and has a muse called Fuji. Here, then, is the limit of my knowledge.

But this anonymous city I am now in, Hamamatsu, is special to me in one respect.

In 2005, its emissary came into my home, and remained. This precious visitor has been a source of joy and creativity ever since.

***

My hotel is the tallest building on this coastal plain. The Japanese system responds well when you say what you want. I requested a nice view, and got the 37th floor, looking out on a mosaic of concrete and paddy fields all the way to the Pacific Ocean, which lies 7km away.

The sight is ur-Japan – industrious, pragmatic, urgent and, above all, future-focused. For all the talk of Zen in these parts, what I witness is bent more on creating value than on approaching Nirvana.

***

Last night, I shared a soft-foamed beer with an interesting man, who promptly ruined my buzz by telling me he was a dermatologist.

He looked with curious intensity as I spoke.

As likely examining my pores as my fine argument, thought I.

It turned out he had troubles of his own to occupy him. The practice of dermatology made him feel enormous pressure, and he was questioning whether he had entered the right profession.

Unlike in Europe, where exhaustion is the enemy of the ambitious medic, the Japanese hospital system offers fear as the principal obstacle; the fear of disappointing your patient, your boss or your employer.

He wanted to hear my view, and I spoke of the importance of diagnosing the problem clearly, then developing the self-awareness with which to deal with it.

He liked a phrase I used, and took out his phone to write it down. ‘Suffering is investment’, he repeated, as he typed.

They fail to teach us, as we prepare for the real world, that thriving does not mean perfecting. Each of us must find our road to contentedness – and there are difficult passages written in each man’s score.

***

It was an intense conversation – and I’ve had quite a few here.

Intensity is everywhere to be found, elevated to muse-status in this city. Hamamatsu has given birth to Suzuki, Yamaha and Kawai and these mega-businesses are major manufacturers of the region.

Each company is world-renowned for its musical instruments.

Musical motifs are sprinkled throughout the place Japan calls ‘The City of Music’. Although I think it would be more accurate to call this the city of ‘musical craft’ than of music itself. Unlike in Vienna, where there is a live gig around every bow, Hamamatsu is more about enabling great music than embodying it.

****

From my hotel room I can see where I will go in the morning.

Out at the coast, just north of the Tenryū river, lies the Kawai Piano Factory.

Sometime in the 1980s this place crafted piano serial #1722090, which I purchased in Dublin, as a second-hand instrument in 2005.

My piano is fully part of my home.

For years, I have looked at the word Kawai as I opened the top lid.

But until now, I have never given thought to the craft, the intensity, the expertise, indeed even the suffering of the people who brought my beloved emissary to life.

Tomorrow, I will meet some of them. I will spend two hours touring the Kawai piano factory. And I am all ears.