Sat in a corner of Queen’s Wood is my favourite bench. It almost has a view, across a dip in the terrain, hemmed in by beech, oak and hornbeam, a wide swell of green. I shan’t tell you exactly which corner my bench sits in (and, no, it isn’t the coordinates you see above).

The bench isn’t exactly comfy, but that semi-view and those arboreal ramparts provide a seclusion that is. I can ease into this place. I enjoy ambling my way through Queen’s Wood – figures of 8 along the trails that have been flattened into existence over the years – and I always find myself back at this spot. It’s my spot for just sitting, whether thoughts come and go or don’t arrive at all.

Today is a sunny September Saturday. Beech leaves illuminated. Dry underfoot.

As usual, I listen to something whilst I find my way there. But, once I sit down, I instinctively take my headphones out. Within moments of being there, it occurs to me that I should try to meditate – something I’ve thought and talked of doing, but never quite allowed to happen. I know I’m supposed to start by focussing on my breathing, but within a minute tell myself I’m doing it all wrong (in and out through my nose, no, no). If I can’t even do the breathing bit right, how do I do the rest of it?

So I won’t listen to my breathing. I’ll listen to the woods instead. Pigeons, the light breeze through the trees, acorns bouncing as they drop to earth. Then the planes. This ancient woodland, formerly part of the Forest of Middlesex, is mentioned in the Domesday Book. Now it’s on the flight path that loops towards Heathrow. Every few minutes they cross overhead, distracting me each time. Where is that one arriving from? That one ghosting north-easterly at higher altitude, where’s that one going? Northern Europe to North America…

So I’ll stop listening and I’ll give up attempting to meditate. I’ll just think instead.

45 minutes later, the pins and needles strike. Three-quarters of an hour? I’m not entirely sure what I’ve been thinking about. Have I been thinking? The odd dog-walker must have past by, but what have I been staring at all this time? Does it count as meditating if I don’t know if I was meditating? Does it matter? How do I feel? Neutral. Emotionless. Which is strange. Slightly unsettling. Should I be unsettled? Is that what is supposed to happen? I should head home.

I plot a route home that should take 20 minutes give or take. Despite the early-autumn sunshine it’s surprisingly lacking in people out. Crossing Priory Park the numbers start to pick up, mostly families sat on picnic rugs, and I realise that I haven’t said a word to anyone for some 20 hours. It’ll probably be another – count them – 40 before my next conversation, which will take place on a laptop screen. It’s not lost on me that this edition of Ramblelogue is likely an attempt to fill that void, or is the void that needs filling the one that came into existence on my favourite bench?