If I told my young self about where I live now, she would be glad to know that I have my own room and lots of nice My Little Ponies. She might find it vaguely distasteful that I am married, but then, so do I. “He’s a nice boy,” I would reassure her.

She would be impressed that I live in York. She has an intense imagination, and the romance of old things appeals to her. My flat is between the city wall and the River Ouse. She would like the medieval church and the crumbling graveyards, and the fact that I pass the site of a motte and bailey castle built by William the Conqueror on my way to buy onions. I take my kitchen scraps out to a compost heap in a community garden where a Roman villa once stood. And that’s just in my neighbourhood.

One of the most magnificent cathedrals in Europe is about a 15 minute walk away, depending upon how many tourists I have to weave around. I look at the minster and I tell myself how wonderful it is, but I no longer feel it. It is grey to me now, and not because of the North Yorkshire weather. I don’t see it with fresh eyes. “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s mind there are few,” said Shunryu Suzuki.

Yet as much as long to look up and experience this soaring Gothic stone for the first time again, these things can’t be forced. I would do well to take my young self with me when I go out, so I don’t get too complacent, or forget to be grateful, or stop wondering what I will find around the next corner. After the sun goes down we can tell stories about all the things we’ve seen and make up stories about the things we haven’t. The ponies will be thrilled.