As I write, it is week four – possibly five? – of the coronavirus-induced lockdown. I cannot measure out my life in coffee spoons, as I do not have one of those fancy espresso machines, but nevertheless there are the daily routines of tea and biscuits, stroking the cat, ignoring emails and then, finally, working. Usually after I have found and considered random things around the house: a lanyard that belongs to the past; a book I hated, stuffed under a piece of furniture.

At some point in the day, I make my escape. I head towards space that is open and green; towards water, which knows nothing of the interruption to ordinary life. I live near a park with a small boating lake – more of a puddle with airs and graces and pedalos; a baseball pitch, which if it could talk would be in a faux-Boston drawl; a running track; and an outdoor gym, which is currently taped off. It’s not a gym as such, more pieces of metal for men with equal-sized egos and biceps, but that’s OK. I sort of miss them now.

I enjoy the sportiness of this park. I often take a few minutes to watch the convivial backslaps of teammates. And no matter how old I get, I will never stop gatecrashing kids with footballs. Whether in the dusty streets of Havana or the alleys of northern towns, I will impose myself in a way that is utterly undignified.

I long for the netless goal frames on a heath too far away to visit frequently, and I ache for its woods and swimming pond. I miss all the dogs. We are no longer allowed to pet dogs and I am not sure how to explain that, except to say that it instantly calls to mind the opening lines of Ford Madox Ford’s novel The Good Soldier (“This is the saddest story I have ever heard”). I can still indulge in that other great social pleasure of the parks, the smile and nod at benevolent strangers. It is odd that, because of what is happening in the world, small talk is now inescapably of very big things indeed.

Much has been made of the drop in pollution. The decrease in noise and the increase in quiet. It is palpable. I can hear the flap of birds’ wings. The fizz of bike chains. The crunch of gravel underfoot. Gone, though, is the chatter and scraping of chairs in cafes.

The incongruity of parks is that they are where one can go simultaneously to have time alone and feel part of a community. That is a neat magic trick. Lockdown has focused the mind on the things we miss most, the things we cannot do and the places we cannot go. Sometimes… the grass really is greener.