We took part in a blindfolded Soundwalk in Dulwich, led by Jose Macabre. It was a novel exercise for me, attempting to reach a meditative, focused listening state. The quietest sounds were distant, indiscernible voices, the soft wind in the trees. In the busier park I could hear children, curious about our weird procession. Twice I heard chimes to my right and left. Booming thunder on the periphery, followed by a shimmering downpour. Particularly harsh, high-pitched birdsong and alarm calls. I could hear the regularly scheduled air traffic roaring low overhead, passing from right to left, drowning out everything else. Our footsteps a constant reminder of the communion of the activity; hard to stay mindful without solitude or stillness. Hearing other students’ feedback made me think how rare it is for many to hear birdsong with clarity, which made me a little sad. Where I live, the wind in the trees, falling rain in the woods, and birdsong are all not just common, but expected sounds. Experientially, deeply listening to these familiar sounds being interrupted or drowned out by the voices of strangers, traffic and low-flying jets was a little uncanny and disquieting. I felt each unexpected urban sound to be almost intrusive, violent. I have always had difficulty embracing discomfort and seeing it objectively. The causes, urban noise, my brain being distracted by walking unsteadily linked to someone I didn’t know, made me feel some aural disconnect from my surroundings. Perhaps out in the world, seeing is believing? I connected the softest sound; the immediate, frontal rustling of clothes and shoes, to the loudest; thunderous rain and planes above, in an immersive, spatial experience.