Back in the late 1980s, I remember reading about the demise of vinyl. For some reason, I felt sad about the changes that were coming and apprehension about how we were going to experience music in the future. Although, the fast technological advances in the music world seemed a good thing - the smooth, clear power of the CD player; the pleasingly compact iPod; then your whole catalogue on an iPhone. You could listen to music anywhere.

For a while, vinyl was cast out into the wilderness, but gradually, records have been making a comeback. Now a 1.8-billion-dollar industry, the folks behind the numbers tells us that by 2032, the global vinyl industry will be worth nearly double this. And it’s not just the Baby Boomers and Generation X fuelling this surge, but the Millennials and Gen Z, too; Taylor Swift has single-handedly raised vinyl sales to a high not seen for 30 years. I find this reassuring.

There are many reasons why we love vinyl. Nostalgia may play a part with the older generation; novelty a small part for the young. But I believe the real reason goes deeper – for all the gazillion pound investment in digital music, no-one has yet managed to mimic the dynamic richness, depth and soul of vinyl. Vinyl is not merely a retro regression; nor is it a fad. It is the aural equivalent of a meal lovingly prepared with home grown produce; the positive vibrations are subtle but significant.

But the experience of vinyl starts way before the listening. The joy is in the searching and the acquisition. Entering through the door of a record shop with the feeling that you know you belong there. The hours spent thumbing through albums, meandering around the aisles and the different genres, often not quite knowing what you are going to buy, then the quiet excitement as you leave the shop with a new discovery or a longed for find.

My first investment came in the late winter of 1979. I spent it hunkered down over my Heart of Glass 7”, bought with my own hard earned pocket money. I must have played it approximately 123 times – it was like a fairground ride I wanted to go on again and again. It remains one of my most cherished and vivid memories from childhood, listening and gazing in wonder at the label wondering who these magnificent people were.

In contrast, the ritual of playing an album is a meditative process that is soothing to the mind. It requires attention. Sliding the glossy black disc out of its sleeve, checking for scratches, carefully placing it on the spindle, the satisfying fuzzy crunch as the needle connects, and you then settle back to gaze at the cover and read the notes.

You also own the physical thing and it’s just you and it; it’s wholly private and direct. It doesn’t need a password and there’s no fear of an ad jumping in afterwards to shatter the lingering effect of its magic.

When it’s finished, it’s just your own thoughts and feelings, and silence.