‘The life of a composer is basically a long journey of discovery, with no destination.’

My encounter with George Benjamin was postponed twice because of building work in his north-west London house taking longer than anticipated. He offered to be interviewed somewhere nearby, perhaps a café, but I preferred to wait until I could meet him on home territory, partly because I was curious to see where he lives and works and partly because I suspected that he would be more relaxed there. When I eventually visited him in December 2013 the work was virtually complete, and the interview took place in the new ground-floor extension to the back of the house, a living space so substantial as to generate a slight echo as we talked. It was the end of the afternoon, and he looked tired. He was also struggling against a cold. But tea was made, chocolate biscuits were brought out and we chatted across the new kitchen table.

Having never met him before, I had no idea whether his personality still resembles that of the prodigiously talented youngster who at fifteen commuted to Paris to study with Messiaen and Yvonne Loriod and who the following year signed a publishing contract with Faber Music. But what soon became clear is that he's the most articulate of interviewees. The majority of his utterances emerged beautifully phrased and soothingly modulated, as though he was paraphrasing a lecture that he’d given many times rather than spontaneously answering questions with little preparation. And so most of the editing of our conversation for this chapter involved reordering material and deleting what there wasn't room for, not clarifying verbal confusion or hesitancy.

What I hope the editing conveys is that he spoke with both authority and passion – not the infectious, bubbling passion observed by interviewers in the 1980s but a calmer, more reasoned version of it. When he emphasised points that he felt particularly strongly about, the pitch of his voice rose and he raised his eyes to the middle distance like a parson offering a glimpse of the ineffable during a sermon. Yet he was able to use the words ‘enchantment’ and ‘majesty’ without appearing remotely old-fashioned or quaint. It seems that my experience of him was typical, because he's invariably described by interviewers as talkative, inquisitive, genial, unassuming, intense, softly spoken and occasionally unable to prevent himself from breaking into laughter.