By late spring the fennel has bolted all along the trail that winds its way through the vineyards. Walk there towards evening and you will see, clinging to the long stems, countless little snails. I have a mind to gather a hundred or more of these caragolines and take them home as a gift for P. She would cook them the simple way, the way they do in Lleida, the way her mother taught her. She would bring them to the boil in fresh water, adding only a couple of bay leaves, a sprig of thyme, some salt and pepper. In ten minutes they would be ready. There is nothing, she says, as sweet as a caragolina that has gorged itself on fennel.

But P. is far away right now, so instead I will send her this photograph.

It will be the last thing I do today as I lie on our bed, ready to sleep. In the morning, over breakfast, she will open her iPad and there it will be. A reminder that I miss her and that I am holding on to the little things she brings to life, clinging to them like a caragolina.

A photograph as kiss, leaving on her lips the taste of fennel.