I remember how Jenny arranged the bowls of olives – some stuffed with anchovy paste, some with stones – and how that made me smile, how I watched her as she sucked the olives, leaving the stones in a small bowl on the coffee table. I like watching her. My memory of how we read and drank beer in small glasses and added ice cubes to the beer because it was so hot and it is the only way to drink beer in Spain. Everything was right and Jenny spoke to me in her gentle voice, full of happiness and it wasn’t nuanced with anything else. Her voice was earnest and it wasn’t caged one bit. I remember how she touched my hand when she put her glass down after taking a sip of cool beer and the pleasure of that touch.

I know that despite the mosquito bites and the way they drove me crazy everything was perfect. I know now, that it wasn’t difficult to measure perfection then. I remember we walked the paseo one evening when the sun was low in the sky and about to drop suddenly as it does in Spain and I wanted it to be special, and it was. I know all about the appreciation of simple things, the Spaniards ambling along the promenade stopping intermittently if they had something to say that they felt ought to be accentuated, such was the importance and how I loved the drama of it.

I remember we moved into a restaurant that had a kind of genuine simplicity at its core and this seemed to elevate Jenny’s spirits. She found it charming and I was absolutely delighted with myself. We ate pork chops with garlic and the meat was so tender and the strength of the garlic was evident but it wasn’t overpowering, not in any way, and I was struck again by the ability of the Spanish to turn basic ingredients into something really special. I recall asking Jenny if this was a symphony, was music food or as good as, and she said that with the right treatment it could be. I can taste the bottle of Rioja that we drank between us and I can feel the tranquillity of the restaurant.