Puigcerdà. In the evening we eat at the Taverna d’en Santa, starting with a half tomato each. A beefsteak tomato: drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, speckled with sea salt and freshly milled pepper, the four slices cover a dinner plate. There are few pips, no cavities: it is flesh incarnate. It is red, the kind of red tomato which doesn’t exist in northern Europe. Red throughout, blood red, not pink in places, not white nor green near the calyx. Not a tomato which has seen the sun through dark glasses, it is as sunburnt as an unwary tourist. But redder. And it tastes of tomato. There is nothing insipid about it; it is acid and sweet at the same time. Savoury. Succulent. It tastes of the Mediterranean. Of home.