Coming from the Alhambra in Granada, it has the stars and shapes characteristic of Arabic art on the front, that visually arresting pattern stamped over Toledo, in particular, and other parts of Spain. On the back, a dedication from Catalina, the longtime Spanish partner of my friend from school.

On my bookshelf – between the uniform beauty of the Penguin classics, the pocketbook-sized poetry collections and the hefty tomes of photography – lie six battered books from another continent, another lifetime. Apart from their tattiness, they share another detail: they were all put out by a publishing company called Signet during the 1960s. At the back of these books, a ‘further reading’ section advertises plodding novels that were mediocre then and which are forgotten now, while the modern reader can take a gamble by writing to their postal address, now presumably defunct, to see who replies, if at all.

The tiny bar could fit, at best, 20 people. There was space, however, for around 60 craft beers from around the world, advertised on a crude, printed-out sign. The bitterness and alcohol content were visible, as were labels like IPA and ‘Irish stout style’.