It was an irresistible afternoon, the gorgeously seductive late summer / early-autumn sunlight inviting me to come play in the woods… how could I refuse? So I grabbed some wild garlic bulbs and a trowel and hied me to the dappled paradise. Work could wait, at least for a couple of hours.

Bulb planting is an absorbing experience. You don’t look up much. Your zone of attention narrows to a few centimetres. Little else exists.

But there was something else.

It was a tickle, a slight disturbance on the back of my hand; less than a breeze but more than a falling leaf.

An itch?

No, more sensual than that.

And… moist.

I refocused from the bulb-in-question and found…

A large snail.

Gently but with great determination mounting the back of my right hand.

I could feel his mouth gently probing and exploring.

It wasn’t unpleasant at all.

At my wrist-line now, his eyestalks taking me in.

We thought about each other for a while.

He knew that I knew he was there, no question. An incalculably large animal, perhaps fierce, perhaps a snail-eater.

But he was still climbing.

Because – I was there.

Total respect, little snail. Had our roles been reversed, I would not be so plucky.

I let him conquer my right arm, a Matterhorn of the molluscan world, sliver slime trail in his wake.

At shoulder height, I balked.

There’s something odd about the idea of a man walking around with a snail on his shoulder.

Parrots, well yes. Cats, even: I’ve seen them doing that in Regent’s Park.

But not a snail. Neither of us would get the respect we rightly deserve.

Gently, I lifted him down. And he crawled away.

With a story to tell his grand-kids.