When I woke up this morning and opened the shutters on my bedroom window, it was obvious that the bora was blowing hard. The sky was sparkling blue, and so was the sea in the distance. There was not a trace of vapor in the air. The Mirna valley looked crisp and clean. And so I went to the hotel terrace after my morning ablutions. Indeed, it was strewn with chestnuts and segments of spiny burs in which they grow. I started collecting them at once only to sling them into the woods under my terrace upon my return home (“Helping the Chestnut Trees,” September 29, 2013). Gusts of strong wind shook ever more chestnuts out of the trees around me. The sound of cracking burs and rolling chestnuts made me smile every so often. And then one of them landed on my head. The bur cracked open after the impact, and a large chestnut bounced off my head. It rolled on the concrete terrace floor, and it finally came to a stop a few paces away from me. Delighted, I laughed out loud as I stepped toward it and bent down to collect it. This was my first. After a few years of helping the chestnut trees, I took the hit as thanks of sorts. Would that this particular chestnut sprung to life in its new abode, I thought. Yes, I was getting sentimental.