Sitting in the shade of four ancient oaks that shelter a small church on top of Motovun’s neighboring hill. People here call it Šubijent or Šubijenta, but the name is not on any map I have seen. At best, a map gives the hill’s height—three-hundred and fifty-two meters. Compared to Motovun’s two-hundred and seventy-seven, this is quite a hill, too. But the best part of today’s “climb” was the number of people who greeted me on the road between Motovun and Pazin, which skirts both hills. Some waved, some honked, and some stopped to give me a ride. One of those who stopped was the Motovun priest, who was on his way to Rovinj. I declined all offers, of course. My explanation that I just enjoyed walking was met with so many shy smiles. Why would anyone walk for fun? What kind of fun could walking ever be? Soon enough they will leave me alone, though. It will take them a few more months to get used to another nut in town.