Much of the morning Motovun was shrouded by thick, creamy fog. By noon, the mist slowly tumbled into the valley, where it kept swirling hither and thither most of the afternoon. Now this and now that hilltop poked through the froth, but never for long. It is evening, and the fog is creeping upwards. It is billowing below my terrace already. By nightfall, it will swallow the entire town once again. And it is nothing but blind trust that the valley is still there, and that it will stay there unharmed through the long autumn night.