Following tradition, Grožnjan welcomed me with church bells. I arrived exactly at noon. It took me a bit less than three hours from Motovun. I walked west along the river to Ponte Porton, where Venetian barges used to wait for the afternoon wind that would take them up Mirna or Quieto, which used to be navigable past Motovun. At Ponte Porton I turned north and walked up the hill to Grožnjan. Now I am waiting for my lunch. As I have to walk back home, I ordered beans. Following tradition, once again.

Addendum (September 28, 2003)

“This is too much,” wrote Karmela Cvitanović when she read this piece, which I sent around as an electronic postcard when I returned home yesterday afternoon. She lives in Bataji, a hamlet in the foothills of Motovun, and so she knows the area pretty well. According to the map, there are about seventeen kilometers to Grožnjan along the route I took. Much of it is rough. A good portion of the way I walked on the dyke running parallel to the river. Only tractors go that way. One way or another, I strained a ligament in my knee, which became clear to me only after lunch. As I walked back, the knee hurt more and more. From Ponte Porton, I walked on the other side of the river along a road that twists its way around the Motovun forest, the quarry of delicious white and black truffles. By the time I reached Livade, only a few kilometers from Motovun, I realized that walking up the hill would be silly. My knee was hurting quite a bit. I could barely walk. I called Rajko Radovanović, who lives in the hills above Livade, and he gave me a ride home in his pickup truck. All together, I walked about thirty-two kilometers, and a good portion of it I walked with a bad knee. This will teach me a lesson, for sure. But the funny thing about my injury is that it does not prevent me from sitting crosslegged. In fact, this position feels rather soothing.