Although the end of the tourist season is nigh, busloads of tourists still pour into Motovun. Wherever you may be around town, every twenty minutes or so there traipses past you a gaggle of babbling people dressed in colorful clothing and carrying cameras of all sorts. The poor things always stick close to their guides lest they get lost among narrow streets. For some reason, which has been explained to me a while ago but which I have quickly forgotten, the first buses of the day are always full of the oldest tourists. Many of them are in their eighties. They have hard time climbing all the way to the top, but even more of them get into real trouble getting back down. You can see them holding on to each other, looking around in utter confusion, calling each other… Most of the old-timers are overweight, few of them have sensible shoes, and a fair number of the unfortunates among them keep themselves up with the help of canes, umbrellas, foldable chairs, crutches, and Zimmer frames. The only service they demand of the town is toilets, and plenty of them, which goes a long way to explain their popular nickname here and elsewhere in Istria: the hockey-players.