Storms are real in Motovun. They are here. Right here, next to one’s flushed cheek. They are everywhere. One is in danger and one feels it. Bolted inside, lips parted slightly, one tracks every sound with due care. And respect, too. The rattling and creaking, the howling and groaning, the whistling and squeaking, the shaking… Storms are storms in Motovun. And no kidding.