It is so hot and muggy that I am spending most of my afternoon in the dense shade of chestnut trees on the hotel terrace. From where I am sitting, the Mirna valley is barely visible in the haze. Even though all the shutters on my house are closed, it is too hot and muggy at home for anything but slumber. And the afternoon is too long in midsummer for such an expedient. Anyhow, two British couples with four kids of all ages are sitting not far from my table. One of the boys of fourteen or fifteen is wearing a thick woolen hat. It is pulled over his ears, too. Whenever my glance chances upon that stupendous hat, I shudder. In these parts, it would be too much even in midwinter. And so it takes me almost an hour to see the other side of the hat, as it were. Our youth is still capable of stunning feats, but there is little that impresses them as worth their trouble. Wearing that woolen hat for a day in this weather is equivalent to, say, pulling a loaded mule up a steep mountain for two days. And it could be loaded with ammunition for a whole garrison.