Looking from my terrace on the Motovun hill, some vineyards on the much lower Brkač hill are burning so red in the afternoon sun that I am left wondering day after day: have they been picked earlier than the vineyards that are still glowing green, or are they sheltering a different sort of grape, or have they been abandoned a season or maybe two ago? I know that this is hardly a mystery for many a wine maker in either Brkač or Motovun, who would know exactly what is going on at first glance of the spectacle, but I cannot hope that they will chance upon my terrace when the sunlight is just right to see what has been puzzling me for days. Nonetheless, I find some pleasure in the fact that the mystery is perhaps only my own. Protected by idleness, mine is the best kind of mystery of all.