Sunday afternoon. As it is sunny and rather warm out there, I am reading indoors. A few windows and doors are left open ajar. At some point I hear something like a moan coming from under my terrace. I push the book aside when I hear another long moan. When the plaintive sound becomes insistent, I get up from the dining table and walk out to the terrace. As it turns out, there is no-one in my garden. The sound comes from the thick woods beyond. It is not a moan, either. An elderly peasant, most likely tipsy after a hearty meal and a few generous glasses of wine, is yelping in a cheerful sort of way. He seems to be calling someone. Then I hear a goat-like voice of a peasant woman, too. It is much fainter than his, but she seems to be on the elderly side, as well. His deep, guttural yapping turns into a throaty guffaw. Her high-pitched squeal responds in kind. Yes, they are howling with laughter. The peasants are having fun. Do I know them? I wonder. Their inarticulate voices seem to be reaching me from centuries ago. Pieter Breugel the Elder comes to mind out of the blue. Squat bodies, rosy cheeks, chunky hands, bent legs, funny hats, clunky shoes… Of course, I cannot possibly know the peasants down the Motovun hill.