Sitting at Marko’s on the lower square has long been a great joy. I can see everything from my favorite table by the restaurant door. To my left is the upper gate leading to the upper square, the loggia, and the beginning of Borgo. To my right is the lower gate leading to Gradiziol and Barbacan. As of late, the joy is so much greater on account of a fellow who plays bagpipes by the lower gate. There is a cardboard box in front of him for donations, which he promptly drinks up at Klaudio’s. Made from the entire skin of a goat, the instrument still sports the four legs. Its sound is no less than divine, though. I can sit at Marko’s, sip his Teran, stare toward the Adriatic to the west of Motovun, and listen to the bagpipes for hours and hours. It takes me back by thousands of years. And I feel at home. There are but a few instruments that can do the trick for me, but bagpipes are definitely among them.