Whenever I sit on the hotel terrace, I feel that something is missing there. It is a funny feeling, but it is unmistakable nonetheless. There are seven chestnut trees on the terrace at this point, but I can tell that there used to be more of them. And not so long ago. The hole in the tangled crowns to the west of the terrace is an obvious witness to at least one missing chestnut tree, anyway. Having just spent more than an hour on the terrace, though, this afternoon I am convinced that no less than two chestnut trees are actually missing. One was to the northwest, the other to the southwest. The crowns of the remaining trees have adjusted to the loss, but the adjustment is obvious enough. Indeed, the unusually long branches on some of the remaining trees are a dead giveaway. Which is how I can also tell the sequence of the demise. The one to the northwest went first. To my chagrin, though, there is no-one in Motovun I can talk to about the loss. Or, to put it a bit more cheerfully, the nine chestnut trees of old.