From the top of Motovun, the landscape rolls out like crumpled fabric. Olive groves line up in neat tufts, vineyards are tight braids. All of it looks like an illustration, like something you could cup in your hand.
According to the old fables, giants built this land; tossing hammers from hilltop to hilltop, plowing the Mirna river that cuts across the valley. These were friendly giants, protecting people by uprooting trees to use as brooms to sweep back invaders. “So, where are the giants now?” The boys wonder as they rest their chins on the old city walls. I shrug, “Humans drove them away.” They both whip their heads in alarm. “Why!?” They ask. I shrug again, because saying I don’t know is easier than explaining that it’s what people do. We walk further along the wall. “It’s just a fairytale,” my oldest reassures us.
But honestly, 10 days in Motovun and you wonder, is it? On our morning walks we found dragons made of hay and fawns watching wide-eyed as they hid behind the scrub. We picked blue plums, and licked the juice that ran to our elbows. We waved to paragliders who kayaked through the sky at eye level, and then we waved to the puffs of clouds that had snagged themselves in the trees below.
It doesn’t take long looking down on the world like that to feel that there are giants in Motovun, and you’re one of them.
Essayette 