Every now and then, clusters of tourists slow down by the green bowl between the hills. They stand over the rim for a few minutes, either puzzled or in delight, before walking down to the field. The grass is so dry it scratches at the ankles, and the sun is ruthless, but that doesn’t bother the men in white. Their cries of “Howzzat?” echo past the surrounding vineyards, caressing the still sour grapes. Along the boundary the tourists ask, “Cricket in Croatia?”

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