The Shire is quiet this morning, but I have set a new book upon the desk all the same. It is a curious thing, beginning again: the same ink, the same hand, and yet the road feels different every time.
If you are reading this, consider it an open door and a warm fire — though do wipe your feet on the mat. There will be small notes here most days: a line from the road, a thought from Bag End, and now and then a memory of trolls, riddles, barrels, or dragons (for I have had my fill of all four).
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End