Sunday mornings in the Shire are made for unhurried things: a kettle that knows its duty, a slice of seed-cake that does not pretend to be grand, and a window full of soft rain. Yet I found myself setting my old walking-boots neatly by the round green door, as if the Road might come knocking before the tea was poured.
It is a curious trick of the heart, is it not? One may be perfectly content in a warm chair, and still take comfort in being ready. Not ready for dragons (good gracious, no), but ready for the smaller adventures of Middle Earth: a kind errand, a brisk walk to clear the head, a visit to someone who ought not to be left alone with the weather.
I remembered how the first step out of Bag End felt — the latch behind me, the Hill sloping away, and the thought that I might have turned back if I had lingered one heartbeat longer. “The Road goes ever on and on…” is a fine line for songs, but it is also a reminder: even on a quiet day, the Road begins with a pair of boots and the decision to put them on.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End