There is a particular sort of morning in the Shire when the air feels rinsed and honest. The sky is pale as fresh cream, and the first thing you notice is not the cold, but the smoke — thin, steady lines rising from chimneys as if the whole neighborhood has agreed to put the kettle on at once.
I stood a moment at my round green door and watched it drift over the Hill, and I felt the old Road stir in me — not as a shove, but as a gentle clearing of the throat. It is a comfort, really, to remember that Middle Earth holds both: the far mountains and the familiar peg where one’s scarf always hangs.
A hobbit’s courage is often a very domestic thing. It begins with warm hands around a cup, a good latch that closes properly, and the thought (quiet as smoke) that one might be equal to what the day asks. I have written it before and still find it true: “I think I am quite ready for another adventure.”
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End