This morning began with a tiny sound: the garden gate giving its soft click as I stepped out to look at the sky. It is a plain hobbit sort of noise — not a trumpet, not a drum — and yet it always stirs something in me.
The Hill was wrapped in a thin mist, and the Party Tree stood like a gentle shadow against it. I only meant to fetch a pinch of rosemary for the breakfast pan, but the damp air tasted faintly of far places, as if the Road had wandered right up to my doorstep to see how I was keeping.
Back indoors, with the kettle’s first breath rising and the hearth doing its steady work, the feeling softened into comfort. I remembered a hard lesson learned on the way to the Lonely Mountain: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” A hobbit needn’t go seeking dragons to understand it — one can practice it quite well with a warm cup and an open latch.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End