This morning the Hill path glittered as if someone had spilled a handful of crushed stars across the grass. I only meant to fetch a bit of air and check the post, but the cold had a way of making every ordinary thing look freshly made.
The Party Tree stood out in the distance, all quiet branches and patient bark, and the lane below was rimmed with silver where the frost had settled. In Middle Earth, even comfort has its seasons — and it does a hobbit good to remember that home is not always warm, only always there.
I took my mug back inside and set it by the kettle, feeling rather pleased with the world for behaving itself. After all, as I once wrote, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit" — and on mornings like this, the hole feels like the best possible answer to any question the Road might ask.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End