It had been a pleasant journey from Pincup, in the Green Hill Country, south to Longbottom. The weather was mild, the days sunny, affording ample opportunity for a wandering hobbit to capture the countryside in word and sketch.
Holly Stoor had walked the road out of Longbottom early yesterday morning at a comfortable pace, stopping whenever something caught her eye - dogtooth violets in the shade of a tree, the red chevron against the black wing of a bird, the soft sighing of pines as they bent in a morning breeze. Her worn chapbook would soon find its way, open, into her left hand, shortly followed by the stick of hard charcoal tucked over her right ear into her right hand. Soon a small, detailed sketch would emerge on the vellum. Later, when she paused to eat or make camp, the same sketch would prompt a short line of description or perhaps a poem capturing that moment of the journey.
Having replenished her supply of pipeweed today from a grower near Longbottom, and picked up a few staples from farmers along the way, she hoped to make the Brandywine by mid to late afternoon, and cross it at the Sarn Ford.
She was in sight of the Ford, when her pony, Periwinkle, nickered at her, stopped abruptly, and shook her mane. The small load of equipment she was carrying had gone askew. Holly took a few moments to readjust and secure the load, and then headed down to the water.
She and Peri crossed the river slowly to its east bank, clambered out, and continued on down toward the Greenway.
When she got to the intersection of the road from the Ford and the Greenway, there were a number of big people conversing in the road. So intent were they on their conversation that they did not notice her approach.
Tapping one politely on the back, she asked him, as he turned toward her and looked down, 'Excuse me, sir, might we pass?'
[ July 01, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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