There are many places I could begin to tell the tale of my friends, the group known as the 'Shire Strollers.' The proper beginning was well before our tweens, way back when we used to play at adventures as small ones, strolling around each others gardens. Then, when we got a bit older, we would stroll to the village center, or to the edge of some large fields, or maybe even to the edge of the forest. We were always together. We always had a few of our dogs with us.
And then, as we got near our tweens, some no longer wanted to play with us. We lost some friends to other hobbies, and less adventures. But we few in Tighfield kept a close bond. At that time it was Tolbold, Sarno, Bertran and myself. As more time passed, Gaisarix joined us, and Tollu, Tolbold's very old uncle. He could never stroll as fast as us, but he could easily travel as far, particularly if there was a good Tavern at the end. Uncle Tollu knew many of the byways, the short cuts it they were needed, the best places for picnics. He was, and still is, a treasure. Not so many of the old folk would do a proper walk with the Tweens.
Then we were almost old folk ourselves, well, we were past thirty-three summers, and were about our own homes and families. Many of us were, but for some reason or another few of our Strollers wed, unlike the usual custom of wedding young. We kept on strolling, we certainly kept on eating and drinking, and were well known for our good reviews of local establishments. And we yawned. Sometimes with boredom at having to listen to stories many hours long, sometimes to hearing the same tale for the hundredth time. In those days most Taverns had story tellers to entertain. There are fewer now, the same few do all the rounds. But the best yawn was the first of the day, standing on your doorstep and filling your lungs with good, Shire air, and the last yawn as you snuggled under your covers, and sank your head into your pillow.
We used to think we had everything. I used to think that. A few others joined us when they could, Hazil, and sometimes Mabley, and Garribald from down the lane. We even had the same tough canvas backpacks made, so we looked like a team. Green they are, with yellow stiches.
Of late things have changed. Our happy and helpful community is no more. There are dangers and threats both from outsiders, and sadly from a few among us. But we still meet up when we can, and laugh at old jokes, and swap sandwiches and fruit juices or milk. (And ale and pipeweed now) We still make cake for each other, and sing the old songs. Here is to hoping we shall be around for some time yet.
