A strange city, Bree is. It is most unusual in nature, but nonetheless welcoming on my first visit in nearly two decades. As a farmer I've become accustomed to the odor of mud and horse droppings, but still found myself a bit disturbed by the overwhelming and lingering stench of these throughout this city of the Big Folk. The buildings are tall, and the clanging of steel and roaring of voices seem to make the city never sleep. A more curious sight is seeing the commonplace of Hobbits in the area, who are most certainly queer to endure such a seemingly loud and grim lifestyle. With so much brown and grey in color, so much wood and stone in architecture, I had already found myself missing the sights of green pastures and the smells of the crisp, sweet air of The Shire. Perhaps Bree wasn't as marvelous as one might remember, or perhaps now I was merely a less curious Hobbit than my earlier years, or rather, perhaps I just happened to too strongly embrace my second first impression.
Business was the reasoning for my journey to Bree, but as a Hobbit work and play can often mingle as one. Nothing like a long journey on horse and carriage can cause thirst to overwhelm you like a swarm of bog gnats. I did mention I was here on business, yes? Ah, but the comforts of ale and hearth most certainly take priority, to which I found myself drawn to a pub called The Prancing Pony. Curious name. One could certainly argue my ol' Blackberry was the inspiration behind the name, but I could easily see this place at been here for generations. Reminded me like some of the older and more modest burrows—dark and dank and musky. Still, it provided the usual comforts of hearth and home, warm ale and hot food, with the exception of several Big Folk seeming to argue. It seems the men can become prisoner to the darker sides of the drink, but certainly not true of all of them.
The barman was rather accommodating to a Hobbit like myself. Butterbeard or Butterbeer, I believe his name was. He gave me a golden ale with white froth floating atop, the texture silky and creamy, and the flavor rather mild and fruity and somewhat buttery. Come to think of it, Mister Butterbeer is surely his name, having crafted such a fine and pleasant buttery beer. It seemed the others agreed, as the pub was quite lively, and aside from the angry Big Folk near the hearth, most of the other customers seemed rather pleasant. I was lucky enough to eavesdrop on a conversation with a very kind and fantastic baker, who was handing out candies and taking orders from her bakery, and I of course ordered a dozen-and-a-half Blackberry Tarts. I'm anxious to put this into ink, but I must admit, they were better than Ma's.
Thankfully I can make up for that statement, as there's a weekly fair and farmer's market, and I managed to purchase a dozen apple scented candles for her. Several stalls brought livelihood to the city, reminding me of weekends at Michel Delving, with hunters and bakers and artisans with all sorts of goods and trinkets and oddities. Even the aroma of rosemary and sausage seemed to take over the smell of the city that seemed to always hit the back of my throat in an unpleasant manner. It's a shame that lady Hobbit had a stall which seemed rather busy. Some hunter also managed to supply me with several pounds of pork underbelly and bacon cuts, which he didn't seem to offer to deliver for me but did the lady who ordered beforehand. Queer behavior, I say, but the meat was rather fresh and delightful. I dare plan to mark my calendar for future journeys to Bree, perhaps selling some of my own product there in time to come.
I ended my trip nearly a fortnight of my arrival, making one last journey to the village of Hookworth where a festival celebrating the end of the season was occurring. It was a jaunty and lovely village, with a wonderful lute player to provide some nice songs before I left for home. A kind big folk also seemed to take it upon himself to water and tend to Blackberry without request for compensation. Quite a master of mares, it seems. I dare say I'm saddened to have not been able to stay longer, but was short on time. After my carriage had been emptied of all two-and-a-quarter dozen casks of my summer Longbottom Leaf and one last drink at The Prancing Pony several days later, I began my journey back to The Shire. Sitting here after sunset along the Brandywine with a blackberry tart and a mug of warm ale, I begin the last leg of my journey home and perhaps the first step of my journey to new or familiar places.
