The eve of winter is starting and with it coming the dry, empty air with the smell of spice and smoke. Fortunately, I find this time of year rather pleasant, as it provides an excuse for more partying and drinking, and reason for getting a new hat.
My journey to Bree has forced me to stop in Buckland for the night. It seems Blackberry has taken ill. I noticed her fatigue coming on nearly three days past after a night's rest in Frogmorton. A pasture pony making stable near a swamp of frogs could have been a mistake. I only hope she didn't pick up some sort toad illness. Buckland doesn't seem to have many people of knowledge on her condition, and while she doesn't eat as she regularly would her condition hasn't much declined in the past day. She remains stabled and looked over by the stable master, and I've made sure to visit her after all seven meals today. At least the company of lively folk and taste of warm ale greet me with cheer and comfort.
The ol' Bucks were always a bit enigmatic. I wouldn't dip a hairy toe in the Brandywine and these strange folk float over it. Bravery and idiocy aren't always mutually exclusive, I've learned. At least their smials provide similar and familiar comforts. I've noticed party tents rising and fireworks regularly bursting, perhaps preparing for the coming Yule season or perhaps they aren't as queer as rumored to be. It's a shame Buckland has a soft reputation inside The Shire for queerdom, as they are only a hearty and adventurous folk. Floaters, I call them, and they have a decent knowledge of fishing. A good fish stew is rare in the Southfarthing, at least from the freshest of fish which are seemingly endless here. I've managed to pick up a few tips for a savory fish stock, and learned how fish should be "properly fried" as they claim. Even more, I found myself purchasing a fishing rod. I imagine I shall keep it aboard the cart and find myself sitting on the water's edge in time to come. I should have learned from my last journey to bring a decent amount of salt or vinegar. Preserving a bulk of fresh trout in a salt barrel would have made good supply. These journeys seem to teach me something every time.
The Old Forest lies on the doorsteps of the homes here. I've heard sounds coming from there that could scare the scales off a dragon, but the Bucks seem to find themselves journeying inside every so often. I can only dream of the horrors in that dark and damp place. I couldn't imagine the size the of snakes in there, but I imagine they could swallow two Hobbits for elevenses and four more for luncheon. Heavens, I won't even dwell on what they do for tea time. The locals tell tales of trees coming to life, but after experiencing the stoutness of ale here they are surely under a misapprehension. I've always enjoyed a stroll under the shade of branches, yet I fear that old place is darker than a Stoor's underfoot. But I'm sure the mushrooms are wild and plenty. Perhaps I can get one of these barmy Bucks or toity Tooks to give me guide some day. Never you mind, a foolish idea.
I suppose I'm left no choice but to wait out the condition of Blackberry. Depending on her progress, I might have to saddle a pony from here or take pony and cart, and journey to Bree alone in search of aid. The latter may be the best path to take. The Bucks are still Hobbits, but I'd much rather trust them with an ill pony over a cart of food and pipeweed. It's nearly twenty leagues from here to the Big City. Her condition tomorrow shall determine my haste. Tonight I drink to good health. Tonight I drink to Blackberry.
