Dear Diary,
Today, at long last, I crossed into the Shire.
The very name feels soft on my tongue, like the murmur of a brook at dusk. Oh, how fair it is! Rolling hills green as emeralds, little doors set into the earth with round windows glowing like fireflies, and gardens bursting with color and cheer. The air was thick with the scent of clover and warm soil, and for a moment, I almost cried, for after such a long and weary road from Lyndelby in the Vales of Anduin, it felt like stepping into a dream my nana once painted with her words.
But, as it ever seems to go for me, peace did not come without a bit of shenanigans.
No sooner had I trotted down a sunny lane toward a place the sign called Bywater, than two cheeky hobbit lads popped out from behind a hedgerow, giggling like magpies. Their curls were wild, their feet muddied, and their eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Look, Tom! A river-hobbit!” the taller one cried.
“She’s pretty!” the other shouted, red-faced, before both of them burst into laughter and darted away down the lane, leaving me blushing like a boiled beetroot.
I must’ve looked a sight, my cloak still damp from the morning dew, my curls in a hopeless tangle, and my pack twice my size. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to be seen again, even if by silly boys who think shouting compliments is sport.
Before long, I ran into a kindly matron by the name of Esmeralda Took—a distant cousin of some well-known family here, I gather. She spotted me from her garden gate and waved me over, flour on her hands and a sparkle in her eyes.
“Good gracious, you’re not from around here, are you, my dear?” she said, eyeing my travel-worn boots.
I told her my story, how I’d come all the way from Lyndelby, beyond the Misty Mountains, to see the land of my grandmother’s tales. She gasped, nearly dropping her rolling pin. “The Vales of Anduin! Mercy me, that’s half the world away! You must be famished—come in, come in!”
Within minutes, I found myself at her cozy table, a steaming cup of tea before me and a slice of fresh seed cake so good I nearly wept. Esmeralda laughed at my wide eyes and said she hadn’t seen anyone enjoy cake that much since her cousin Ponto was a lad (though she said that name with a fond sort of sigh, as though he were famous for trouble).
We spoke long into the afternoon. She told me about the Took clan, how they’re known for their curious streaks and odd adventures, and I told her about the long road west: the roaring Anduin, the lonely hills, the cold nights under strange stars. As I spoke, I realized how far I’d truly come. Each mile behind me was a small victory. Each hardship had led me here to laughter, warmth, and tea that tasted like home.
By evening, Esmeralda offered to let me stay the night in her guest room (though she called it “the old broom closet” with a wink). I accepted with gratitude and maybe a touch of disbelief that such kindness still finds its way to a wanderer like me.
Tomorrow, she says, she’ll take me to Tuckborough, where there’s always work to be found, especially for one with nimble fingers and a knack for sketching. I can hardly wait.
The road from Lyndelby was long and full of sorrow, but tonight, as I sit by a round window watching fireflies drift over the fields, I finally feel it: hope.
Though if those Took boys show up again to call me “pretty” and run off laughing, I might just chase them into the duck pond.
After all of the journey I am finally at peace... like I finally mean something... and I cant help but wonder... what comes next?
-Gwentilda
Day Seven <<<
