A FAR GREEN COUNTRY
This was Frodo's favourite perch. Regardless of the weather during his morning walks, he would always stop at this ancient oak, standing its lone sentinal atop the ridge. The view always brought him peace.
Sheep cropped the moorland grass about him, their bleeting interspersed with the high song of meadow lark. Well coppiced woodland cloaked the slopes below, and beyond, in a broad, shallow valley, still-green fields of hay and wheat were interspersed with wild flower meadows, where staggered lines of cows trawled contentedly toward their evening milking. Hawthorn hedges stitched this patchwork of fields, their branches weighed down with a creamy bounty of blossom, fading to pink as spring processed to summer.
A line of labourers scythed tall grass for winter fodder and an errant breeze lifted snatches of their song to his high perch, along with the deep musk of woodland and the sweet perfume of blossom. In a corner of the same meadow a circle of giggling children tossed a stick from foot to foot with almost unerring accuracy, whilst a piebald puppy yapped and pranced. The game transformed to one of chase, as the puppy finally managed to snag their stick, leading the laughing, shrieking gaggle of children on a merry chase into the coppice.
Beyond the fields and a scattering of low houses, silver sunlight sparked and twinkled on a deep blue sea. Here, in the West, Frodo once worried that he would miss the simple domesticity of the Shire, but he quickly discovered that, in this at least, elves and hobbits were not so different after all.
END