Brock's word was good, a definite track led from the main highway and the Hobbits followed it for several miles as it meandered through gently rolling downs, the river, if not in sight, always in hearing range on their right. Finally the track struck off firmly, following the edge of an escarpe.
The hobbits stopped to consider their options. There was still a trace of a narrow path that continued along the bank of the river, though it looked as if it had not been used for some years.
"I guess the path goes on towards the farm Brock told us about," Farrimer observed. "But its too early to stop."
"Well the path by the river ain't bad," Bilbo suggested with confidence, "And we knows the river goes in the right direction, so we can't get lost."
For the first hour it looked as if Bilbo's confident assertion was correct. Although the path was overgrown, it was clearly visible and their ponies capable of pushing between the small rowan bushes. Then as the Downs gave way to Moorland, the ground became wetter and the soft rye grass to cassock and fern, often hiding what remained of the path.
Still undaunted they pressed on, though slower, for the ponies had to pick their path, confident that the river would not lead them astray.
As the sun started to dip towards the hills in the far west they struck out from the river to mount a low hill, hoping for drier ground to rest for the night. From the small vantage point they realised that whilst the river was not sending them wrong, it had formed a deep 'S' and the last two leagues they had toiled had barely made an impression on their intended progress.
"Well I suppose we could cut straight across tomorrow," Farrimer offered philosophically, gazing at the wide and rich green plain that surrounded them.
"Ah! 'Appen we could." Tom agreed. He looked up from the small fire he was trying to start with bracken and a few sticks from under a bush and gazed towards the West. "But I reckons there could be spot of wet weather comin," he commented with a countryman's assurance.
He was right, for it came on as a fine drizzle not long after the sun went down. The hobbits huddled together under their blankets in misery; cursing the idea of following a path that had taken them a full seven miles out of their way, wishing fervently they had chosen to accept hospitality at a Hobbit Farm, all be it a short day.
It was still drizzling when the sun rose, though that in itself was a misnomer. There was no sign of a firey ball in the sky, it merely got brighter. It did little to improve the mood. Especially as Tom failed to manage to get the fire to light for a warming breakfast.
"Ain't nothing for it," Bilbo declared. "We's as wet as we're gonna get. So we might as well get on. There was a stand of trees a few miles to the north. 'Appen we might find a little shelter, perhaps some dry wood for Tom's fire."
"But which way is it?" Farrimer exclaimed. "We can't see more 'n a few yards in the mist!"
"That way!" Bilbo declared hopefully, pointing in a direction.
"I think that way," Farrimer countered pointing in a somewhat different direction.
"Tom?" They both asked.
"Appen I don't rightly know," Tom admitted. "Strikes me it won't matter too much, as long as we be on a straight line. Bound to hit the river again. Then we'll be right."
It seemed like a good idea and they set off in a direction that formed a good compromise between the choice of Bilbo and Farrimer, striking confidently downhill.
Maintaining a straight path was more difficult than any of them imagined and they still thought they were heading downhill an hour later. There was no sign of the river and the ponies were becoming skittish as the ground became wetter. So much so, that the Hobbits were forced to dismount and lead them instead.
"We should have reached the river by now!" Farrimer complained eventually, splashing to a halt and allowing the others to gather around him. "We are going to have to wait for the fog to lift. I've no idea which way we are going anymore!"
"Well we can't stop here!" Bilbo declared, looking around. The green patch they were standing in was misleading. Below the rich green grass that surrounded them was glutinous mud. "We're upto our knees!"
"Choose a direction," Farrimer offered.
In desperation Bilbo looked around at the nothingness of fog and pointed. "That way!" He said, waving in a direction.
He tried to turn, struggling to lift a foot from the mud. "Give us a hand!" he demanded. "I'm stuck!" Worse the other leg was sinking further as he struggled to lift the first.
It was a predicament that the others found they were also in as they attempted to struggle to his aide.
"Got to be able to get out somehow" Tom declared in alarm. "C'mon, Bonny. Pull us out!" He urged his pony to pull him forward.
The pony, born of more sense, refused to move.
"Three Hobbits seeking adventure,
Went on a spree!
A very silly three!
They ate and supped,
Then broke the game from the East.
A silly three indeed!
Three Hobbits seeking adventure,
Went on a spree!
A very silly three!
They got lost in the fog,
Now they're stuck like a tree.
Is this the end of the silly three?"
The gaily mocking lyrics struck them long before they could see the two grey hooded figures skittering through the throngs of fog.
"I think Hobbits are either far more stupid than Elrond said, or really like getting themselves in trouble, Malindron. After what you did for them at the inn?"
The first of the figures danced into better view and pulled down the hood to reveal the golden hair and pointed ears of a female elf.
"An' what you going to do 'bout it?" Tom demanded, irritated at the levity at his now waist deep predicament.
"Well we could just leave you," the she Elf laughed. "But that would be cruel on the ponies and your cries assault the ears so!" She flitted to each pony in turn and whispered in their ears, before taking the reins and gently walking them out of the bog.
The three Hobbits watched in forlorn despondency as their sturdy mounts vanished into the mist. Their place was taken a few minutes later by the return of the second grey hooded figure trailing a fine rope.
Tom noted with further irritation he was not sinking into the mud either, as he knotted the line around his chest.
"I suggest you do not move," the elf whispered.
He shouted out, "Get on Eithan. Pull your little master."
Tom stiffened as the line went taut around his chest, restricting his breathing. There was a slurping noise and he was free and being dragged through the mud.
It felt like a long way, though in fact it was mere seconds before he was laying on firm ground again, gasping for breath. From there he watched as his pony, Bonny, towed his two comrades from the mire.
"Who are you?" Farrimer asked as he recovered his breath.
"What no 'Thanks'?" The she Elf demanded gaily. "We should have left you longer!"
"Oh! We do!" Bilbo put in quickly. "Tremendously so! But we want to know who to thank?"
"Well if you follow us to the Byre, perhaps we'll tell you," Malindron suggested. "The fog will not lift for the a while and I'm not pulling you out of the mire again. Now up you get!"
Elves were not great ones for giving answers, Tom remembered from his Gaffers tales. Still the chance of some shelter from the cloying wet fog would be welcome, so he followed the other two as quickly as he was able.
It was a rapid pace as well, that had the Hobbits shambling forwards at a dead run. Their benefactors never quite in sight, but never out of it either. Their grey cloaks merely forming slightly darker shadows. But always they could hear the two singing to each other, sometimes in common tongue throwing some gentle insult at the Hobbits slow progress, but usually in Elvish that the Hobbits suspected it was probably a good thing they did not understand.
