Finding The Shire
. . . Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.
The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Last Stage"
The Short Version
Do you have a safe place in fiction? Mine is a home under a Hill. I hope you can find yours.
The Long Version
I was 11 when I first discovered The Lord of the Rings. My dad got surgery and stayed home to recover. He had just purchased the "Extended Editions" of The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers on DVD. The minute I saw the Battle of Dagorlad, with innumerable Orcs, I fell in love.
But nothing prepared me for the Shire.
I grew up in the Southern United States; my surroundings consisted mostly of farms, woodland, and river deltas. I had never seen anything like the rolling green hills or the gentle sunshine that Peter Jackson captured so perfectly. The music of Howard Shore, too, brought to mind a sense of gentle, calm rest.
I had the good fortune of visiting the Hobbiton set in 2023, and see Bag End for myself - the weather was perfect and it was every bit as magical as it seemed on the screen.
But in the intervening years between first seeing The Shire in the movies and then reading about them to seeing it for myself, The Shire still sat there, in the back of my mind, as a place I'd daydream about. I'd imagine myself living there, in peace and quiet. Soon, imagining myself settling down in front of my hobbit hole became part of my sleeping routine.
I always thought it was just because I felt like it was a cozy place to be. But over the last couple of days, I've started seeing The Shire in a different, deeper light - I've come to realize how much of The Shire feels like a place where I can rest and feel safe, no matter how many times I, or the world around me, changes.
Turning At Last To Home Afar
It started on my re-read of The Hobbit. I re-read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings pretty much annually. They're my peak "cozy fiction" - Middle Earth drew me in after that first exposure and has never let me go.
A couple of nights ago, I arrived, once again, back in The Shire, along with Bilbo and Gandalf, returning from The Lonely Mountain far in the East. I've read Bilbo's walking song many times before; but one line in particular stood out to me on this read-through:
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.
By this point, Bilbo looks very different from the "respectable" Hobbit he was when Gandalf first arrived on his front porch so many months past. He has:
- Evaded capture by trolls;
- Challenged a loathsome creature at the roots of the Misty Mountains to a life-or-death game of riddles;
- Exfiltrated his dwarven companions from the halls of the Elven King of Mirkwood;
- Mocked Smaug, Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, and discovered his weak spot; and
- Mourned the death of Thorin, son of Thrain, and Fili and Kili, who died in battle.
Throughout his journey, he reflects on his home, and his fireplace, and the goings-on of his neighbors, wishing he was home. So, for Bilbo, coming back to The Shire is coming back to safety. Even though he is very much different, it is coming back to a place that is familiar, and has moved on without him without changing very much at all.1
I've realized that, for most of my life, The Shire and what it represents became a "safe place" in fiction for me - a place that is familiar and doesn't change much at all, no matter how many times I go away and return to it. I don't have to endure dragons, goblins, or riddles in my day-to-day life, but I still find myself drained and worn down by the weight of the world and the work I do.
It is a blessing to know that there is a place in my imagination where I can settle and find comfort, where I can let my mind be vulnerable and unpack the hard stuff. No matter what life throws at me, The Shire still stays the same.
I hope there's a place in your imagination where you can feel safe enough to rest. If not, feel free to pull up a chair next to my hobbit hole.
The End
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Contrast this with how Tolkien expertly subverts this in "The Scouring of the Shire" in Return of the King. Heartbreaking.↩