[Undómë]

I wonder what customs strengthen them?

A fit of coughing assailed him as the smoke from his pipe crept down his throat too deeply. The discussion of the men at the next table had intrigued him and at the same time made him feel quite rustic. Various thoughts assailed him and he’d quite forgotten he was puffing on his pipe. Eyes watering from the cloud of smoke he’d coughed out, he gulped a little of his cooled tea to ease the raw feeling in his chest, and laid his pipe aside for the moment.

Hob waved away one of the servers who’d come up, a look of concern on her face. ‘Down the wrong pipe,’ he rasped out at her. ‘That’s all. No need for concern.’ Nonetheless, she poured him a bit more hot tea and left a wedge of lemon, saying the lemon would easy the throat.

Customs? The word still echoed in his mind.

He thought of the folk on Girdley Island; his family, his neighbors. Ordinary folk, he thought. Kind folk and brave as needed, he nodded, thinking on how Rowan Chubb’s goat had got stuck on one of the outlaying feet of the island when the river rose and old Taffy had gone out in his ramshackle boat, his sons holding on to the line he’d tied to it and nearly got himself drowned getting Rowan’s nanny back to her.

Generous, too he added recalling how those around old Gammer Rushybanks place helped the old girl plant her garden and harvest it and put it up. And how Gammer always made sure that those whose gardens hadn’t quite seen them through the wet winter had a few jars of her soups to get them through a day or so.

Thrifty . . . he smiled at the much laughed at but fond tradition of the Spring Faire Fisherman’s Cup and the Pie-makers’ Pie Pan. One of the Big Folk from Bree, a merchant who stayed at the Inn when he passed through, was so enamoured of the Cook’s eel pie and fish chowder that on one of his trips through he had presented her with a gift. A large, gaudy tureen in river blue with fish in bright and unusual colors swimming all over it and a pie pan from the same maker with fat eels swimming about its exterior. They had quickly become mathoms and were given to the Faire committee who put them to good use. Hob chuckled, remembering his turn with the tureen sitting on the hearth. His wife had laughed at him as he placed it proudly there, and said, ‘Thank the stars we’ve only to look at it for a year!’

Merry folk and most without a mean bone in their bodies. Little victories were celebrated with food and drink and a shared pouch of pipewood. Many of them at The Cottonwood Inn he remembered fondly. A good day of fishing; the first of the spring onions coming up heralding a healthy garden crop for the year; Gaffer Reedly’s ewe giving birth to healthy twins.

There were many other customs he could name he thought. None so lofty as those of the Big Folk. But good and sturdy ones, nonetheless, that had and would see them through. Yes, he and his folk were rooted in custom, their toes dug deep in its nurturing soil.

With a laugh aloud, he turned toward the table where Benat and Anyopâ sat finishing the last of their breakfast. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs,’ he said, drawing their attention. ‘I couldn’t help but hear your conversation.’ He introduced himself, saying he had sat at their table last night while Master Benat worked up to his story. ‘We Hobbits do have customs . . . though small ones and quite ordinary seen in the light of yours, I’m sure.’ He held out his pouch of Longbottom Leaf. ‘And here’s a fine example of one,’ he said grinning. ‘If you gentlemen are done with your meals, there’s nothing like the Shire’s finest to round out the satisfaction.’