Pippin missed the freezing winds blowing down from the walls of Minas Tirith.  He sometimes sat at his richly laid table in the dining hall of Tuckborough and remembered how a few handfuls of dried fruit, a hunk of dried meat and a cup of water to wash it all down were once the best things he had ever tasted.  He longed to wear again the heavy weight of chain mail coupled with leather, stiff now from idleness, embossed with the white tree—symbols of an entire city that had thought of him as more than a silly little hobbit.