Furry feet buried in white sand…all he could think of was the thick, brown clay banks of the Brandywine.  Frodo sipped wines considered sweeter and fuller than any other… he missed the coarser, mortal taste of the Old Winyards.  All the melodiously moving songs of the elven kind could not replace the laughing voices of his cousins raised in joy.  His scars had long faded and took the pain with them, but Frodo thought he would have it all back to sit a day with Sam or Merry or Pippin again.  Sometimes he wondered if he had left too soon.