The morning Gorhendad left the Shire was a quiet one.  There had been feasting over in Tuckborough the night before and many folk were still abed.  As he checked one more time that his pack was well stowed, Gorhendad thought somewhat wistfully of his own pillow though he’d spent a quiet evening at home certain he’d not be welcome at Great Smials.

Gorhendad took hold of the gunwales.  He would have liked a private word with Dahlia, or even to send a note, but Isumbras had had the last word on that subject some nights before: “What’s more important than home and family to a Hobbit?  And a Hobbit that dishonors both … well!”  Gorhendad could easily imagine what they’d say down the pubs when it got about he’d left the Shire ...

As the bow caught the current, Gorhendad climbed aboard and set his oars.  There at Stock, the Brandywine wasn’t wide, but it flowed swiftly.  Gorhendad put his back into it and, in but a moment, the western shore was a blur of early morning mist.  Still, the scrape of sand under the  prow caught him by surprise.

It hadn’t taken long to leave his life behind.  He hauled the dory up the bank as far as he could, then shouldered his pack before turning back one last time.

No matter what Isumbras might say in his absence, Gorhendad had always loved the Shire, loved it like his parents’ hole, loved it like the boys he’d grown up with – Isumbras among them – and the secret places they’d called their own, loved it like something he’d one day outgrow.

Turning, he surveyed fresh fields and banks of good earth crowned by the deep green of the Old Forest.

So, where to now?  Some place he could truly call home.