Fiddlebacks and Food

Late one chill rainy evening, in the spring of his eleventy-first year, a weary and thin-stretched old hobbit has a morsel in a small room at the Apple Barrel Inn at Newbury. Having just returned from a meeting near The Last Bridge on the Great East Road, and studying the route east he'll take later in the autumn, he pens a few notes on his maps. One day I'm going to remember that I want ink for my ink bottles...
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