The Story
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole. It was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
Bright round doors in summery hues dot the lush, grassy hillsides of Hobbiton like wildflowers. Behind each doorway, comfortably appointed burrows wind into earth: each one home to a hobbit, or a family of the Shire’s rosy-cheeked little-folk.
Every hobbit-hole is unique, expressing the personality of its inhabitants with colour and prettily adorned with gardens, furniture, and the rustic debris of everyday life. The abiding atmosphere of Bag End itself is one of lazy comfort, from the pretty but slightly overgrown gardens that hug its eaves to the welcoming clutter inside its labyrinthine chambers. Sprawling around the Hill beneath the shade of an old oak tree whose roots twist through its halls, the grand smial reflects the gentle good humour of its hosts and the universal Hobbit love of simple pleasures.
Description
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole. It was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
Bright round doors in summery hues dot the lush, grassy hillsides of Hobbiton like wildflowers. Behind each doorway, comfortably appointed burrows wind into earth: each one home to a hobbit, or a family of the Shire’s rosy-cheeked little-folk.
Every hobbit-hole is unique, expressing the personality of its inhabitants with colour and prettily adorned with gardens, furniture, and the rustic debris of everyday life. The abiding atmosphere of Bag End itself is one of lazy comfort, from the pretty but slightly overgrown gardens that hug its eaves to the welcoming clutter inside its labyrinthine chambers. Sprawling around the Hill beneath the shade of an old oak tree whose roots twist through its halls, the grand smial reflects the gentle good humour of its hosts and the universal Hobbit love of simple pleasures.
