A traveler on the plane sees the farmhouse and dreams of home – Carl Burns
I have become convinced that I am a Hobbit.
Not because I’m short, and somewhat funny looking (I am). Or because I have hairy toes (that, too..) Not even because I like 6 meals a day (well, who doesn’t?) But because as much as I love to travel, I also love to come home.
One of the underlying themes in Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” is the reluctant adventurer. Bilbo Baggins loves his home in the Shire, his cups of tea, his cozy existence. But he’s thrust out into the the great wide world – and once out there, and he wants to see more of it.
My mother is English – a nation that prizes a good cup of tea, a tidy home, and a warm hearth to sit beside.
My father was German – the nation that invented the term “Wanderlust.”
I want my cup of tea and tidy home to return to, but can I have that to go, please? I want to stay, and I want to go.
Even when I travel, I’m torn by the same ambiguity – I’m excited to be in new place, a new town – there’s things to see, and places to explore.
But where’s my hotel? Only when I’m checked in, and have a temporary place to call “home” can I truly enjoy my new surroundings. Then I make forays – I walk, in ever increasing circles and distances, from my hotel — first this way, then that, but always so I can return “home” when tired, to be rejuvenated by having 4 walls and a few familiar things around me.
I’m a hobbit – a somewhat reluctant wanderer who at times has be pushed out the door to go, but who, having once again returned safely home, peeks back out the door,
looking forward to the next journey.
Then again, isn’t there a little bit of Hobbit in us all?
Here’s where this denizen of the Shire has found himself at various times:
- Wales & England
- New Zealand
- Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
- Paris, France
- Fiji and New Zealand
- 1995 – Darmstadt, Germany
- Bergen, Norway
- Amsterdam, The Netherlands