The Shire — the name conjures images of rolling green hills, serene walks through the countryside, and small but diligent hands working the good earth.
But beneath the Shire’s veneer of peaceful, good-natured living lies an orgy of pipe-weed, overeating, and reckless pyromania. Lavish closed-gate garden parties are the toast of Hobbiton, thrown at the slightest whim by the Shire’s idle landed gentry. Ancient family disagreements fester amidst the revelry, waiting for a miscooked pie or misspoke pluralization (Proudfeet!) to provoke a storm of scorn and petty bickering. And at any moment, a senile wizard or a few besotted dwarves could wander into town, turning a mild afternoon of pipe-smoking into a life-threatening misadventure.
There’s more to hobbits than meets the eye, and any day in the Shire is just a puff away from mischief and disaster.