YULE NIGHT AT THE PRANCING PONY

It was late afternoon on Yule Day and Barliman Butterbur was enjoying having a hot soak in his tin bath as the steam inside his room created a welcome distraction from all the miserable driving rain and swirling wind outside his poorly fitted window above his inn, The Prancing Pony.

As much as the town of Bree could have the occasional sunny day here and there, more often than not it was relentlessly gloomy throughout the entire year and seemed to almost have its own isolated micro climate of atmospheric misery that evaded the more pretty areas of the Shire, especially Hobbiton where the sun always seemed to shine on its apple-green grass.

But conversely, the dour, damp gloom of Bree was often good for trade, especially as many a weary traveller sought refuge at The Prancing Pony to escape the inclement weather and hooded adversaries hot on their trail.

The Butterburs had owned the inn for many generations and it had become a place that in its own small way acted as a barometer for much larger events in the wider world of Middle Earth. Rumours were shared and adventures begun in this place of warmth, good ale and amiable hospitality. In difficult times, it is hard to overstate the importance of such places as The Prancing Pony, offering as they did respite from the overwhelming chaos and destruction that lay beyond the distant mountains.

"Barliman? You in there?"

"What is it, Nob?" Barliman replied, calling out to his young help from behind the thick wooden door to his private quarters.

"Whole load of guests arrived for Yule. They haven't booked. What should I say?"

It was times like this Barliman fantasised about another life, one where he wasn't responsible for The Prancing Pony.

"Let them in, I suppose. But tell them there will be a wait on food. We're already packed to the rafters this evening and I don't need any short tempered customers when we've got so many mouths to feed, albeit some of them are hobbit sized mouths but nonetheless."

"I'll let 'em in, then."

As he heard Nob taking his first step back down the creaking stairs, Barliman called out to him once more.

"Nob!"

"Yes, master?"

"Get them a little tipsy so they don't make a fuss about food. Give them a few pints of that new stout we got in last week. Oh, what was it called again?"

"HairyFoot?"

"That's it! Good lad, Nob!"

As he prepared to get out of his beautifully hot bath water, Barliman reflected that it was always his fate to serve and tend to the bedraggled creatures of the night looking for a warm fire, a hot pie and a pint of HairyFoot.

There were worse things in life, he supposed.

Like being asked to go on an adventure.