It's no secret to those who knew of my father that the Tierneys are a folk of itchy feet; it's a trait I earned from generations passed, proven to be the victor even when faced with warm fires, a deep bed, and pleasant company at the local. I am certain it's an urge that can't be repressed any longer. Since the walk from Buckland to Bree I've been wondering where my boots may take me next, but my imagination fails me and all I can yearn for is a shady tree and a book to read.
I am tempted to vacate Bree this instant! Of course, it would be a venture of risk for certain, with possible thorns beneath every step, but I can't help but question "safe travels" - are they truly in the Tierney spirit? I think not. My father ventured around the Shire not with a horse and cart, but with muddy shoes and a stick. If I am to do his adventures justice there'll be no need for comforts and safety; those two alone cloud a wanderer's perception. If I am to do my father any justice at all, I must go hastily and not crane my neck to offer home a goodbye.
I will return, and I will ensure everything Bree-wise is in order for a few weeks, or months - ready for my return. Although the urge to see SOMETHING, whether it be lakes or mountains or an inn I've never been to, is strong, I must not forget my roots. Home is where the heart is, and Bree is my home.
Until my departure, I wait patiently for the smell of the sea, the sound of the wind coursing through tall pine trees, and the sight of mountains that pierce the clouds above. I wait for an adventure.
