The phrase that we often use to sum up our visit to Hobbiton (and New Zealand as a whole) is “well documented.”
I learned a bitter lesson from my first big trip abroad—seeing England from behind a photo lens somewhat cheapened the experience. So I was determined not to let my shutterbug habits get in the way of our New Zealand adventure. And to be honest, neither of us feel that it did! Perhaps it was because we had time to slow down and enjoy what was around us, and still snap a photo or two. Or perhaps it was different because there were two of us, and one would be inspired to “document” while the other simply “was.”
Still, we somehow ended up with nearly 1,000 photos by the end of the trip.
Remember what I said—I don’t feel like I spent a week and a half with my camera to my eye. And in retrospect I’m SO grateful for the photos we have. We tried to be choosey in our subjects and end up with shots that were memory aids and artful (to me, at least). Although we only spent about two hours in the Shire, I felt as though we explored every avenue, doorstep, and garden. And there are pictures to help us relive that idyllic morning! (And to help us in the retelling.)
Picture this: a hazy summer morning, driving through farm country, sheep dozing under thick pine trees, and a golden light on the green fields. I think I let out a little shriek of childlike delight as we turned onto Buckland Road and arrived at the Shire’s Rest cafe. Since it IS a working sheep farm, the staff had been up for hours, even though it was early morning. There was carpentry being done, coffee being brewed, and buses being rolled out for the transportation of several hundred visitors that would arrive that day.
And we were the first! I’m so grateful for that peaceful time, before the crowds began arriving in their tour buses. We sat on smooth benches at large, carved tables—suddenly feeling much smaller...maybe even hobbit-sized? We watched sheep wander over the hills and listened to the chatter of the workers. It made it feel less like a tourist trap and more like a place of livelihood, family history, and enthusiasm for a way of life.
When the waves of people started to fill up the dusty parking lot, I began to worry. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the kind of quiet experience I hoped for. I’d dreamed of visiting this inviting, bucolic setting since my Dad first read us The Hobbit (maybe not Matamata, New Zealand by name, but that’s where it happened to turn up in reality). Would it be ruined by people who didn’t know the significance (or care)? Was it a mere point of interest on their maps? (Don’t even start on how my being there was just as much “part of the problem”—every town, even fantastical ones, have their tourists!) I tried to ignore the jostling and noise as people scrambled to redeem their tickets. “Happy hobbits. Think happy hobbits.”
Our group was the first to depart. We climbed onto a vintage-looking bus named Gandalf (the shiny, “Hobbiton Movie Tours” buses were being reserved for the larger groups later in the day) and rumbled down the road, deeper into the rolling hills. My first glimpse of Hobbiton included Green Dragon, sitting at the base of a little ridge that hid the rest of Hobbiton from view. It was in that moment where I almost forgot I was bouncing along in an old bus. We could’ve been riding a horse drawn cart, coming to visit the relatives on Bagshot Row! ;-)
Since the set is surrounded by hills, your first full view of the hobbit holes comes as you walk through the very stone-wall-lined lane Gandalf rode through at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring. The perk of going this early was instantly clear—Hobbiton was empty! It took no stretch of the imagination to think a hobbit could amble out of his front door any minute, yawn and stretch, and then greet his neighbor before sitting down to a nice “second breakfast.” There was smoke coming out of some of the houses, butterflies flitting around the flowerbeds, and all sorts of little tools and furniture—lying about as if they were used daily! I was immediately enchanted.
For the sake of the films, the hobbit holes aren’t all built in the same scale. Some made us feel like giants (or elves, as I prefer), while others were perfectly sized for human visitors. Each colorful, round door was as delightful as the next, yet completely unique! We even got to enter one and peek out as if welcoming guests to tea. There was a shovel, abandoned in a little vegetable garden—mid dig—as if its hobbit owner was called away for another meal, or wandered off for a nap under one of the hedgerows. There was a shirt on the wash line above Bag End, which I could swear looked like one of Frodo’s. The tiniest of details—too small for even the movie camera’s probing eye—were all there. Call it suspended disbelief, if you want, but Hobbiton truly looked (and felt) lived in!
I envy the caretaker who gets to prop open the door of Bag End every morning. If it were me, it’d be tempted to wish Bilbo a “good morning” as I was doing it, and then pause for a sit-down on the bench out front! :-) Bag End is truly prime real estate, with the best view in all the Shire. From the gate (with it’s “No admittance except on party business” sign still in place), we could look over the hobbit holes, winding pathways, the party tree, and the Green Dragon across the lake. The sounds of bull frogs croaking in the pond, and the faint murmur of voices as the next tour group arrived, met our ears. Suddenly, I found myself not blaming Lobelia Sackville-Baggins for wanting to live in Bag Eng so badly! (If you’re not acquainted with the books, or the films, I apologize for all my little references...but I admire you for making it this far in my post! Cheers!)
It was there on the hill leading down from Bag End that we enjoyed a little chat with our guide, who was very hobbit-like herself (and proud of it, of course!). She, and all the guides, seemed genuinely excited about the movie set being preserved, not just the farm owners who, I’m sure, have heavy pockets thanks to us. ;-) How weird it must be for them to have people come across oceans and continents to visit their little patch of earth. Thanks to the imaginations of many, it’s become someplace special—a bit of dream world become reality.
For about an hour, it was like we had free rein over Hobbiton. We roamed down little alleyways, alone and feeling as if we’d been caught up in a game of pretend. I’ll admit to knocking on a door to see if Samwise Gamgee was available for a chat and admiring the biscuits laid out for afternoon tea on another hobbit’s porch. Super Husband and I even kicked off our sandals to walk barefoot (in true hobbit fashion) on the green lawn under the party tree. Smiles and laughter were contagious and I’m quite sure I was giddy from the experience for days after...I still feel it!
Our final stop was the Green Dragon itself, with its interior recreated to match the soundstage used in the films. Each of us was served a chilled mug of cider and Super Husband bought us a little lunch as well. (Did you know they take credit cards at the Green Dragon?! Shocking!) Folk music drifted through the roughly hewn beams overhead and a cheery fire crackled in the hearth. We sat by a window to enjoy our meal of steak-and-ale pie and a ploughman’s sandwich. Outside in the courtyard, there were bright pavilions set up, with colored lanterns hanging from poles and in trees. Now THAT would be a fine location for a mighty party! Anyone need a wedding venue? I’d fly down to attend!
All too soon, our time was up. We walked along the water, where the mirror-image of Bagshot Row rippled on its surface. Hobbiton was filling up with people then, and it helped me feel less sad about leaving. I wanted to remember it the way it had been that morning—quiet, peaceful, and seemingly untouched by the modern world. One could imagine there were hobbits hiding there, waiting for the crowds to disperse so they could come out and feast together under moonlight. :-) It’s safe to say my imagination was reawakened that day. I hadn’t noticed it had fallen asleep!
Now I look at Hobbiton—photos others have taken or even the films themselves—and find that it’s more real to me now than simply a world of imagination...more so, I think, than all the other locations and film studios we saw. Because there, a piece of Middle Earth still lives.
The farm will probably change and maybe shut down altogether someday. Much of the beauty of New Zealand seems unstable like that—the active volcanoes, the brush fires that convert woodlands to plains, the earthquakes that flatten hills and split the earth. Thanks to the rough swells of the Pacific, even marvels like Cathedral Cove (left) will one day crumble into the sea. A melancholy thought, as it was one of our favorite places. But I think such thoughts lent me a deeper appreciation for New Zealand’s beauty, knowing that one day these places (like all things) will come to an end.
So we reveled in it! We savored every bit of the landscape, the local culture, and the climate as we could. Of course there’s still so much to see. Locals would argue that we haven’t really scratched the surface, and I’ll be the first to agree with them! Of course I’d love to come back. Of course there are things we could’ve traded for other experiences. But truly, I can’t imagine our trip going any differently. It was a perfect blend, like Tolkien described Rivendell: “Elrond’s house was perfect, whether you liked food or sleep or story-telling or singing (or reading), or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Merely to be there was a cure for weariness.”
And so New Zealand seemed to us. Upon our first day home, back at work right away, Super Husband commented on how going to a meeting (first thing) wasn’t so bad, because his mind was fresh and rested. We both found ourselves returning to our work tasks and home responsibilities with ease, and perhaps even renewed vigor. I know it may not last long, but it’s a testimony to the type of trip we had—one where we saw much, did much, and became much. We became exhilarated, rested, curious, excited, patient, awestruck, relaxed, lighthearted, contemplative, adventurous, more in love, and reliant upon each other. Isn’t that what travel is supposed to do? Strengthen our eyes to see more clearly, embolden our hearts to be a little less fearful, and remind our souls Who’s responsible for such beauty and variety in the world?
I’m truly grateful to the gift of this “unexpected journey.” It’s not one I’ll quickly forget.
Anyway, when it was finally done--not as golden as I'd liked and a bit dry--we still had a good meal. (Not to mention, the house STILL smells like turkey...but that's more the leftover turkey soup's fault than the dinner.) I'm just glad the worst is over and I can check "bake a turkey" off my list. I figure the first time will always be the worst. So maybe when I actually host a REAL Thanksgiving meal, it'll be a little less stressful.
