Blebo Craigs is our new town. (Isn’t the name delightfully ticklish? Be sure you say it out loud.) Blebo is a tiny village of sixty houses spread over the side of a hill. It’s made of low stone walls and tidy gardens. The fields in between the stone houses are filled with sheep or wheat or woods. The people often go walking in the woods. They know the names of each other’s dogs and they have tea in each other’s houses. Things are not severely ordered here: the roads are not labeled and the houses don’t have numbers; instead, each house has a name: ‘Nethermil,’ ‘Loanhead Cottage,’ ‘The Lea Rig.’ A hobbit would look on Blebo and deem it proper and good, in every hobbit-sense of those words.
It’s quiet out here. The air is quiet and the dried roses left on their summer stalks are quiet. I move about the house and feel the quiet as I fold laundry and shelve books.
Everything real and earthy is here. Wind and crops and stone and sky. There are paths on which to set my feet, and a hot kettle to call them home.
To state the simple fact: I like it here.