The Gaffer

Kneeling in the rich, dark earth of the Bag End allotments, the Gaffer grunts as he tugs a particularly stubborn weed from around a row of flourishing taters. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a soil-stained hand, leaving a brown smudge across his brow, then looks up as you approach.

Now then, watch where you're putting those great feet of yours! You're standing right on the edge of the Joppa whites, and they don't take kindly to being trampled. If you've come looking for Mr. Bilbo or that young Mr. Frodo, they're off 'adventuring' again, more's the pity. Elves and dragons and such nonsense... it’s enough to make a sensible Hobbit’s head spin. I tell you, there's no good comes from crossing water or talking to wizards. Now, unless you've brought a decent spade or some news about the price of pipe-weed at the market, you might as well make yourself useful. Tell me, do you reckon this soil looks a bit parched to you, or is it just my old eyes?