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"Twere a long old walk to Lyndelby, let me tell you.
I set out at the foredawn, the Brandywine were runnin' higher than usual, hard to find a dry path across the ford, and wi' me wet boots I didn't fancy the blisters I'd surely get hiking to Herne, so I spoke with the stable-master and hired a horse.
10 silver and 50 coppers he wanted! Still, I knew me boots would dry and it'd get me to Herne in time for an early lunch.
'Tis beautiful countryside in Ruddymore, with the crimson fields and red rocks, even if there's a wolf or worse hiding in the rocks here and there. Cardolan is old Arnor, so there's Dúnedain to and fro on the old paths, keeps it mostly safe, and I'm a big lump not too many want to be havin' a word with.
Got to the Crossway just as lunch was comin' on, so I gives Maddoc a few coppers and he sorted me a nice lunch.
I might have taken a bit longer than I should, but Maddoc's food is too good to pass up. I decided to head to the Stonecrop camp and rest a few hours before trying to cross the Greyflood at the old Tharbad ruins.
Last time I passed by there were yrch a-plenty, so it made good sense to sneak through at night. They don't bother me none, but I avoids trouble when I can.
Funny thing about the Stonecrop camp, it's not named for the rocky outcrops thereabouts, there's a chap trades there by the name o' Burl... Stonecrop!
I waited 'til dark in camp, had a spot o' grub, listened to young Ged play his lute, warmed me bones by the fire - knowin' I'd needs must wade through the Greyflood in the chill o' night. Wet boots again of course.
I woke up to a thunderin' storm and plenty of miles to cover, but one river at a time as they say. I hadn't slept too well as there were rats a-plenty making all kinds of racket.
Bevan at the gate told me the town were worried about more yrch from the south, 'pparently been havin' a spot o' bother wi' raiders. No mind for me, I were heading east. I stopped in to Skardí's anyways, and sharpened me blade just in case.
Dogs and cats? Dogs, cats, and ruddy horses as far's I could tell!
I'd dried off a nudge under the cliff, but needed to press on. Slippery work getting back down the hill, but I got back on the road and headed for the King's Gate. "The Royal Road" they used to call it. Now it's more of a Royal Pain, it's so bleedin' uneven. I spose it were a lot smoother back when they made it.
I couldn't scrape a nap out o' the Elvish ruins I were perched beneath so I got up I trudged on, wet boots an' all, the rain wouldn't stop and the wind would've whipped me whiskers if I had any. Rain all day with showers in betwixt!
It were slow going and I'd had just about enough, maybe I should've kept on but I decided to shelter at the old King's Way Gate until the weather turned.
I ran into an old Dunlending mate of mine who I'd stood besides in a fair few fights. He was - as we says on the lines - on "Gondor leave", so I won't be mentionin' his name. But he had a nice fire blazin', so I sat and warmed me bones.
Algraig is the folks what lives in these parts, and they calls their chiefs "Brenin"! Glynn is the name 'o the chief in Lhanuch, and I met him back it were nigh fifteen year ago I reckon.
After a hearty meal and swappin' some stories, I needed to get back on the road south. I'd need to pass through the old burial grounds, and once or twice I swear I seen an oathbreaker roamin' around down that way. I don't know if my blade can catch an apparition like that, and I'd rather not find out the hard way.
After walkin' through the Bonevales with all the buzzing flies and cackling crows it were a right sight to walk into Pren Gwydh, such a pretty spot. I headed to Galtrev and bumped into me old mate Gethin, who was as much in need of refreshment as I were.
There's no proper pub in Galtrev, but if you knows where to go... Me and Geth did a nice catchup, and I readied meself to for the hilly hike to Barnavon.
I said my goodbyes to Gethin and headed to Barnavon. I made it in good time, I knows a few shortcuts, and stopped in to see the hobnobs, Madin Brenin runs the place mostly.
He knows I'm mates with Glynn up in Lhanuch so he don't give me too much guff, but the whole place seems on edge to me. I didn't stick around too long, just enough to rest me knees and wet me whistle.
Squeezing 'twixt the Misties and the White Mountains I stopped at Cuvnerth, most folks won't go there but I knows the Dragon Clan from back a ways, and they don't mind putting me up seein' as I've done a turn or two for their kin up in Enedwaith.
The next leg would take me over the Isen and into Lōgrad proper, home of the Eorlingas, the Rohirrim we calls 'em in the common tongue. They flippin' loves their horses.
There's a nice little path follows the Isen and I loves the sounds of the waterfalls and weirs all the way along, very calming.
I didn't bother stopping at Grimbold's camp as I had a lot of ground to cover that day, and one of his footman told me there'd been some trouble across the river so's I'd best keep movin'.
Fair enough I says, and I plodded across the river and into the Westfold, wet boots an' all.
True enough, Marton was afire. There weren't a soul to be seen other than fat wargs prowlin' about. I stayed north of the town and hugged the cliffs until I seen the winding path up to the Stonedeans.
I found a few locals and told 'em the news of what I'd seen. Forewarned is forearmed I reckon.
I shared a beer or two with my new friends, and got ready to head on.
I left my new friends reelin' outside the pub and after a bit o' traffic on the bridge headed up to Woodhurst. I stopped in an old haunt o' mine in the lower part o' town, "The Mud" we calls it, and not because of the muddy pond it sits on.
The ale there is stiff enough to stand a chair on.
I left The Mud and walked through Woodsbury proper, it were rainin', o' course...
Soggy hike to Torsbury and I did not like the look o' the folks camped out there, so I strolls through like I owns the place and kept going to Stoke.
Wish I'd headed that way in the first place, better grub in Stoke. They got a proper mead hall there, big fire in the middle an' all.
Walking south I was reminded how treeless this part of the world is, just open land for miles, and the occasional horse cloppin' about.
Looked like someone had a rough time of it with a few cottages caught afire, but it was mostly out by the time I got there.
The wind in these parts can whip up a spark and catch the grasses, next thing you know the whole field's in flame.
As expected, the mead hall in Stoke were warm and toasty, and the grub was second-to-none. And I met the Reeve, Fríthild, a shield-maiden no less!
She were organising some folks to put out the wild fires nearby. She asked me to go by Oserley to see if I could get a few more hands to help, so I agreed I'd pass by. 'Twere a lonely walk, nary a soul, just the tall grass swaying and the birds singing. Weather were dry, at least.
It's a long hike across the Entwash and a lot of open ground to cover, so I decided to see about a horse.
As luck would have it, this chap Dudsig had a horse needed back to Harwick where they do a lot o' the training for these Mearas they calls 'em, so I'd have to ride a bit more than I'd wanted, but it'd get me well on my way to the Great River. Glad I did, there were a few gobbies prowlin' about in the long grass.