The Dyke had cast its spell on the land.
What was once passable terrain had been reclaimed by nature. Brambles and nettles grew into giant barriers of pain and blood. Even the gates and styles where barred making passage all but impossible.
The poor hobbit battled on and a dark cloud of tiredness and sadness filled his heart and mind. Then… After many miles he spotted a watering hole.
His heart refused to jump in joy as the place may have been shut, but he was lucky this time.
He wandered in and sifted through his brain trying to remember the wise words of those fell wizards and he remembered a few things.
He needed a tankard of black magic, a small flagon of the elixir of life and dragon talons. The bar tender had non of these so he settle for a pint of coke, half a bitter and a bag of pork scratching. He devoured and drank and placed his head upon the table, closed his eyes and said the magic words…. “It’s only 16 miles!!”
He rose from his places, remembering his manners thanksed the bar tender and made his way to the base of the Black Mountians.
Then he remembered te curse of the Dyke! Unperturbed, he battled on and recalled a saying…
Thank the Gods for the Trods!
He raised his head to the sky, lifted his gnarled wooden staff and bellowed. Head up, back straight he battled the hill, finding trod after trod to guide him upwards until he reached the dreaded Dyke. He drank his magical liquid and powered on, taking trig after trig until the last fell and it was time to descend to the land of food and water, Hay on Wye.
Our tale ends with a happy hobbit, having his photo taken in a pub and enjoying a slab of gammon, eggs and chips and a well earned pint or two.