And so the exhausted medievalist flees to Ocean City, Maryland, intent on finding time to become reacquainted with The Hobbit for next Wednesday’s class. (He first read the book here—bought it on the boardwalk—more than 25 years ago.) But after golfing among Vikings and honoring the deathless gods of the dragon temple, what seaside novelty can entertain the Tolkien-minded teacher?
Weary, he rests at the edge of the wintry surf.
What’s that? You say you’ve found something lightly amusing and relevant to my lesson plan? Lead on, O friend of friends!
I say, what rises beyond this eldritch wood? Such a wonder can hardly be the work of man.
Zoom in, O magical steed!
Aye, nothing says “magic elf sanctuary” like storks. But surely, O lavender-maned tour guide, the name of this place is mere coincidence?
I see. So why, O hooféd Vergil ‘mongst the bayside shades, would a hobbit need a parking space?
It’s like a driveway to the Shire! Those round-top doors make me want to go there, and back again!
But wait—what’s that funny smell around back?
Run, fat hobbitses! It’s a cookbook! It’s a cookbook!