If I could vacation in any fictional world, I would choose the Shire from The Lord of the Rings.
I would not be interested in following Frodo into Mordor, confronting an army of Orcs, or helping Gandalf save Middle-earth. That sounds exhausting, and I have already fought enough battles in my own life. I would visit the Shire precisely because, most of the time, nothing dramatic happens there.
The Shire is a place of green hills, garden paths, round doors, warm fireplaces, and tables surrounded by friends. Its people understand the importance of a good meal, a comfortable chair, a long conversation, and an afternoon with nowhere urgent to be. They do not measure life by productivity or prestige. They measure it by what is growing in the garden, who has come through the door, and whether there is enough food to share.
That sounds remarkably close to paradise.
I would rent a small hobbit-hole with a bright yellow door, deep windowsills, and rooms that seem to have grown naturally out of the earth. There would be flowers outside every window and a writing desk positioned where the morning light falls across the page. I would bring my camera and spend hours photographing gardens, winding lanes, weathered fences, and the changing light upon the hills.
Of course, hobbits are famous for eating seven times a day. Following bariatric surgery, I might have to explain that breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper are no longer medically advisable. Still, I suspect hobbit hospitality would survive smaller portions. After all, the real nourishment of a shared table has never been the quantity of food. It is the welcome.
That is what attracts me most to the Shire. It is a world organized around nourishment rather than consumption. People tend the earth, prepare food, tell stories, celebrate birthdays, exchange gifts, and remain connected to one another. Life is not hurried past in pursuit of something larger. Ordinary life is recognized as the treasure.
I would spend my mornings writing, my afternoons wandering through Hobbiton, and my evenings at the Green Dragon listening to stories. I would sit beneath the Party Tree with a journal in my lap and ask myself the question at the heart of SŌL: What nourished me today?
The answer might be sunlight through the leaves. A conversation with a stranger. Fresh bread that I could only taste in a tiny bite. The smell of a garden after rain. Laughter coming from an open window. The discovery that peace is not emptiness but life experienced without fear.
I think I would also feel safe in the Shire. That matters more to me than it once did. I have spent much of my life negotiating whether certain rooms, churches, and relationships could hold the truth of who I am. In the Shire of my imagination, I would not have to explain or defend myself. I would simply be Dee—the slightly too-tall visitor in the colorful dress who writes stories, takes photographs, and always stays for tea.
The hobbits might be curious. They are, after all, enthusiastic gossips. But I like to imagine that once they knew me, they would judge me by whether I was kind, whether I helped a neighbor, and whether I appreciated a well-tended garden. Those seem like much better standards than the ones much of our world uses.
Perhaps that is why I would choose the Shire over more spectacular fictional destinations. I do not need another world filled with wealth, power, or endless adventure. I would want a world that reminds me that gentleness is not weakness, simplicity is not failure, and an ordinary life can still be sacred.
I would not stay forever. Even the Shire has its limitations, and eventually I would miss the people I love. But I would return home carrying some of its wisdom with me: tend what is growing, welcome whoever arrives, resist unnecessary hurry, and never underestimate the spiritual importance of a comfortable chair.
Most of all, I would remember that saving the world sometimes begins by creating one small corner of it worth saving.
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