16 miles up the road from where I lived in Boston are the Lincolnshire Wolds. These gently rolling hills are the Shire; the indigenous population have never ventured beyond its borders, and each farm is occupied by a farmer Maggot (Get off my land!!!!). Here they still use stones and pounds, and trade in shillings and farthings. People still huddle around their beers in the local taverns, greeting strangers with ghostly silence, and like the Shire, have no hope of getting Broadband. An old Numenorian fortress now lies in ruin on a hillside, once home to a King (Henry IV Bolinbroke), while Swarvy Men are now encroaching on the borders from a distant land across the sea.I live in Devonshire, England, 'nuf said.
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