"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

Bilbo paused, his hand suspended over the creamy first page of the Red Book of Westmarch. How to begin? This time he wanted to write the truth, to tell everything exactly as it had happened, and his lips moved in silent apology to those who had heard a different version of the tale before he touched the tip of his quill to the paper once more.

Barely three lines of elegant, slanted handwriting darkened the page when Bilbo stopped. He could not have continued without dipping the quill into the ink-pot, which sat full in its place on the top right of the sloped writing desk, but it wasn't ink the hobbit was missing. He needed to find, from somewhere, the courage that he had long ago allowed to slip away. There had been a time, nearly fifty years ago, when he had been capable of great feats and brave deeds, but since his return to the quiet Shire, things had changed.

No, Bilbo thought. In truth the first change had come when he had chosen to leave; everything that had happened since his return had been a continuous process of learning to live the settled life of a hobbit. He dried the tip of the quill and sat back in his chair of carved oak, so deep in memory he did not notice the scent of Longbottom Leaf that announced the arrival of two of Bilbo's closest companions.

Frodo, nephew and heir to Bilbo, poked his head around the study door. Bilbo jumped when he caught Frodo's reflection out of the corner of his eye, flashing in the round window as the real Frodo stepped forward. Hurriedly Bilbo snapped the Red Book shut. "Back already, my lad?" he asked.

"Uncle, I've been gone most of the day," Frodo laughed. He was clearly in a merry mood and, as Bilbo wondered where the day had gone, Frodo gestured to indicated that Bilbo should stand up. "He's here!" Frodo said, catching on to the fact that Bilbo wasn't completely focused on the present.

"Who's here?" Bilbo was a little annoyed at being interrupted in his writing, and didn't consider that he hadn't put a single word on paper in some time.

"Who? Gandalf, of course!"

In a flash, Bilbo remembered. In less than a week, he would reach the age of one hundred and eleven years old. Frodo would turn thirty-three on the same day, and Gandalf had come to help arrange the celebrations, both public and private. Bilbo glanced at the desk before standing up. In addition to the Red Book, there were stacks of letters, all replies to party invites.

It occurred to Bilbo as he followed Frodo along the tunnel-like passageway to the dining room that one hundred and eleven was a good age for a hobbit, but at that moment he felt both older and younger. The feeling of great age had sparked private preparations for retirement and Bilbo was determined to continue his plan for a quiet journey to Rivendell, but when he thought of the wizard now rising to greet him, Bilbo remembered what it was to be young.

Gandalf was as tall and thin as Bilbo remembered. He was dressed in the same grey cloak and his pointed hat rested on a chair in the corner. The wizard filled most of the living room and did not stand to his full height even before he bent down to hug the hobbit.

"My dear Bilbo," Gandalf said, with warmth in his voice that made the old hobbit's eyes mist. "It's good to see you, and looking so well."

When Bilbo found his voice, he found his manners as well. "Can I offer you tea? Or something stronger? Wine, perhaps, or a mug of ale? A biscuit, or a pie? Some cheese?"

"No, thank you," Gandalf smiled. "But help yourself, if you feel the need."

Bilbo did feel the need. Supplied by Frodo with ale and pork pies, the two old friends sat down to the serious business of planning the long-expected party.

It wasn't until late that evening that Bilbo returned to his study and gently opened the front cover of the Red Book. This time he had no difficulty in telling his tale.