I spent Saturday in the Green Hill Country, near Wood Hall. Day dawned drab and dull, with high clouds and mists abounding. But skies soon brightened, and I hiked the hills and pitched my palette at forest’s edge. At teatime, I heard voices, and was joined on the ridge by a halfling and one of the Big Folk. They tarried, and the doughty doyen perched on the trunk of a felled oak tree and blew smoke rings across the wooded valley below us. After an hour, the companions continued on their way, fading off into the folds of the hazy afternoon hills while I my pigments plied.