Ye know, as I sit's here out side me caravan, it nevers ceases to amaze me the number of folk who pass through our little hamlet of Waymeet. I means, ye see's all kinds of folk. True, that some dunna even spare us a glance - thinking we're no fit ter be greeted. Them's the only that hale mainly from the Little Delving... now I've never worked out why those folk think there better than us all, I gather they even look down on some in Michel Delving - now that is queer!
But I tell's ye, ye'll never find a placemore full of life and laughter than Waymeet.
We've the dwarfs and their casks of ale - fresh each week and sometimes twice, if there's a need. A right merry party they hold each evening, with the young lads dancing away trying to catch the lasses eyes. And the camp fires... all a roaring and cauldrons aplenty, full of good food ter sup and all welcome to it.
We hold no call with airs an graces here, we're all the same. Some of us seem ter be a fixture here, like meself, while others stay fer a while and then move on - and good lock goes with em, and we never fergets them, more so if they wants ter drop by fer a ale or two.
Across the way now, I see's master Adrean starting to prepare his fire, oh the stuff that lad cooks! It makes yer mouth sing ter taste it, and he's never one ter grumble about the weather either.
Yer canna beat it here.
