The company left Oakenshaw by the east road, which wound its way through the valley and over the low hills that sheltered the village from the wider world. For the first few miles, Bungo kept looking back over his shoulder, watching his home grow smaller and smaller until it vanished behind a fold in the land. Then he sighed, squared his shoulders, and faced forward.
The dwarves marched at a good pace, their stout legs carrying them swiftly along the road. Bungo, though shorter than the dwarves (as hobbits generally are), had no trouble keeping up. Hobbits are surprisingly good walkers, and Bungo had often tramped for miles across the countryside around Oakenshaw, though never with a pack on his back and never with such a purpose.
Gandalf walked ahead with Thorin, the two of them speaking in low voices. Bungo could not hear what they said, but he saw Thorin nod from time to time, and once he saw the dwarf-king glance back at him with an expression he could not read.
The first day's march took them out of the valley and into the rolling hills beyond. As evening fell, they came to a small inn on the roadside—a lonely place with a creaking sign that read "The Last Comfort" in faded letters. Bungo thought this a rather ominous name, but he was too tired and hungry to care.
They took rooms for the night, and Bungo had his first taste of what travelling would be like. The beds were hard, the food was plain, and there was no proper pantry to raid in the night. He lay awake for a long time, listening to the dwarves snoring in the next room, and wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.
In the morning, they set out again. The road began to climb, winding up into the hills, and the country grew wilder. They passed few houses, and those they did see were small and poor, nothing like the comfortable hobbit-holes of Oakenshaw. Bungo began to understand that the world outside his valley was not all green fields and pleasant gardens.
On the third day, they left the road and struck out across open country. Gandalf led them now, picking his way through trackless lands with a certainty that impressed even the dwarves. They crossed streams, climbed ridges, and descended into valleys where the sun hardly reached. Bungo's feet grew sore, and his pack grew heavy, but he did not complain. He was a Boffin, after all, and Boffins did not complain—at least, not where anyone could hear them.
On the evening of the fifth day, they came to the edge of a great forest. The trees rose tall and dark against the sky, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that blocked out the last light of the setting sun. A chill wind blew out of the forest, carrying with it smells of damp earth and rotting leaves.
"The Trollshaws," said Gandalf grimly. "We must pass through them to reach the lands beyond. But we will not enter tonight. We will camp here, on the edge, and go in at first light."
The dwarves built a fire and cooked a meagre supper. Bungo sat apart, staring at the forest and feeling a deep unease. There was something wrong about those trees, something that made his hobbit-senses prickle with warning.
"Don't like the look of it," muttered Dori, who had come to sit beside him. "Trolls, you know. Big fellows, not like us. Turn you into a snack without a second thought."
"Have you fought trolls before?" asked Bungo.
"Fought them? No, and I don't intend to start. Ran from them, once. That was enough." Dori shuddered at the memory. "Nasty great brutes, all teeth and fists and no brains to speak of. But you don't need brains when you're ten feet tall and can crush a dwarf's head like an egg."
Bungo decided he did not want to hear any more. He wrapped himself in his blanket and tried to sleep, but the wind in the trees sounded like whispers, and he lay awake for a long time, watching the fire flicker and listening to the night.