Sometimes we want to be here, tucked away from the rest of middle-Earth and whosits whatsits everywhere. When we used to imagine ourself right smack into the world of The Shire (think the Portland area, if we're considering just the U.S., for geographic location and climate, though we don't recall much rain ever being mentioned), we saw it like this:
We were a swordsmith - the most talented swordsmith in all of middle-Earth and beyond. We lived in Bag End, next door to Bilbo, in our very own cozy nook of a hobbit-hole that smelled of the woods and wildflowers (and these days we would probably add a dash of whiskey to the scent, what with all the adventurers stopping by).
Seeing as how we were oh-so-talented and at home with our sword-making, all the best of the great adventurers would make a point of stopping by before they went out into the great wide world beyond the Farthings and Brandywine. We would shine up their weapons and mend what needed mending, all the while hearing of the adventures they were about to embark upon, and feeding them all the grilled cheeses and ding dongs (our favorite, and yes, we seamlessly meshed our world with middle-Earth's without a moment's confusion or thought of logic) that they needed to start their trip.
And then of course, one day we went with them.
And so our mind daydreamed and toiled and fought and won and discovered and led the way the whole, long, delicious time. And sometimes on some days we go back there, because it's so... much... fun.