the drive

Before long, we were merging onto State Highway 1 south toward Hamilton. Vic guided the van though the downtown Auckland congestion, and crossed over the Waitemata Harbor via the eight-lane harbor bridge. The Auckland Sky Tower, standing four meters higher than Paris’ Eiffel Tower and therefore making it the most iconic structure New Zealand has to offer, was visible on the horizon as we made our way out of the city. Once out of city limits, we soon veered off onto State Highway 27, the smaller roadway that would take us all the way into the farming town of Matamata in New Zealand’s Waikato region.

The further south we drove, the more apparent it was that we were getting into the heart of New Zealand. The four-lane highway gave way to a meandering two-lane road that wove through the rolling green hills we had glimpsed from the plane that morning. Compared to some of the driving I’ve done on twisting coastal roads and narrow, unpaved mountain passes in New Zealand, the drive to Matamata was downright leisurely. Had it not been for the company and conversation, there’s probably a good chance that I would have dozed off.

Our journey through the Waikato region was peppered with a few bursts of rain, followed by some stunning rainbows. One of them spanned in full prismatic glory across the road in front of our windshield, a splash of color against a blue-grey sky. Una and Denise, seemingly permanently attached to their cameras, didn’t let their shutters take a break. And, as if driving into a rainbow weren’t picturesque enough, the scene was further enhanced by the pastoral beauty of the region.

The first of the season’s sheared sheep ambled along fence lines as we drove, scattering in all directions when the van trundled by. Others could be spotted clinging to the steep hillsides, which were slightly terraced from years of livestock use. Even though New Zealand was clinging to the tail-end of winter, the close-cropped grass in all the fields still managed to be an unusually brilliant shade of green. It was as if someone was holding a piece of green cellophane in front of the sunlight that was bathing the pastures. Perhaps that’s just what happens when there’s less ozone for it to filter through.

“They sure weren’t kidding about the sheep here.” Una had her eyes fixed on a relatively large flock all sporting red, spray-painted blotches on their backs. They were huddled together in a conspicuous group, their muddied wool coats proof of the wet weather the region was experiencing.

“Those ones are pregnant,” Vic said, following Una’s gaze to the tagged flock. “We’re right on the brink of lambing season now.”

“Aww, I wanna see baby sheep!” Una strained her neck, as if looking harder would reveal a lamb.

“Another week or so, and you will,” Vic told her.

stories

As we drove through the undulating farm country, Vic kept us occupied with stories – stories of New Zealand, stories about how Red Carpet Tours came into being, and some of his favorite tour stories. He passed around Red Carpet Tours brochures, photos, and even a book a devoted Ringer made. When it comes to “Lord of the Rings” fans visiting Peter Jackson’s Middle-Earth, it seems as if nothing is too crazy or ridiculous.

“What’s the weirdest thing someone’s done on a tour?” Jen piped up from the back. She was still browsing through the book Vic had passed back to us, eyeing fans posing in full Rings attire – weapons often included – in various locations. From mountaintops to upscale hotel lobbies, it seems you can never go wrong wearing a pair of hobbit feet.

Vic thought about it for a moment, then started chuckling.

“There have been some really… unique individuals on our tours,” he began. “But, personally, I think the time I remember feeling strangest was during a tour we did with about 80 Japanese.” That tour, Vic went on to explain, entailed multiple tour buses, a translator, and a good majority of non-English-speaking tourists.

“We had arranged to have dinner with Craig Parker – the local Kiwi actor who played the elf Haldir in the films. Apparently he’s very popular in Asia, because when he walked into the room, the young Asian women started screaming, and then crying.”

“Like, actually crying?” Una asked, peeling her eye away from her camera’s viewfinder long enough for me to glimpse a look of mild horror on her face.

“Actually crying,” Vic said with a nod. “Yeah,” he mused, “that was certainly an interesting tour. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the sight of 80 Japanese following me up the side of Mount Victoria, every one of them wearing a hobbit cloak.” We all began laughing, picturing cloak-clad Japanese women (Vic said there were only eight men on that tour) skirting the side of the mountain in downtown Wellington that we all knew so well. We had all climbed parts of it ourselves – though, admittedly, in much less theatrical garb.

the background

As we neared Matamata, Vic began telling us a little of the background of the filming location. Located on a sheep and cattle farm owned by the Alexander family, the Hobbiton site, as it appears today, is a bit of an accident – or, perhaps to us fans, a bit of really good luck.

It all began, Vic explained, back in 1998 when helicopter scouts started combing New Zealand for possible filming locations for Peter Jackson’s massive cinematic project. The particular scout that discovered the Alexander farm had been given the task of finding a suitable location for the hobbits’ party scene, meaning he needed to find a lake or pond with a field and large tree on its shore. Fran Walsh, co-writer of the script, suggested Matamata because she remembered visiting the area as a child.

The story goes that the scout spotted the perfect site from the air, landed on the farm, and then made his way to the Alexander house to discuss filming possibilities with the owners. Ian Alexander, however, was in the middle of watching a rugby match on TV, and told the scout to “come back later.”

“Typical Kiwi,” Vic said. “A lot of us are like that though: put rugby before most things – everything if we’re playing the Aussies.” He simply shrugged his shoulders as we laughed.

“But luckily,” Vic continued, “the scout listened.”

The Alexander farm ended up being used for the whole of Hobbiton, and not just the party scene as originally intended. The fronts of the hobbit homes (in the form of hole-like dwellings) were built into the hillsides above the pond. A mill was erected on the edge of the water, gardens were planted, and an artificial tree – complete with hundreds of thousands of fake, sewn-on leaves – was placed on top of the Baggins’ home, Bag End, in accordance with the description of Bilbo’s abode from Tolkien’s books.

Perhaps inevitably, once filming began, life as usual on the Alexander farm took a turn toward the unusual. First there was the road the New Zealand Army built to make it possible for trucks and trailers to get to the site. Then came the trailers, tents, animals, props, actors, and extras. Most of it was taken care of by New Line Cinema, the production and distribution company for the films, though, and the Alexanders were able to continue operating their farm. New Line was in charge of all the building, and was also supposed to be responsible for demolition of the site after filming ended.

“But here’s where things get really interesting,” Vic said.

New Line sent a bulldozer to tear down the hobbit holes, but a particularly wet season made it impossible to reach the seventeen holes built higher in the hillsides. The driver said he would come back once the ground firmed up. Six months passed, however, and the now-bare hobbit holes remained. Ian Alexander finally rescheduled the demolition, but, less than twenty-four hours before another bulldozer was set to arrive, a rather hobbit-like man showed up on the farm: Vic James.

“Back then, no one knew that any of the holes were still standing. We all assumed they’d been destroyed,” Vic explained. “So, imagine my surprise when I took a walk down to the site to find seventeen in-tact hobbit holes!”

Vic had visited the farm in early 2001, when plans for his tour company were newly under way. He had expected to simply approach the Alexander family about bringing tour groups to the farm, but, instead, ended up playing an integral role in saving the hobbit holes from destruction, which included getting the okay from New Line itself.

“Like a lot of the private land owners we deal with, we also have a good relationship with the Alexanders,” Vic said. “We’re the only private tour company allowed to operate on the farm. Everyone else has to go through the farm tours that leave from town.”

“What about filming for ‘The Hobbit?’” Jen interjected, referring to the “Lord of the Rings” prequel film that is currently in pre-production in Wellington. “If they use this same farm again, will they still run tours?”

“Well.” Vic paused, allowing a small smile to creep into his features. “Don’t go spreading this around yet, but rumor has it they will be using the Alexander farm again for ‘The Hobbit.’ And Red Carpet Tours has been given exclusive access to the site during the rebuilding process.”

“Wow. What I wouldn’t give to be here during that!”

getting there

We eventually turned onto Buckland Road – a complete coincidence, Vic assured us, even though Buckland happens to be the name of a region of Tolkien’s Shire – and began a winding drive onto the Alexander property. Vic popped in a homemade CD with music from Howard Shore’s “The Lord of the Rings” soundtracks on it to set the mood, and I remembered back to a similar CD he had played three years earlier during this same twisting drive. The fiddle refrain of the Shire theme rose and fell as the green hills around us swelled and dipped, almost as if the music had been composed for this very purpose. The CD wasn’t exactly as I remembered it – it has, in the past three years, been supplemented with newly released extended soundtracks and bonus songs – but the emotions I felt were the same.

“I think I’m going to cry,” Melinda said quietly from the back of the van, her German accent making her words sound thick and heavy. Glancing around, I had a feeling Melinda wasn’t the only one.

As the last strains of a pan flute solo faded away, we pulled up to the Shire’s Rest, the departure point for all Hobbiton tours. The small, two-story building – consisting of a conference room, small gift shop, café, and toilets – sits right next to a shearing shed on the edge of a shallow, fenced-in valley dotted with sheep and twisted pine trees. The Shire’s Rest represents the perfect marriage of modern and rustic design, with the café and conference room portion of the building looking polished and new, while the toilets are made to look like a weathered hobbit hole, right down to the doorknobs in the middle of the doors.

Inside the second-story gift shop, we met Alec, our farm guide for the morning. Dressed in a long black Hobbiton coat and a black Hobbiton cap that only partially kept his flyaway grey hair at bay, Alec was the epitome of a rural New Zealand man. His skin was permanently tanned and leathery, he spoke in a low, mumbling drawl thick with Kiwi accent, and I’m not one hundred percent certain that he had all of his teeth.

After passing out brochures and repeating the history of Hobbiton that Vic had shared with us on the drive in, Alec joined us in the van, and we headed for the set. Getting to the location required driving deeper into the farm, with frequent stops to unlatch and re-latch rickety gates to keep the farm’s four-legged inhabitants contained. One or two brave sheep approached the van curiously as we stopped, only to scatter nervously as we rolled on by.

When he wasn’t hopping out of the van to open and close a gate, Alec entertained us with anecdotes about filming. Judging from his stories, Alec didn’t seem to be aware of Vic’s personal involvement in preserving Hobbiton, but I got the feeling that Vic preferred it that way.

improvisation

The original plan was to drive down to the lowest point of the set, and then make our way up the hill to end our tour at Bag End. However, a downed tree – no doubt a result of the strong wind that had sprung up since we’d arrived – impeded our progress.

“No worries,” Vic assured us, utilizing another favorite New Zealand phrase. He began backing up the way we had come. “And you think driving on the left is hard,” laughed Vic. “Try driving backwards on the left!” I didn’t really want to try it; driving normally in New Zealand (on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road) was difficult enough. You don’t realize how programmed you are when it comes to turn signals and windshield wipers until they’re suddenly on opposite sides of your steering wheel.

As Vic got us turned around, Alec made a quick phone call to the Shire’s Rest to let one of the Alexanders know about the downed tree. We could get to the site from another direction, but the farm van that was already parked at the bottom of the hill would have a much more difficult time getting back out with giant tree roots blocking the gravel roadway.

the shire

“I’m doing this the right way,” Josh, our Californicated classmate, announced in the midst of peeling off one of his socks five minutes later, after we hopped out of the van. He straightened, socks in hand, and tossed his California-sun-bleached hair, flashing a straight-toothed smile that would have put the stars of the Crest White Strips commercials to shame. Vic just chuckled, eyeing Josh’s bare feet.

“Your feet don’t have enough hair,” Melinda observed, pointing at one of Josh’s relatively hair-free feet.

“He may after today,” Vic said, chuckling again as he zipped his coat up to his chin, making him look rather like a turtle peeking out of its shell. I didn’t blame him. Already, the biting wind was tearing straight through my scarf and jacket. Looking around at the other girls as they shrunk down in their winter coats and donned their wooly gloves, I could tell they were feeling the same way.

After ensuring that we were all bundled up accordingly, we began following Vic and Alec down the slick side of a hill, trying our best not to slip. Josh squished along through the mud and sheep droppings alike, perhaps slightly more at risk than the rest of us as the glop oozed up between his toes.

Thanks to the downed tree, our entrance into Hobbiton took place from above, rather than from below, as is usually the case. We were all slightly taken aback when, suddenly, we crested the hill to find Hobbiton sprawled out at our feet. Tucked into the hillsides below us were seventeen white-washed facades with perfectly round holes cut into them where windows and doors would have been on normal house fronts. They would have undoubtedly looked curious to someone unfamiliar with Frodo and his quest to destroy the One Ring, but the six of us at the top of the hill, steeped in Tolkien lore as we were, knew exactly what they were: hobbit holes.

Beyond the hobbit holes, 1,250 acres of rolling farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with gnarled, non-native pines and waddling wooly sheep.

Despite Alec’s urging for us to hurry down the hill so we could start our tour at the bottom, our progress was sluggish due to the amount of photos being taken. Una, with her bulky camera slung around her neck and her fiery-red hair whipping around in the brisk wind, was moving two steps per minute, at most. The rest of the Hobbiton first-timers weren’t much further ahead of her.

I sidled up alongside Denise once we had made our way halfway down the hill. She was crouched down in the muck, framing a photo of Bag End – Bilbo and Frodo’s home – as it loomed above us from its perch on the highest point of the hill.

“What do you think?”

“There are, basically, no words,” she said in her characteristic Valley-Girl-from-Vermont vernacular. She stood to examine the digital picture she’d just snapped, grinning, her cheeks and ears rosy from the wind. “I’m so jazzed right now; I kind of can’t believe I’m here!”

We followed Vic and Alec down the winding gravel path that led through the center of Hobbiton, pausing to peer into a darkened doorway every now and then. The doors don’t actually lead anywhere – the hobbit holes are nothing more than flat wooden facades pressed into the grass, after all – but that didn’t stop us from imagining round hallways with soft dirt floors leading off under the hills.

Alec stopped us just shy of the end of the gravel path, in front of a small, bare hill.

“You may not be able to recognize it now,” he said, indicating the hill in front of us, “but this is where Sam and Rosie’s hole sat at the end of ‘Return of the King.’ It was the last hobbit hole you saw in the trilogy.” A few people snapped photos. Later, I found myself wondering if they would feel silly explaining those photos of a bare hill to family and friends back home. But, in that moment, taking a photo of a bare hill seemed to make perfect sense.

“That’s what it looked like during filming,” Alec said, pointing to a photo board standing conveniently behind us. On it was a large picture of the hobbit hole complete with red door, garden and grassy roof – an image familiar to every one of us. The picture, we were told, along with about a dozen others, was given to the Alexanders by New Line as a gift after filming. During principal filming, cameras (other than the cinematic sort, of course) were forbidden on the property. Consequently, these behind-the-scenes photos are some of the only ones in existence that fans ever get the chance to see. Again, flashes went off.

“The owners are actually petitioning New Line to allow us to rebuild this hobbit hole, since they let us refurbish all the others,” Alec continued, referring to the new white-washed wood adorning all seventeen hobbit holes. “Though, if the rumors are true, they may be back here rebuilding it themselves soon enough.” He didn’t say any more, but six sets of eyes glanced over at Vic and six sets of lips curved up in knowing smiles.

frolicking

We continued down the path until we stood beneath a towering pine tree on the edge of a small pond. The tree, tall and old with branches placed just right to form a rounded outline, commanded our full attention. Its needles rustled faintly as a particularly cold blast of wind whipped against our cheeks and foreheads.

“I probably don’t have to tell you where you are right now, eh?” Alec said as he gestured to the scene before us. And, indeed, he didn’t.

“The Party Field!” four of us said at once.

Before Alec could rattle off how many hobbit ears or bottles of specially-brewed hobbit ale were used to film the party scene in “Fellowship of the Ring,” the six of us were grasping hands in a circle on the field beneath the Party Tree. The tree, a non-native pine, is roughly 120 years old, and was standing at its post beside the pond long before the Alexanders bought the farm in 1978, and longer still before it became famous in Tolkien circles as the Party Tree. But, regardless of where it came from and when, it will have only one identity from now on: the centerpiece of New Zealand’s Shire.

“Are you ready?” Josh asked the group as a whole with a toss of his hair. We nodded, bending our knees and shifting our weight in preparation.

“One, two, three, frolic!” Jen called out, tugging us all in a clockwise direction.

There were no further words or dancing instructions – just broad smiles and gleeful laughter. We spun until we were dizzy and out of breath, then took a break and did it again. We frolicked into a soggy patch of field, splashing cool mud up our jeans, and, in Josh’s case, legs. But it didn’t really seem to matter. In that moment, we weren’t exchange students; we weren’t tourists; we weren’t even strangers. We were simply frolicking.

A brief rain shower, borne in on the brisk wind, interrupted us, and we took refuge under the large, gnarled boughs of the Party Tree. The tree’s long needles were fairly unsuccessful in protecting us from the cold, stinging rain, but we didn’t care.

“My face hurts from smiling so much,” Jen whispered to me as we all caught our breaths.

“Are you sure it’s not the wind?” I joked, knowing full well that it wasn’t – at least not entirely.

“Yeah, I’d say I’m about 99 percent sure.” She shot me a full-toothed grin before recruiting Josh to take a picture of her hanging off one of the tree’s thick branches.

Once the shower passed, the clouds parted to allow an unhindered sun to illuminate the close-cropped grass and white hobbit holes once more. The bright sun lent the whole area an after-rain sheen that made it even more breathtaking than before. The grass was somehow greener, and the air somehow fresher. Even the blue of the sky seemed half a shade brighter. Despite it being my second trip to Hobbiton, it was like I was seeing it for the first time. I wondered if that feeling had worn off yet for Vic, who makes this day-trip to Hobbiton three or four times a week.

“You know,” he said as we climbed up the hill to Bag End, “this is one of the sites I never tire of visiting, no matter how many times I’m here.” Looking out over the lush green fields of Middle-Earth, it wasn’t hard to understand why.