Not Crap

The Highland Games is one of those things I keep meaning to hit, and year after year I find out I just missed it.





So this year, I see the add on the Wednesday before, and I remembered.





What I neglected to look for was a ticket price. I pictured an event that was free, or nearly free, to get in to. Like Irish Fest.





Except now I remember, Irish Fest wasn't free. I think I may have paid $10 or so for myself and a reduced rate for the honyocks.



This was $15 for adults, $5 for kiddos. Cheap compared to Ren Fest, but compared to all the fair circuit events that have no admission charge (they only rob you blind if you want to do anything after you go in), pricey.

Still, I've always wanted to see folks throw telephone poles. Games of brawn, I'll probably never even attempt to do compete, but they appeal to me. How far can you throw an 18 pound rock? How high can you fling a sheaf of straw with a pitchfork? These games are elemental. They predate the Olympics.





And being able to flip a 150 pound pole end over end is probably a good preemptive strike against anyone who might tease a guy for wearing a 'skirt.'



I've personally always wanted a kilt, but they do get expensive. That, and I don't really know if I'm Irish or Scottish, and I think my 'clan' has a different tartan in each of those places. I mean the parts of me that aren't German or English or who knows what.



And I love bagpipes. I hate Amazing Grace, it's a terrible song made worse by pipes, but aside from that, I could listen to bagpipes all day long.



I used to tell the artist formerly known as Frau Lobster I wanted a minimum of three pipers and a drummer at my funeral. And for whatever homebrew I leave behind to be served, and if there's not much of that for a liquor store run to be made. I want my body donated to science: don't spend a bunch of money on a casket, spend it on a cask of very good beer and get the bagpipes going. Maybe a jazz quartet for after.



Because if people leave my funeral with their ears ringing and a buzz going, it's almost worth having a funeral.




But now I think three pipers isn't enough. Not if you can get a dozen or more.

Anyway, to get away from the morbid, we wandered and saw everything from whiskey tasting (I didn't partake, regrettably) to the Scots equivalent of Civil War reenactors (except from a hundred years plus before the Civil War) to Clydesdales and Highland Cattle.



Mo surprised me by being afraid to feed the horses. She stroked them, and they were massive. One turned around and sniffed her, startling her. Despite several people ahead of her hand-feeding these beasts, she would hold the straw up and drop it before it could be taken as if the horses fed on Mo fingers. Not like her, since she generally never met a stranger when it comes to hooves.

The Highland Cattle were easier for her. They were in a pen and they were seven months old, and thus not their eventual intimidating size.



These cattle take seven years to mature, but they're leaner than bison and supposedly the ultimate beef. What the Queen puts on her table, according to the guy who ranches them.



No commercial market for them, though. Hardly anybody raises them because they are so slow in maturing, but apparently you can buy the stuff online if you're willing to pay through the nose.



Word is, because of their heavy coat, what fat they do put on goes to marbling rather than a layer of blubber, so while they don't get much fat, what's there helps the meat be tender and flavorful. They are more efficient in terms of water and grass usage than breeds like Angus, and they're not fussy eaters. They are also, thanks to their long horns, not fit for a feed lot.



To which I commented that no cattle should go to feed lots. The rancher said he didn't have any argument with that.



The line to try a hamburger made of this stuff was too long, however, so I don't have a report on the gastronomic value of highland cattle. In my opinion, if they're going to skin you so bad to get in to this event, they need to have more food vendors on hand. The three or four they had all had winding lines that appeared to be taking upwards of 45 minutes to cycle people through. Bad planning: people who are in line for food are not spending money on the other offerings.





I tried to explain the tartan thing to Em. They had booths for various clans, and I pointed out the plaid was different for each one. Then it occurred to me the logical comparison for modern times: they're gang colors. They told everyone who was with who, so you'd know at first sight if a fellow was a friend or likely as not to try and lop your head off with a big sword.



The Funnel Cake line wasn't so bad, and Em was determined to have one. Funnel Cakes make a trip worthwhile for here the way petting horses and cows does for Mo.