My family attended a Welsh Heritage Festival a while back, as the Tall, Dark, and Slightly Neanderthal fellow, our Eldest, and our Boy were to demonstrate Scottish Country dancing.
You see, the disparate peoples of the former Gaeltachts have learned to support one another in this new and distant place. So, we Scots show up to the Welsh stuff, the Welsh visit the Highland games, the Irish turn up everywhere, even the grand-cousins of the Celtic dance traditions (American Clogging) take part, and we all eat Cornish pasties while we admire Manx cats and Breton fiddlers.
The Boy, Kilts Awhirl
My job was to feed and wrangle the little girls, and take pictures. Pictures like this one, which has nothing at all to do with the topic at hand, but which still makes me giggle:
The location for the festival was picturesque (in one of my favorite Rocky Mountain valleys), the company lovely, the dancing splendid. Heritage is a beautiful thing!
And then, there was this:
I said to my children: “Do you think they mean minke, or blue, or humpback?” and we all giggled.
Emboldened by my success and cleverness, I popped ’round to the other side of the sign, to the tasting booth, and asked:
“So, is it minke, or blue, or humpback on the tasting menu today?”
“Ummm… the sign? A taste of whales?”
Blank stares and a lengthy, painful pause.
“Well, you see, Ma’am,” said the nice lady behind the table filled with microwave pasties and production shortbread cookies, “This is a WELSH festival. So we’re offering tastes of food from that COUNTRY.”
My Tall, Dark, and Slightly Neanderthal husband kindly removed me from the area before I could do anything untoward.
Drat the homophones. Drat them, I say.