Usual fare, but no McNeills

Aye, Hold Yer Bloody Horses, Laddie
Frisky steed tried to shake off his colorful Scottish rider. 

If you guessed The Renaissance Festival, you were right. You're obviously familiar with its tortured hallmarks -- enthusiastic displays of cleavage, public drunkenness and wretched interpretations of the medieval tongue.

No kilt for a Stan McNeill.
This wrong one is $99.

We joined in the buffoonery yesterday, using our local knowledge to skirt the two-lanes of pilgrims lined up bumper-to-bumper for 5 miles, but still eager to plunk down $20 for the opportunity to buy ye olde burger and a beer and maybe a hand-thrown crock for next year's garage sale.
We made a bee-line for our annual breakfast treat: fresh-baked popovers served on a fist of whipped honey butter. At $2 each, we ordered three. Fastest eater gets to start on the extra one. Stan claimed victory -- and the first bite.

Anachronisms abound here.
Lady Jennifer tried to quit, twice.

Ever since our Cousin Arnold's DNA research revealed that the Rolfsruds fathered a good share of the McNeill clan, we've been on the lookout for a proper kilt to memorialize this achievement. Our hopes were raised when we entered a Scottish tartan shop and saw rows of plaid skirts, marked MacDonald, MacDougal and so forth.
But alas, the little strumpet minding the store told Stan that they had no McNeill tartan. Disappointed, we settled for this photo with the rangy store model, then continued on our way.
Eventually we spotted a Scottish knight in the jousting arena, could have been a McNeill, but we never got a chance to inquire. His skittish steed nearly de-horsed him as the crowd gasped. The Scotsman (who was wearing a microphone feeding the public address system) somehow regained his seat and dignity without cursing. We got pictures, (above) but he wasn't taking questions.
Kathleen did very well on her new knee, walking the soft earthy grounds, but it was time to go. As we passed the site where Stan's sister Becky once operated a cloth works, we saw a barefoot, kilted shopkeeper hawking his trinkets.
A McNeill plaid? we asked the man in the skirt. "I have no idea, sir," he responded. "I just found this costume and thought I would wear it. It's really comfortable. I'm German."
The search for authenticity continues.

We finished all the popovers.
Left about a half-pound of excess honey butter
for the bees swarming the food court