The Gallivanting Grasshopper: Big Cheese -- Caerphilly, Wales

I'm starting this post from the Big Cheese festival of Caerphilly, Cardiff. The band is in between sets, so filler instrumental music pulses in my ears. Jeremy sits next to me and slowly nibbles a hunk of cranberry cheddar. He isn't obsessed with cheese (or food in general), but has graciously accompanied me to the Big Cheese regardless of his take-it-or-leave-it stance. I sometimes feel rather awful that when we hang out (which is quite often), we do only the things that I like to do. When I bring up this uncomfortable phenomenon, he flashes a brilliant, playful smile and says in a tone brooking no argument, "You're the guest."

He peels off the wrapper and stares at his cheddar, contemplating exactly how one begins sinking one's teach into such a formidable a hunk of cheese. He is a bit intimidated by the size and richness of his fermented fruity package, and I am reminded that my ability to consume an entire waxed cheese in one or two sittings is a unique and remarkable gift. I demolish my orange and whiskey flavored cheddar with unrivaled gusto, lick my lips, brush off the cheese crumbs, and take up my pen.

Cheese... God, I love cheese. I brushed my tongue around my gums and picked up the final remnants of whiskey. Why does cheese always taste so much better outside of America? Spanish cheese... Italian cheese... Irish cheese... Danish cheese... French cheese... Welsh cheese... the only place I've visited that did not boast an abundance of exquisite cheeses was Morocco.

Children play with spinning plates and strange cup-like toys on strings that could be the yo-yo's great-granduncle. Some distant relation the yo-yo has tried to forget about. They shake their nonexistent hips inside brightly colored hula hoops and stumble back and forth on the most unimpressive stilts I've ever seen. They are supervised by eager parents wielding pocket cameras and a long-suffering clown with grey hair and clad entirely in black with bright red shoes, suspenders (the American kind), and a ruby colored hat band. He deftly swipes the stilts from a disgruntled boy in florescent green and demonstrates what walking on stilts looks like without the ubiquitous face plant. I find the clown's display rather boring and much prefer the boy's frenetic floundering.

A young blonde woman wearing white all-star converse leans over her stroller where two blonde boys (dressed identically, down to their blue checkered socks), suck their thumbs and pick their noses. The boy closest to me releases his thumb and attempts to suck his toe. He succeeds and soggy crumbs of cookie smear onto his pale cheeks as his relatively enormous feet displaces his dessert. His mother hands him a banana and he forgets about his flavorful feet altogether. I am disappointed. Eating a banana isn't nearly as amusing to watch as nibbling toes.

The music has started. Jeremy taps his feet and slaps his thigh as the rhythm begins to permeate the park. Even the flailing girls brandishing yo-yo relations and the unhappy boy on stilts get into the mood of the music. Bubbles fly in the wind.

Ice cream cones, chocolate bars, lollipops, bacon baps.

A child's paradise.

One of the identical boys erupts into a squeal. His mother stuffs more banana into his raging mouth, hoping to prevent a full-blown squall. He stops his crying and glares at his cooing young mum in resentment, cheeks too full of banana to continue his rant, but bitter at being so easily manipulated.

The festival was full of crafts, cheeses, sausages, ciders, liqueurs, candies, ice-creams, spectacles, and rides for kids. There was also a medieval village set up in front of the castle, complete with a fencing display and a burly bloke firing a massive old-fashioned gun.

oddly enough, there were two tents containing predatory birds tied to perches. I'm not altogether sure what these animals have to do with cheese (nor am I sure I want to know), but they were lovely to photograph.

Medieval village at its finest.

Jeremy. I posted this picture on facebook as a part of my "when I get artsy" album, a decision I quickly began to regret. Whenever I checked my profile, I'd have 4 or 5 notifications. Awesome, I'd think. Someone's been reading my blog. The fact that all my notifications were from cute girls "liking" this photo started to irk. So I took drastic measures and "unfollowed" it.