Today was the Shamrocked Beer Fest, held the weekend of St. Patrick’s Day by the Lancaster Stormers, the minor league baseball team across the river.
I’ve gone the last two years. I did not go for the beer festival. I bought a much cheaper Designated Driver ticket, because all I was interested in was the band. They still marked my hand and gave me a tasting glass, and I was tempted to see if anyone cared, but I didn’t. I was there for the music. I didn’t want to wait in lines.
The band? Lancaster’s own The Ogham Stones.
I picked a spot where I could stand in the sun, and the Ogham Stones put on a solid hour and a half set. Unfortunately, it was a bad spot for photos; I took a number, and in only about three of them can all six members of the band on stage be seen.
If it weren’t for the gale force winds, it would have been a pleasant springlike day. The winds, however, were fierce and made it feel like it was the low-forties.
An older man in a kilt and flatcap, and with a tasting glass kept close to full at all times, danced jigs in front of the stage by himself and with anyone who passed. We should all be so young.
Two couples, all my age or older, left the park just before me. One of the men was drunk, loudly so, and in a very good mood. He gave me a hug and wanted to know where I was from. He proclaimed himself a fan of the New York Jets, then got distracted and ran off, and the rest of his party had to chase after him.
Somehow I tweaked my ankle, and now it hates me.
A good time was had.