It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. – J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
On sunny September Saturday, my husband and I had a mini-adventure. There was no Mirkwood Forest (and sadly no dragon) but there were Goats on the Roof. Literally, Goats. On. The. Roof.
Say what you want. Call it ‘touristy’. A blatant trap for the hordes of Smokey Mountain visitors. I call it brilliant. It’s the best marketing scheme I could ever imagine.
Simple. Memorable. Unique.
If you are in the company of children (or your easily distracted twenty-eight year old wife – sorry babe) you will be stopping at an establishment that claims to have livestock grazing on the shingles. It really isn’t anymore than it advertises. And that is okay. It didn’t have to be. We stopped laughed at the goats, watched kids (the human variety) feed the goats by peddling small portions of food on custom conveyors, and of course, visited the gift shop. We didn’t succumb to a the racks of t-shirts – But we did get ice cream.
Since our visit I have looked up ‘Goats on the Roof’ and read some online reviews. Many weren’t flattering. Some reviewers were surprised the goats smelled ‘like goats’ or that the goats weren’t closer so their son could hand feed them (well…it is called goats on the roof). But these disgruntled patrons were missing the shear simplicity and beauty of the business.