I got stoned at a Medieval Festival

It all started with an elusive riddle, “venture until you see the black car, last row. There you will stay”. I turned to my girlfriend, who was driving, with fear in my eyes while she calmly parked her car and stepped out.

I immediately felt like medieval culture was going to be too harsh for some as high as I was. But, it was too late. 

In the distance, I saw my first medieval peasant walking along with a basket. “Look, look!” In childlike wonder, I shouted at my girlfriend as the peasant pulled an iPhone 12 from his pocket. “Well, that’s ruined the illusion,” my girlfriend sighed, causing them to look back, startled—like we’d told a dream person they weren’t real.

The walk from the car park was long and arduous. We made our way over cobbled bridges and passed a child scream crying while taking a shit next to a tree. I suppose they didn’t have plumbing in the middle ages.

But finally, I was inside the medieval festival. I look across my new stomping ground, where pitched tents hosted sketchy characters with unique dialogue trees to explore like I was in an open-world medieval RPG.

I wandered up to a stall pitched by a plague doctor— wearing an ankle-length, leather overcoat, a bird-like mask, and a wide-brimmed hat—who began telling me about how he helped Britain survive the black death.

The sick were required to stay in their house for two weeks, wear a mask, and stay two meters away from everybody…sounds familiar. The plague doctor’s job was to visit the sick, sell them medicine and chop off limbs when needed

‘What’s this’, I gestured to a jar of green shards. “Smashed emeralds, the patient eats them and it’ll fix their stomach issues,” he replied as I stared back, mouth wide and eyes like I’d dropped an e. Momentarily, he broke out of character and whispered, “it was just a con for the rich.”

That was enough, I’d already lived through one pandemic and didn’t want to start clapping on Thursdays again; especially not for a man trying to make me chew stones.

That was enough, I’d already lived through one pandemic and didn’t want to start clapping on Thursdays again; especially not for a man trying to make me chew stones.

As I ventured further into the fayre, the more I felt at ease. Madens, peasants, and common folk welcomed me with open arms despite how mentally slow I was—most likely appreciating my high enthusiasm.

An artist explained his artwork that showcased strange beasts from distant lands. Men with no heads, a snail with the head of a dog, and a rabbit riding the spine of a dragon. The longer I looked the more I started to see internet culture playing out in medieval form.

I could just imagine an artist in the middle ages running through the town square, “OMG, guys! You’ll never guess what I saw on my adventures…” just to reveal a painting of a rat doing a handstand with the legs of a cricket. Just the kind of content that would have gone viral back in BuzzFeed’s hay day; the difference is I’m sure medieval folk believed it.

Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a brutal, bloody war break out. I looked to my girlfriend for reassurance, who was equally as alarmed. We turned a corner to see what felt like thousands—in reality, tens—of young children fighting with wooden swords. 

One child let out a battle cry as he whacked another. “Oi, Jamie! Fight nicely,” his father yelled from the wings of battle. “I know your background, son.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, and I didn’t want to find out, so I scurried out of the warzone.

I found a cute cart with a collection of paints and artwork. An elderly man with an arched back and wizardly aura appeared from behind a curtain to inform me about the process of making the ink. 

While halfway through explaining the drying process his body language changed, eyes darting into the crowd behind us and stood upright like a royal. “My wife hasn’t come back,” he cried out. “She left with my credit card a while ago but she hasn’t come back.” He looked so deep into bloodshot eyes that my heart stopped. Eyebrows skewed on his face, the man confessed, “I’m starting to get a little worried.” 

The fourth wall had been broken and I was slightly concerned. I decided it was best to leave the man alone with his thoughts. Whether he was having a mental breakdown or his wife had robbed him, a high and distressed youngster was not who he needed right now.

Things elsewhere were jolly. There was a puppet show, a knight giving a TedTalk on armour, and hog roast being handed out. Despite the good vibes, I was still on edge from the Battle of Jamie and the spooky wizard with no wife, so decided a drink would ease my anxiety.

The tavern was small but full of craft beers, cider, and, of course, the medieval staple mead. I entered the queue behind a man of similar stature to Henry VIII with a tankard in hand; he swiftly downed his drink and slammed it on the bar. 

The giant of a man turned around, leaning down to my eye level, “It’s really uncomfortable to drink out of that” he growled. Beer dripped from his beard while his red, swollen face wore a sense of confusion and discomfort. He was a weird man but had clearly been enjoying the event—mostly the mead.

He entered negotiations with the barman, attempting to buy their hand-sculpted horns to drink out of. He scoffed at the price while ordering himself a bottle of beer instead.

“This is a damn good event isn’t it?” he said, while surveying his surroundings. “Yeah, there’s a lot of unique characters,” I replied, secretly talking about the man himself. 

Turns out, the drunkard in front of me was the event organiser – The Lord of these lands. 

The sun was beating down on me and pressure began to mount to not act high in front of the nobleman; I began to take my jacket off. Irony decided to strike as I struggled to remove my jacket without my unbuttoned shirt going with it. As my shirt hung half off my body, I noticed my doob tube was in my top pocket teetering on falling out. Quickly, I glanced up and The Lord was turned away -phew! I swiftly grabbed it and threw the doob tube into my pocket. 

The Lord was too busy guzzling down his fresh beer and waffling to a fair maiden to notice. I got the barman’s attention and ordered some mead.

Mead was one of the most popular drinks in medieval England and I can see why. The combination of honey, “brewer’s yeast”, and ginger created one of the best alcoholic drinks I’ve ever had. That said, it was 13.4%, I hadn’t drunk in a few months, and it was beginning to touch the sides.

It was time to get out of this wretched place and I headed for the exit. I put The Lord in the distance, while walking past the puppet show (that was somehow still going on), and waving to the medieval meme artist.

Before leaving, I saw a sight that warmed my heart. The paint man from earlier sat outside his stall, with a sandwich in hand. Who was next to him? A woman who you could only assume was his wife. Why? Because she had a credit card in her hand. 

Love isn’t dead, even at the medieval fayre.