I promised a full report of the Bristol RenFaire, so it’s time to get to it. It was wonderful. My friend and I walked our feet off, looked into many a merchant’s shop, and watched the faire-goers. Many of them were fascinating. The barbarian contingent in what looked like fairly accurate very early Germanic clothing lounged against a stone wall. They looked perfectly in context until one looked a couple of feet to one side, to see a contingent of teenaged girls in irridescent chain-mail bikinis with chiffon veils tucked in. (At least they had fabric lining to the bikinis. It still looked mighty uncomfortable, though.) Then there were the dedicated Rennies, the people whose hobby is attending RenFaires. They were costumed colorfully, but their gypsy garb owed considerably more to fantasy than reality. They went skipping along, laughing and clearly having a wonderful time, equally clearly not participants. The Faire participants were in awesome costumes, accurate Elizabethan outfits pretty much from the skin out. Some of the Queen’s Ladies were young teenagers; they were playing a stick and hoop game in full brocaded hoop skirts. It was like seeing one of Holbein’s paintings come to life, which of course is the whole point. K. and I have a friend who is one of the Queen’s Ladies, Lady Philadelphia Carey. She managed to discuss dinner plans for after the Faire (which closes for the day at 7:00 p.m.) with us without once breaking character. They are trained to speak in Elizabethan cadence, so it was all the more impressive.
Then there were the people who do re-enacting from other periods who show up for something of this sort in their own groups. We were such ourselves, but we were much amused to be spotted as such over and over. K’s guess was that while we were costumed, we weren’t at all flashy – no fake jewels, no metallic gold trim, no polyester brocades. And we simply wore our garb; it wasn’t so unusual to us that we played to it, the way the “gypsy wenches” were self-consciously flipping their skirts. But it did get us into some fascinating conversations. K. got to talking details and technique with the archers, and I with the professional weaver who had a booth there. (She had a magnificent hand-woven silk cloak I have my eye on. If it’s still there next summer and I’ve money enough saved, I may well acquire it.)
The high point of the Faire events, for us, were the falconry exhibitions. The Royal Falconer is an amazing man who travels all over the country with his birds. We saw him fly Harris hawks one day, and a peregrine at the end of the last exhibition on Sunday. It was amazing. The hawks, it seems, hunt cooperatively, following their prey in relays. We had perfect seats, too; one of the birds landed perhaps 5 feet away from us, and another one perched on a support beam directly overhead, swooping over us on her flight path over and over again. We would hear the ankle bells, then the shadow would go by so quickly it seemed impossible. They were so beautiful, I can’t begin to explain it. What can I say; I’ve been fascinated by raptors since I was a kid.
And we talked endlessly. Wonderful the faire may have been, but the time spent with my oldest friend, with no parental responsibilities for either of us, was priceless. We waded in Lake Michigan, me with my skirts kilted up, and sat on the rocks with our feet in warm sand. We talked into the night, until we all but fell asleep sitting there. We would have confused heck out of anyone listening, because there was no background in our conversation; we just jumped in mid-topic, knowing each other would understand. It was wonderful. And so is my husband, who took over with our boychick and let me run off to play.