There’s a saying that I heard near Land’s End a little while back: “The nuts always fall to the bottom of the stocking”. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. You’ll certainly find the odd lemon further up, but there have always seemed to be more nuts in Cornwall than you’ll find elsewhere in the British Isles. (And yes, I count myself among them)
Every year I’m reminded of this when battle season approaches. No one local ever really bats an eye at men wandering around in full chainmail, or more often in torn leather and fur, flesh smeared in woad. Tintagel could be mistaken for Bree, the Wharncliff or the Arthurs’ for the Prancing Pony or the Green Dragon. Welcome to Middle Earth, South West. Warriors, bards and sages from every layer of antiquity carousing just slightly louder than is natural, proudly showing off their latest scars and bruises to wenches of indeterminate origin.
“So then I hear the order to regroup and fall back, but Ironhead’s helmet has slipped, an’ ‘is ears are still ringing from the blow, ‘an ‘eee just sees me turn and drop my guard – sees ‘is chance and takes this almighty upswing and catches me right here… two ‘ander with full momentum… you can imagine, I was practicing me Anglo Saxon niceties for a full thirty seconds… I mean, I’ll heal, but it’s going to take an age to get the dents out of me armour now Roger’s retired. This one? Nah, that’s from last year: me trike decided to get intimate with a tree at high speed with me still on it….”
Anything goes in London, yet somehow it wouldn’t quite work. It would look and feel like play-acting. But it’s normal here. This is reality. Some of these guys spend the majority of their year dressed like this, at battles around the country or on film sets hitting old friends for a living. In Character has become Their Character. And wandering home after the pubs chuck out, head full of single malt, nothing could feel more fitting than breathing the blustering night air, the sound of the sea shaking in the trees, and random celts shambling back to their tents all around me.
In most cases the wounds and bruises are accidental, but this year there was one battle which was for real. One chap brought his birds of prey to display some traditional falconry and hunting. All very well, but we have some hunting birds of our own down here. A couple of Peregrines from the cliffs decided to let them know exactly whose territory this is. One of them dived and hit the Harris Hawk in flight. Luckily it was a clear “get your arse out of here” message rather than a dive to kill, and the falconer was able to get the hawk back down and out of harm’s way. A few more seconds, he said, and it might have been too late. Meanwhile, the mock battle continued a few yards away, its edge diminished somewhat by the unnoticed touch of authenticity.
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