"Wenchjacking was a big problem in the Middle Ages." -Mike, MST3K
Prince The Boy on a big plastic horse, rallying all the other seven-year-olds on plastic horses.
We had decided during the long (hot) fall that we would go to the Texase Renaissance Festivale (to make it sound classy, I added an ‘e’ at the end of each word, like when they name a mall Birde Pointe Malle – see? classy) on the day after Thanksgiving. It would be at least down to below 95°F, right?
So, on Friday when the shoppers were clogging Pointe Pointe Malle, The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley, Alia and I piled into the WilderMobile and headed north. I thought traffic was going to be light, heading away from Houston and all, especially with a back road that I took (thanks to Google® Maps™).
Traffic was miserable on the two lane highways leading to the Festival. About six miles away, we were doing about five miles an hour. We stopped a McDonalds for a quick drink and a brief respite from the breakneck highway speeds we were encountering, and I caught sight of a guy wearing tights and knee length leather moccasins. I took a guess that he wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill-varlet and asked, “How’s the Festivale?”
“Most excellent. Lots of hot wenches.”
Outstanding. I’m sure The Mrs. would love to hear that.
We thought that we’d be sneaky and “bob and weave” to avoid the crowds. It was cozy, just us Wilders and the 27,845 (official attendance that day) other people.
Parking, though, was a snap. We got out of the car, and I found that we were missing Pugsley’s stroller. He can walk, but a two-year-old can get very tired trodding around a medieval village, and carrying Pugsley is akin to walking around with a sack of forty squirming St. Bernard puppies. We decided to take our chances anyway.
The Festivale grounds are huge, and it didn’t seem all that crowded with 27,845 other nerds hanging around. (Note: You may protest that if you go to a Renaissance Festivale that doesn’t make you a nerd. Categorically it does, unless you’re just there to sell things to the nerds. Oh, sure you may not be dressed like a barbarian swordswoman with a chainmail bra covered in spikes, but if you go to one of these places, you’ve at least considered it a little. Nerd.)
The Mrs. bought a book. All the retailers called us anachronistic titles like, “M’Lord,” “M’Lady,” and, “Hey, put that down if you’re not going to buy it.”
We enjoyed a nice joust, took some pictures of The Boy on a plastic horse, looked at about a million swords, leather corsets, crystal amulets, and ale carts.
Finally, Pugsley went into full frantic mode. The Mrs. was leaving one of the shops and he executed a prime jujitsu move and flipped her over onto the cobbled street. The Mrs. has a bad knee from her time as an archer at the Battle of Hastings, so naturally she twisted the ankle of the other leg. Now instead of limping, she just shambles around the house. It’s kind of cute.
We decided to leave.
We got lost.
While wandering around looking for the exit, a vendor (selling plague rats, I think) approached me and noted that I was under the mistletoe. I looked and saw that he wasn’t looking at me, and sadly walked away as he worked hard to convince Alia that she needed to give him a smooch.
Blushingly, she finally did.
“You better not blog about this.”
No. Never. (Shhh). Not a bad way to end up the day in 1093.