Excalibur Exposed
On a Sunday afternoon, after you have recovered from the inevitable night before, there is nothing more pleasant than taking a stroll in the University Parks. That is, however, when it is sunny and there is a crisp autumnal feeling in the air. Sadly, on the Sunday when I ventured into the Parks, the rain was near torrential and the skies were lowering in a most unsuitable manner.
Despite the distinctly unfavourable conditions there were the usual sights of park-life: muddy rugby drills, equally muddy football practices and the odd intrepid couple taking the dog, the baby, or both out for a walk. What you do not expect to see is a fully accoutred Norman knight. Not just a Norman knight, but a Norman knight on a mobile phone.
As I continued, somewhat more gingerly, onward, I could distinctly hear the ringing clash of steel and the odd, guttural war-cry, but worryingly I could only see a group of Ultimate Frisbee enthusiasts (the St Anne’s first team I was reliably informed). Surely, I thought, they were taking the concept of ‘ultimate’ a little too far, but as I continued I noticed that the source of this distinctly incongruous sound was, in fact, the Wychwood Warriors.
Founded in 1984, the warriors are Oxford University’s oldest (and only) Dark Ages battle re-enactment group. Having set up camp beneath the ‘Old Oak Tree’ (admittedly there are many in the University Parks) and deposited piles of shields and axes next to backpacks and laptop cases, they had already begun their weekly practice.
Taking place near to this admittedly time-confused pile of belongings was every kind of activity (well, not every kind of activity, rather those predicated on killing or maiming one’s opponent in a Dark Age context).
In a very muddy meadow on the other side of the Cherwell, Eric Kerfoot was teaching new recruits the basics of archery. The romance of the image was somewhat marred by the details: a pair of shiny white trainers poked out of the bottom of undoubtedly Saxon woollen trousers.
The trainers were, however, eminently practical because Saxon shoes (as sported by several of the more adventurous re-enactors) appear to be little more than flimsy leather slippers which, although comfortable, get sucked off in mud and need to be re-waxed every time they get wet. The other activities were scarcely any more pacific. New recruits were practising their sword strokes with wooden staves while the more experienced members were actually fighting with naked, if thankfully blunt, steel.
Head protection was provided not by any ordinary crash helmet but a menacingly pointed Norman iron one. Indeed, for a new Wychwood warrior, one of the most dangerous aspects of re-enacting would appear to be the splinters. Yet, because of the limitations imposed not only by health and safety laws but also by the limited ways in which Dark Ages weaponry could kill, the freshers - terrifyingly for someone caught in the middle - were quickly being moved on to ‘steel’.
One or two of the swordsmen (technically swordswomen, although this sounds a bit neologistic for a Dark Ages society) appeared to be channelling university-related stress into what can only be described as a close approximation of ‘Berserking’ (though I hasten to add that no magic mushrooms were fed to any of the participants and there was no foaming at the mouth or chewing of shields).
The presence of ‘swordswomen’ may seem a little surprising, especially in a society that used to be very keen on a game called ‘Chase the Maiden’ (in the dark days when there was a shortage of maidens), but these days it appears that it is the men who should be starting to panic. The preponderance of battlecry yelling women seemed all too reminiscent of those archetypes of female ferocity, the Valkyries.
Indeed, although this may smack of a chauvinism that is all too akin to the Dark Ages, it was also noticeable that the female members of Wychwood had far more durable looking and well coordinated (though of course drab coloured) ensembles. One member even wore a light khaki jerkin that contrasted nicely with the darker, tweedy hues of her hood. As there is no Primark Saxon collection, if period clothes are worn, they are generally worn by their makers and are made in weekly kit-making workshops. The Wychwood Warriors are not all about killing, although I hasten to point out it’s not about historical reconstructions either. When I asked one member, I thought jokingly, whether they had Saxon names or back-histories, I got a look that would have felled a Norman at a hundred yards. Apparently, those are living-history groups, and in the world of re-enactments, confusing the two is like getting the Union and OUSU mixed up.
There are warrior socials too, with fires and feasting, though in the case of the latter I am assured that they are not always historically accurate (some talk of bottled mead and it being difficult to eat a typical Saxon stew). Although I was sadly denied the opportunity to pick out a Saxon name (it was between Wigmund and Baldred), I was forced into a bizarre Saxon version of Trinny and Susannah.
Although it lacked the four-sided mirror and advice on bras, it did offer the same feeling of self-consciousness and embarrassment. Shedding my warm and mercifully still dry clothes, I donned a somewhat torn and suitably mud spattered green jerkin with its accompanying sword belt (yes, a sword, which of course, in a Wagnerian moment of sheer silliness, I did toy with calling Nothung).
A large, sweat-inducing woollen cloak completed the outfit along with those vital accessories for any warrior-about-town, a helmet and shield. I was then encouraged to try out a war cry. It was not a good idea, especially as I still had a cold, and the phlegm-filled gurgle that emerged was embarrassing rather than terrifying. As I stood there still gurgling, I could hear the words of Sir Thomas Beecham in my ear: “Try everything once except Morris dancing and incest”.
I, of course mentally, crossed ‘Being a Saxon Warrior’ off my list.
2nd Nov 2006