It has been a rough month... two months, really.  Weeks of preperation going into a week of packing and planning.  A day of setting up our camp.  Getting into the groove.  Driving back and forth to take care of the pups and work.  Shopping and meeting with people, dealing with interpersonal drahmah, being "on" for the public portions of the rituals and traditions.  Trying always to know the right thing to say at the right time, and when to stay quiet, and when to step out for some tea. 

My words have failed me.  They've fled like frightened butterflies in a twister.  Ripped to pretty colorful flakes and drips of oozy goo.  

But as always, they gather together and reform and return home to me.  Slowly, they come back to me and I pick up each adjective and examine it, cuddling it close against my heart.  Every elusive noun scampers around wanting me to pick it up but dancing away from my fingers at the last moment.

The verbs are more cat-like.  Mad that I haven't been petting them because they've been ignoring me.  Tails twitching violently back and forth as they stare anywhere but where I am.  Aching to be cuddled and petted and praised.  

I can tell you this:  rain may get everything wet, but it will not stop the world.  We curl up under shelter and drink.  When the sun comes back out again (it really does, eventually) we spread our clothes and bedding out over chairs so it can dry some.  The world looks like the most poorly organized garage sale.  But mostly everyone is a little screwed, and those who are less screwed tend to help those who are more screwed.  It comes out pretty even in the end.  

This is where my family lives for two weeks in July/August.  These two tents and a pop up tent on the other side of the darker one form our ghetto.  Under the popup there is a table with a propane stove, water, gatorade, booze, soda, a cooler for some food, folding camp chairs, and my hammock.  Each tent contains a bed, a table, a closet, lots of clothing, accessories, and books.  We have lamps and safe tent-heaters.  We have multiple pairs of shoes and boots.  We have clean and dry underwears and socks stashed away in ziplock bags.  

The clothing ranges from linen braes and undertunics to wool gowns, from light cotton working tunics and trews (already ripped and stained from years of wear) to formal wear of the finest silk.  The accessories run from plain functional belts and leather turn-sole shoes to about fifteen pounds of amber jewelry, silver chains, hand crafted gold pins, master craftsman works of art, medallions lovingly made and passed down between family members.  Silver coronets with elegantly crafted designs etched between the pearls.  

This is probably not what you think of when you think of going camping.

There are usually around ten thousand of us there. The site is quite large.  The camping space is organized ahead of time and amazing people volunteer to show up early and get every area marked out and settled.  The whole thing is broken up into blocks and several groups may share a block.  Each group area fills up with tents for living, shared common or cooking areas, and sometimes elaborate shower facilities.  

But not all of the site is taken up by camps.  There is shopping.  

This shot shows maybe one eigth of the merchants on hand.  Armorers, clothiers, accessories, blades, archery, jewelry, food, spices, craft goods, books, supplies, and even a coffee house are all layed out and waiting to educate, entertain, and lighten one's purse.  

Then there are the battle fields, the areas for tournaments, the woods battle area, the archery fields, the youth combat lists.  

There is the guy who makes chalk labyrinths on the paved areas and here in the grassy area by the Runestone.

It is, for a few weeks, one great big little world.  People take great pride in their camps, setting up gates and heraldic displays

 People take great pride in dressing up and getting out and about, working for merchants or the volunteer services that allow such a huge event to happen.   People set up elaborate parties and meals, host story telling and singing circles.  There are drummers and dancers.  There are high formal courts in which individuals are recognized for their achievements and services.  There are musical ensembles that form there, one a choir that rehearses several pieces of period music without any acompaniment and then performs it in a concert for anyone who wishes to listen.  Every year a Viking Longboat is made in miniature.  People can paint the heraldic arms of those who have passed away on little shields.  A lady paints the sail of the ship.  It is set out into the large pond on the site and burned for the honor and memory of those who have gone on. 

And then, there is a night of "eat it, drink it, burn it" and a day of packing up.

Followed by about a month of cleaning gear and doing laundry and trying to remember how to fit into the modern world.  It's no wonder that it's hard to get the words back into working order.  

I'm 'dicea.  This is my world.  Enjoy.