I knew i was in the right place when I exited my hotel room the first morning to find an SS officer adjusting his uniform in the hallway. At breakfast, my coffee was generously poured by a Roman centurion in full body armour.
I had travelled to Corby, Northamptonshire, keen to see 2000 years of British history in a weekend. Every year in August, English Heritage presents its centrepiece, the Festival of History. The two-day event tours the country’s crumbling stately homes, and allows 3000 historical re-enactors the chance to fight each other in aristocratic surroundings.
On the battlefield at Kirby Hall, the fun began when the Early and Late Roman societies joined forces to form a century. My centurion friend ordered them into tortoise formation. They then unexpectedly charged the crowd. Other Romans appeared on horseback to slice open cabbages on poles, while artillery units demonstrated the ballista and siege catapult. The latter fired lead projectiles 200 yards into a formal garden, where they bounced around the potted plants like squash balls. Somehow, nothing was broken.
I walked past Saxons and Vikings limbering up for the Battle of Maldon. ‘Good morning,’ they said to each other, ‘ready to die then?’ A Viking observed, ‘I think we might win this one.’ Saxon lord Brihtnoth was arranging his aftermath: ‘Nobody dies before this guy stabs me in the back.’ None had a problem taking orders from a cockney pub owner dressed as a Saxon lord. But then, war is a serious matter. During the skirmish, a Viking invader picked up a fully armoured Saxon and threw him in a river. I was told that a recent Battle of Gettysburg re-creation in the US recorded more than 500 injured.
The largest set piece was the Battle of Franklin. The blast of a thousand infantry firing at once was debilitating. When the Confederates got rolling cannon fire going it was time to cry. Over all this was an excitable commentator. As the battle swung, he couldn’t help editorialising, revealing strong Union sympathies.
I followed the disciplined Federal troops back to their encampment, a canvas city on a hill. They sang as they marched, then dispersed to clean rifles and do drill. The Rebels were not far away, about 20 yards in fact. Quite a few were women. Those who weren’t often had frazzled grey beards and sunburn. They whistled Dixie. I hoped that when they spoke it