Two worlds apart, but so effortlessly melded together to form an age long since passed, but still present. A fair to clash the old and the new. The wooden gate stood erect and appeared to have weathered all of time, a monument within itself. Decorated with multiple coat of arms and with colorful strands of rope, it greeted you as the maw of the old world. Welcoming to some, foreboding to others, exciting to all.

Past the gate were multiple dirt paths spreading out like spiderwebs and a few cobbled buildings for those who are new to the festival. One peculiar building stands out though, open on all sides with its slanted wooden roof. Glass figures dance a motionless dance in cases and on wires. An elderly man sits behind a cluttered desk filled with various metallic tools and scraps of glass. A sign reads: “Hand-Crafted Glass Necklaces, Sculptures, and More!” and it hangs on every side of the building. People gaze at the testaments of years of study and hard work produced in awe, the different colored glass melding into one coherent piece of art. Blues, reds, and greens all bubble inside a glass dragon as a hundred shades of orange refract out of the mighty beast’s maw.

Such craftsmanship couldn’t be found elsewhere, not outside the Renaissance Festival. Adventuring around the grounds, there’d be many more fine shoppes with their own hand-crafted goods of immaculate quality. Fine jewelry made from sterling silver, gold, or nickel, armor custom fitted to your body, or even weapons; swords, spears, axes, forged on the spot before your very eyes. Even common goods such as clothing, candles, food, woodworks, pretty much anything could be found in some of the best conditions to be seen. All have such attention paid to them, care such that a mother would give to a child. That can’t be found in market stores today, with mass production pumping out thousands, if not millions of products annually like a giant machine. This machine has no feelings, no emotions towards what it puts out. It devours resources and depends on currency to live, but the craftsmanship that goes into every crook and cranny of the goods at the Festival, that has personality. You can still smell the charcoal used in the fire to cook those sizzling turkey legs, and hear the groan of the artisan as they exhaust their bodies to master their finished product, and feel the sweat that made all the curves and edges. There is nothing like it.

Walking out the gate, the memory of history and the archaic ways that were still fresh on the mind. The fine artistry and the way it weaved itself into every fabric, every dish, every miniscule detail of each and every product. It leaves its audience in awe, astonished that such attention and care could ever be put into a completed product. People are so used to the standard shelf consumables that they tend to overlook its simplicity and uncaring nature for the efficiency and affordability of having it here and now. Walking out the gate, the memory of the experience will mark you and your views for the rest of your life.