Campfire Battle Fodder

Above the roar of a crashing sea, high on the cliffs above Tintagel Bay, we latter-day warriors laid down our arms to watch the sun sink into the lilac horizon beyond Merlin's Cove. Battered and bruised, our armour dented, but our pride pulsing, the day's heat rose from us as a haze laced with chain oil, sweat, and patchouli straight into the salty-sweet air of a crisp and welcome night.

The Battle of Camlann was over, and each side and every warrior had won. Heroes together, we gathered around our campfire, wrapped in our handmade cloaks with remnants of war paint smeared across our faces. In our hands, flagons fashioned from horns, and pewter goblets filled with local ales and honey meads, nectar to replace the blood, sweat, and tears from the day's fight. The gold liquid oozed into our veins, relaxing our hearts and whetting our tongues as they waxed lyrical with wild and wicked tales from the fray.

With ruddy faces shining from a day in the pelt of the sun and lit by the growing campfire flames, we sat side by side, no human more equal than the other. With rumbling bellies, we listened to each other's stories, laughing and sharing ourselves in rip tides and ripples of wit and whimsy, drawing from energy reserves leftover from a day fighting like it was 537AD.

What you did when you weren't there and how you fitted into the modern system and order of life was redundant. All that mattered was how you had contributed on the battlefield and how easy your company was. By the fire, a tall, lean man, barefoot and dressed in loose hessian, with a grey mane of hair indistinguishably inseparable from his beard, had become our unceremonious campfire leader. His name, perhaps unfitting of how he looked but certainly in keeping with his humble character, was Bob. The giant cooking pot that dangled in readiness over the flames on a chain slung over a spindly metal tripod was his.

"It don't matter what you got." He repeatedly said with a deep cockney twang as people brought what foodstuffs they had to share. "It can all go in. If you ain't got much, don't worry. It's all good. If you can spare a can of summit, though, chuck it in."

New to these events, I watched as potatoes, beans, vegetables, and various pastas in sauces all got opened, one after another, and thrown into what he affectionately called his "Chuck It In." I was bemused. How was this bizarre concoction of canned food going to taste? There was no thought, no plan, no measuring... nothing. Just can after can of whatever came next.

I looked around the fire, at the glowing faces of the veterans searching for clues, or perhaps more accurately, tells. Somebody would raise an eyebrow toward me; somebody would share a wry and knowing smile to connect with my doubts. But nobody did. They all seemed unequivocally sure they were in for a great meal. Many expressed an eagerness to dive into the random concoction, describing the bubbling hotchpotch dangling before us as a highlight of their day.

As the black cast iron pot grew hotter, the night air high on that clifftop grew colder, and we huddled closer around the fire. Children who had been running around clacking wooden swords and whooping into the encroaching dark joined their parents in our circle, each hungrily asking when the content of the large black pot with its emanating and enticing smell would be ready to serve.

As the warmth of the mead percolated through my core, practical worries ebbed in and out of my mind. What if the food tasted as bad as it sounded? What if the children got ladles full of the strange stew and refused to eat it? There were no shops. There was no backup plan. I lay back, stared at the night sky laden with crystal-clear constellations, and listened unconvinced by the hubbub of anticipation, pushing my hunger to the back of my mind.

"Won't be long now." Bob intermittently reassured as he stirred his pot and stoked the fire beneath it. Wafts of rich, earthy, umami-laden smells filled the air, mingling with the wood smoke and weaving around us in a heavy, intoxicating mist. I confess I had to keep reminding myself that this meal I could smell was just a load of random cans. Despite its deceptively tantalising smell, I was convinced by its provenance that it would be unappealing.

Finally, after an interminable wait, Bob declared the Chuck It In ready. I watched as ladle after ladle of brown lumpy goop was dolloped onto the plates of those around me. I watched, braced for the moment my suspicions became vindicated. That moment, of course, never came. My better judgement was left unrequited, and I was pretty astounded at the genuine and joyful reception each plate of splodge received. Silence bloomed around me in unspoken appreciation punctuated by affirmative and thankful groans of satiation. I held forward my plate, politely hiding my trepidation, and accepted a double ladle serving.

I will never know whether it was the fact that I was so hungry, that my energy was so low, that I had a couple of drinks lining my belly, or whether the circulating cold air juxtaposed the unctuous warmth to make it more than what it actually was. But I do know that sat there, on the edge of England, amidst the swirling airs of Arthurian legend, mingling with folk from all corners of life, that humble hotchpotch of meagre foodstuffs was one of the best meals I have ever eaten in my life.

The Recipe:

1. Fight a battle with an army of skirmishing Celts.

2. Build a campfire.

3. Hang a pot over it.

4. Chuck in any canned item from your cupboards except for fruit.

(Optional: Pour a drink)

5. Boil the blazes out of the pot of foodstuffs and serve.

Voila! Food fit for an army of Kings!

A Few Pictures:

I am afraid I didn't think to take many pictures back in the days I did battle re-enactment. Here are some, mainly of the day's action and not all from Tintagel. I only have one picture of me, as I was typically behind the camera. It was turned into a Christmas card by a friend who found it amusing to share and post to everyone. Sadly, it is a little damaged, and the original has been lost to the sands of time... Still, it is a treasure of a shot, and so I have saved it to share at the end.

With Love,

CJ xx