A Weekend in the 16th Century: California's Renaissance Faire

No time machine. No questionable decisions involving the home bar. Just a short drive to Irwindale, California — and suddenly, we were in 1597.

The Southern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire drops you straight into Deptford, an imagined English village during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. This is the golden age of the English Renaissance — and for a few weekends every spring, it breathes again in the San Gabriel Valley.

The map of Deptford — a whole imaginary English village. — *The map of Deptford — a whole imaginary English village, drawn like a treasure map. Somewhere on it, there's an ATM.*

The Moment You Step Through the Gates

You smell it before you see it.

Warm bread. Roasting meat. Something sweet and smoky drifting through the air. Just past the entrance stands the tavern of the Guild of Saint Ives — a gathering place for the village's common folk. The scent wraps around you like a wool cloak.

*Village life on the streets of Deptford. Nearly everyone is in costume — and completely, cheerfully in character.*

My husband Alex spotted the enormous tankards of ale immediately. Of course he did.

But the tavern had rules. No costume, no entry. The Queen's procession was expected any moment, and one simply could not be caught in jeans and sneakers when Her Majesty passed by. The barman waved us toward a side street where modern folk — fellow time travelers like us — could grab a drink without causing a royal incident.

We went. Obviously.

The Streets of Deptford

The streets are packed. Nearly everyone is in costume — and not just visitors. The performers, guild members, shopkeepers, musicians, and street characters are fully, completely in character. All day. Every day.

A village woman leans over the fence, mid-conversation, flowers tumbling beside her. — *A village woman leans over the fence, mid-conversation. Behind her — the California hills. The 16th century had better views than I expected.*

A jester materializes from nowhere and delivers a joke directly to your face. You laugh before you understand why. Somewhere nearby a lute is playing. Everywhere you turn there's a new color — deep burgundy velvet, bright saffron silk, the glint of polished armor in the afternoon sun.

A street musician with tiger-stripe face paint and a lute. — *Face paint, leopard print, a lute. Just another Tuesday in Deptford.*

Not everyone fits a category. Some characters you can place immediately — nobleman, royal guard, jolly pirate. Others you simply can't.

*The Black Knight. Alone. Moving through the crowd like a shadow. Asked no questions. Answered none.*

Some drift past without a word. Others stop and stare you down.

Traveler? Wizard? Philosopher? Unknown. — *Traveler? Wizard? Philosopher? The faire doesn't ask. Neither should you.*

The faire has room for all of them. No one is going to ask you to explain yourself.

*A Florentine gentleman with his pet rat on his shoulder. Perfectly at ease. Perfectly delighted with himself.*

They looked like they'd walked out of a Renaissance painting. The men with the kind of posture that says we funded Michelangelo.

*The Florentines of San Lorenzo — ambassadors from the House of Medici.* Posing like they own Florence. Which, historically, they kind of did.

This was the Guild of the Florentines of San Lorenzo — representing the House of Medici, the most powerful patrons of the Italian Renaissance. Their motto at the faire? "Everyone wants to be a Medici."

Standing next to them in my tourist clothes, I kind of did.

Beer, Hay Bales, and an ATM Behind a Wooden Box

The Privateers — privateers, not pirates, they'll remind you — take a break from plundering.

We finally found our ale. As is tradition in the 16th century, the bar accepts cash only. For those of us living in the 21st, there's a small wooden box tucked around the corner — and inside it, an ATM.

The seating is bales of hay. Golden, scratchy, wonderfully absurd. A surprising number of people look like they've been sitting there since morning. They have the kind of relaxed expression that only comes from several tankards of mead and a complete surrender to the bit.

The gentleman in scarlet — *This gentleman in scarlet came fully equipped: enormous feathered hat, heavy gold chains, a wooden tankard, and a story he was clearly very eager to tell.*

The Processions

Every so often, drums start beating. The crowd parts. Someone shouts "Make way!"

The drum line — the heartbeat of the faire. When this sound starts, the crowd parts. — *The drum line — the heartbeat of the faire.*

It might be the mayor on his rounds. It might be a guild marching in formation. If you're lucky — very lucky — it's the Queen herself, moving through her village in full Elizabethan regalia, surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and guards who are taking this extremely seriously.

The drumbeat echoes off the wooden shop fronts. You feel it in your chest.

And then, just to balance the grandeur — a beagle in a Renaissance costume trots past.

*A beagle in a hat with a bright green feather. Tongue out. Completely unbothered. Possibly the most committed performer of the whole day.*

Competitions and Challenges

*The archery keeper — arrows in one hand, parasol in the other, deeply comfortable with the chaos around her.*

Beyond the stages and the shops — which sell everything from hand-blown glass to leather-bound books to chainmail — there are small arenas where visitors can test their medieval skills.

Alex tried archery. He was good. Genuinely, embarrassingly good.

*Alex takes his shot. Pure focus. The kind of concentration that makes you realize he has been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.*

He also threw a spear. And then discovered the game I can only describe as Drench the Volunteer — hit a small target with a ball, and a bucket of water dumps on whoever is sitting in the dunking seat.

Reader, he hit it.

The Guilds

One of the faire's most fascinating layers is its guild system. Think: part theater troupe, part historical society, part very committed friend group. The system started in the early 1970s — and it's grown into something genuinely remarkable.

*The Gentlemen Adventurers — two captains, magnificent beards, gold embroidery, and a small puppet who appears to be in charge.*

The Queen's Court handles royal ceremonies, processions, and the kind of elaborate courtly theater that makes you forget — for a moment — that there's a freeway half a mile away.

Ladies of the Queen's Court in amber and deep green. — *Ladies of the Queen's Court in amber and deep green, walking the village like they own it. Because in Deptford, they sort of do.*

Then there are the Privateers. Officially, licensed sea captains who have sailed every ocean in Her Majesty's service. Unofficially, they are absolutely pirates.

They've plundered enemy ships, accumulated considerable wealth, and returned to shore ready to spend it on food, drink, and a good time. They'll tell you the difference between a privateer and a pirate with great enthusiasm and zero self-awareness. Walk near them with caution.

*Two privateers on shore leave. Technically licensed by the Crown. Functionally: pirates.*

One Last Thing About the "Friends of the Faire"

For those who want more than a day visit but aren't ready to join a guild, the faire offers a membership called Friends of the Faire. You get discounts on tickets, access to workshops on Elizabethan history, dance, and music — and, my favorite perk listed in their materials:

Two outhouses with a lawn. And a private garden for resting.

I'm not certain those are listed in the right order of importance. But after a full day on dusty Deptford streets, the garden does sound lovely.

*Two street musicians, mid-song, mid-thought. The music was everywhere — you heard it before you saw anyone.*

Why It Works

The Renaissance — rinascimento, the rebirth — was a moment when new ideas cracked open the long darkness of the medieval world. New art. New science. New ways of seeing.

The faire celebrates that spirit. It's full of people who decided, for one weekend, to be someone else entirely. To wear a different century. To speak in thees and thous and mean it.

There's something freeing about that.

*Yellow, crimson, cobalt blue. Three women mid-conversation on a dusty street.* Behind them, a pirate drifts past. *Just another afternoon in Deptford.*

The gates between the modern world and the imaginary village of Deptford are just a ticket booth and a parking lot away. But once you're through — the bread is warm, the drums are beating, and the Queen is coming.

Make way.