So, this whole medieval wedding dress thing… it wasn’t exactly planned, you know? It kinda just happened, like a lot of my weirder projects. It all started when my best friend, Sarah, announced she was having a full-blown medieval-themed wedding. Not just a hint of it, oh no, she wanted the whole nine yards – knights, banners, the lot. And, of course, everyone in costume.
My first reaction was pure excitement. My second, slightly delayed reaction, was sheer panic about what I’d wear. I’m not exactly a seasoned reenactor with a wardrobe full of period clothing.
The Quest for Attire (and the Disappointment)
I did what everyone does these days: I went online. And boy, was that an experience. Everything I found was either ridiculously expensive, like, “are you kidding me?” expensive, or it looked like something you’d buy for a kid’s Halloween party. Thin, shiny fabric, weird plastic bits. You know the drill. Nothing felt authentic, or even remotely like something an adult would want to be seen in at a wedding, even a medieval one.
I even looked into renting. Some options weren’t bad, but the cost for a one-day wear? And the thought of wearing something that’s been who-knows-where… it just didn’t sit right. Plus, they all had this very generic, “costume-in-a-bag” feel. I didn’t want to look like “Medieval Peasant number 4.”
The “I Can Totally Do This” Moment
After a week of fruitless searching and increasing frustration, I had this wild thought. Why not try to make one? I mean, I’ve sewn a pillowcase before. I shortened some curtains once. How much harder could a medieval gown be, right? Famous last words, my friends, famous last words.
The first hurdle was the pattern. Trying to find a pattern that was somewhat historically accurate (or at least looked the part) and wasn’t designed for professional costumers who speak in code was a real challenge. I spent hours, I tell you, hours, digging through websites, forums, and indie pattern shops. Eventually, I settled on a relatively simple kirtle or cotehardie style. It looked manageable.
Then came the fabric. This was crucial. I didn’t want anything that screamed “polyester nightmare.” I lucked out and found this amazing little fabric shop, the kind that’s been around for ages, crammed floor to ceiling with bolts of every material imaginable. The owner, a wonderfully knowledgeable older lady, steered me towards a beautiful, heavy linen in a deep forest green. It felt perfect. She even helped me pick out a contrasting cream linen for the undersleeves and some trim.
The Actual Making Of It: Blood, Sweat, and Lots of Thread
Okay, so here’s where the real “practice” began. I cleared out my tiny spare room, which became my sewing cave for the next few weeks.
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Laying out and cutting: This felt like it took an entire day. My floor isn’t that big, and linen, it turns out, likes to shift. I measured, re-measured, and then measured again. My cat, Mittens, thought the giant expanse of green fabric was a new personal lounging area, which didn’t help.
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The first stitches: My sewing machine, which is older than I am, decided this was the perfect moment to be temperamental. Skipped stitches, tangled thread in the bobbin – you name it. I think I spent more time troubleshooting the machine than actually sewing for the first few days.
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Getting the fit right: This was tricky. Medieval dresses, or at least the style I was going for, are meant to be quite fitted through the torso. Trying to pin and adjust it on myself was an exercise in contortion. I eventually had to bribe my partner with pizza to act as a human mannequin for a bit.
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Sleeves and gores: Adding the gores (those triangular pieces that give the skirt its fullness) was surprisingly satisfying once I got the hang of it. The sleeves, though… those long, slightly flared sleeves were a bit of a puzzle. Getting them set in smoothly took a couple of tries and a lot of seam ripping.
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Finishing touches: I decided against any super elaborate embroidery because, let’s be honest, my skills aren’t there yet and time was ticking. But I did add some simple braided trim along the neckline and cuffs. It was all hand-sewn, which took ages but really made it look more finished.
There were moments, many moments, where I thought I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Unpicking seams became a regular evening activity. I definitely pricked my fingers more times than I can count.
The Grand Finale (Sort Of)
After what felt like an eternity, it was finally done. I remember holding it up, a real, wearable medieval dress that I had made with my own two hands. It wasn’t movie-quality perfect. A real historian would probably find a dozen inaccuracies. But it was mine. It was solid, it fit, and it looked pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.
Wearing it to Sarah’s wedding was amazing. It felt so different from wearing modern clothes. Heavier, more substantial. And I got so many compliments! People were genuinely surprised when I said I’d made it. Even Sarah, the bride, was impressed. That felt pretty great.
So, that’s my medieval dress journey. It was a challenge, for sure, and way more work than I initially anticipated. But looking back, I’m super proud I did it. I learned a ton, not just about sewing, but about patience and just sticking with something. As for whether I’ll be taking commissions anytime soon? Ha! Let’s just say my sewing machine is currently enjoying a well-deserved rest in the closet. For now.
