Hey guys, tonight we dive deep into a time when warmth was more of a dream than a reality, and dinner often involved something lumpy and suspicious pulled out of the ground. You’ve just arrived—barely—in a muddy, soot-colored village somewhere in medieval Europe. The year doesn’t matter much because, frankly, the winters have all blended into one long frostbitten memory. The sky is heavy with gray clouds, and the smell of woodsmoke clings to everything, even though it’s not particularly warm anywhere. Your boots—if you can call them that—are made from stiff scraps of hide tied together with what might be sinew or possibly twine. Either way, they’re not waterproof, and your feet are soaked before you even reach your new home. You’re trudging through ankle-deep mud mixed with things you sincerely hope are just compost. Welcome to winter. It’s your first year on this side of the 1300s, and already you’re questioning your life choices. You’re given a “hut,” which generously resembles a shed that’s lost a bet with a strong wind. The roof is thatch, the walls are timber packed with wattle and daub—essentially sticks and mud—and there's a single tiny window. Spoiler: it doesn't open. Or close. You’re not entirely sure it’s even glass. So, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And hey—drop your location and the time you're tuning in. I’d love to know who else is suffering the medieval chill with you tonight. Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum, and let’s ease into tonight’s journey together. Inside, the air smells like damp straw and the faint, sour scent of previous occupants. There’s a fire pit in the center of the floor, but no chimney—just a hole in the roof. If the smoke doesn’t rise perfectly straight up, which it almost never does, it just sort of lives with you. Your eyes water constantly, but that’s fine; medieval emotions were mostly just soot-related anyway. You unpack your belongings. They consist of: one blanket that feels more like a curtain, a small wooden bowl, a wooden spoon you’ve already lost, and half a turnip. Not a cooked one. Just raw, and deeply judgmental. You stare at it for a while, wondering whether to name it. You probably won’t survive this. But the good news is: neither will most of the people around you. Misery loves company. Outside, the village is a series of low huts like yours, scattered around a central area that might be a square or might just be a path that froze mid-step. The mud here is legendary. When it freezes, it becomes a sort of landscape feature—ice-ruts that twist ankles and spirits alike. When it thaws, it reverts to quicksand. You meet your neighbor, Osric. He’s wearing a cloak that once had ambition but now functions as a portable rag. He nods in that slow, winter-stiff way and says something about the turnips “being decent this year.” You wonder what “decent” means when it's the only thing you're allowed to eat. By your second day, the cold starts to make decisions for you. You move slower. Your fingers barely respond. Your breath hangs visibly in the air indoors. There's no insulation, unless you count stuffing extra straw into the walls, which you do until rats begin to consider your home their winter Airbnb. Still, historians still argue whether medieval people truly felt the cold more intensely, or whether they just complained louder in surviving texts. Either way, you’re absolutely freezing. The village steward calls a meeting to explain the “rationing,” which means you get fewer turnips than you were already failing to enjoy. Bread is technically available, but it’s made with flour that contains more sawdust than you’re entirely comfortable with. They call it “filler.” You call it betrayal. You hear stories of feasts—wild boar and roast apples, dripping fat and laughter—but that’s for lords and feast days. You, my frostbitten friend, get a single chunk of root vegetable, boiled until it’s confused about its own identity, and maybe a pinch of salt if someone’s in a good mood. Your days are short. The sun rises late, sulks around the sky for a few hours, and disappears before you’ve even finished cursing the cold. Time loses its shape. You stop measuring by hours and start marking days by how many turnips you’ve eaten—yes, it's already become a habit. The local friar gives you advice on staying warm, none of which helps. “Keep moving,” he says, while he wraps his hands in layers of wool. “Pray,” he adds, clearly not sweating. “Turnip stew helps the soul,” he lies. You find yourself daydreaming about things like woolen socks and thermal leggings. Medieval you has no idea those exist, of course. But somewhere, in the back of your frost-numbed brain, a future version of you is screaming about central heating and electric blankets. One evening, as you huddle by the smoldering embers of your fire pit, trying not to think about the frost creeping up your spine, you hear the eerie howl of the wind outside. Or possibly wolves. Historians debate whether wolf attacks were truly common or just a convenient excuse to explain missing sheep—and the occasional cousin. Your dreams are fragmented. You dream of warmth, then wake up clutching a turnip like it’s a teddy bear. You name it Gerald. He is your only friend now. By now, your breath fogs up the inside of your hut so thickly that you draw faces in the condensation for entertainment. You think about making a puppet out of straw, but then worry it might be possessed, because everything in medieval stories is. And so your first full week in the medieval winter limps along. You've learned that firewood is precious, turnips are emotional support tubers, and everyone smells vaguely of wet wool and sadness. You’re not entirely sure if your fingers still work, but that’s fine. You’ve moved beyond needing fingers. Or toes. Or happiness. But you've survived the first bite of winter. Congratulations. Only… three, maybe four months to go. Assuming you don’t get cholera. Or eaten by wolves. Or accidentally marry Gerald the Turnip in a fever dream.