A dragon holding a silver ball in its terrifying teeth was perched next to the gate. It was the first hint that we were in for a day of weirdness and wonder.

My wife and I recently attended the Siouxland Renaissance Festival. While we waited in line to buy tickets a guy dressed as a medieval raggedy man sashayed through the crowd, hawking his “scented programs.” Whenever someone took him up on his offer, he’d say, “OK, I just have to add the scent.” He then rubbed the paper program on his armpit.

“We’re all gonna smell like that by the end of the day!” the raggedy man would crow.

Wandering the festival grounds, I observed that approximately half of the attendees were wearing some sort of medieval or fantasy garb. It was a great event if pointy ears or fairy wings or leather are your thing. Some of the ladies wore ornate Renaissance dresses that featured more adornments than a Christmas tree. Some of the ladies’ hats had as many feathers as an average ostrich.

Speaking of Christmas, I encountered a couple who were dressed as medieval versions of Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. When I asked their names, they replied, “Father Christmas and Mother Christmas.” Duh. I should have guessed.

I inquired about their participation at Renaissance festivals, and they said that they have attended such events across the nation, from Philadelphia to Pheonix. I can’t imagine the level discomfort involved with wearing their cumbersome getups in the desert heat.

I had it on good authority — OK, I got it from a scented program — that a jousting match was taking place, so my wife and I headed for the nearby arena.

Jousting could be described as playing chicken on horseback while aiming a long, pointy stick at your opponent. I don’t know what the impetus for such a duel might have been but imagine it began with some sort of slight. Things quickly spiraled out of control until the combatants were hurling such deeply hurtful insults as, “Your mother wears Army boots!”

Colliding with a pointy stick at a full gallop proved to be hazardous to the health, and this observation led to the invention of armor. Wearing a suit of armor on a sweltering summer day must have felt as though you were being broiled in a steel oven.

After the joust I asked one of the combatants what his armor weighed and he replied, “About a hundred pounds.” Upon being knocked over backwards and onto the ground, the mighty warriors looked like flailing turtles.

There were plenty of traditional Renaissance vittles for sale, including traditional Renaissance corndogs and funnel cakes. I don’t know how lobster rolls fit in with the Renaissance theme, but they were also available.

While I was roaming around the festival, my wife struck up a conversation with a lady who goes by the name Wanda. Wanda was using a lap-sized loom and a set of threaded cards which she twisted this way and that to weave a beautiful, intricately patterned belt. I watched Wanda for a few minutes. Her weaving process was far beyond my comprehension.

Wanda’s husband, who goes by the name Drinksalot, portrayed a medieval barber. Drinksalot explained that back in the day barbers did more than administer shaves and haircuts. They also pulled teeth, stitched wounds, performed amputations, and practiced bloodletting.

“Bloodletting was all about balancing the humors,” said Drinksalot. And I don’t think the humors were called slapstick, dark, ironic, or punny.

Music from a stringed instrument wafted on the breeze, so I followed it to its source. A man dressed in period garb was sitting on a chair and spinning a crank that was attached to an odd-looking wooden box.

I asked the guy, who called himself Martin Madrigal, what sort of instrument he was playing.

“Hurdy gurdy,” he replied.

“Gesundheit,” I said. “But what do you call the thing that you’re cranking?”

“That is its name. It’s called a hurdy gurdy.”

Martin showed me how the gizmo works. Its crank spins a rosin-coated wooden disk that rubs against a set of metal strings.

Spinning a crank is something I could actually do. But Martin smashed my hurdy gurdy dreams when he showed me the series of keys that change the instrument’s notes. Anything beyond spinning a crank is beyond my musical abilities.

A towering grey-haired man who had a pair of swords strapped to his back strode the festival grounds. I chatted with him and learned that he calls himself The Witcher, a guy who specializes in hunting monsters.

I informed him that he’d missed one because there was dragon right out there by the front gate.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy,” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.