The ground shook beneath my feet as the horses thundered past, their hooves throwing great clumps of grass-covered earth high into the air behind them. The beasts snorted and whinnied as they galloped headlong towards each other. Sitting astride these magnificent animals, one the darkest black, the other a deep rich chestnut colour, sat the two knights resplendent in their chain mail topped with beautiful surcoats. The knight to my left sported a dark blue surcoat patterned with a rampant lion picked out in gold brocade, the other knight was dressed in red, his emblem a black eagle in flight. The colours and crests of their masters were mirrored in the padded blankets thrown over the horses’ haunches. Both the horses’ bridles and the knights’ helmets were adorned with plumes of feathers in their respective colours. As the knights drew ever closer they lowered their lances at each other and spurred their horses on to greater efforts. The crowd went silent anticipating the clatter of lance on shield, only to be disappointed as both lances missed their target.

Undeterred, the riders drove their horses onwards, hoping to be the first to round the end of the fence that ran between them and gain the advantage in the second pass. The blue knight made it fractionally ahead of the red and he charged forward, both now at greater speed than the first pass. Again the crowed went quiet as the knights levelled their lances. This time both lances punched home with a resounding crash and the red knight’s lance shattered. He, though, had hit his target with greater force and the crowd watched as the blue knight slowly toppled backwards from his horse hitting the ground face down, his shield clattering noisily against the fence. For a moment the crowd was silent, then a huge cheer rose up from the supporters of the red knight, matched by the groans of the vanquished knight’s support. Slowly, the blue knight got to his feet, gathered up his helmet and shield and trudged mournfully back to his tent.

I am not some medieval scribe lost in the midst of time, but a twenty-first-century man on a summer’s day in June at the magnificent Hever Castle in Kent. I have chosen a day when the medieval jousts are performing in the grounds because I love the spectacle. I have toured the magnificent house, once a favourite of the great King Henry VIII, and wandered through the grounds. The formal gardens, walled on every side, are stunning, particularly the sweet-smelling rose garden, the walls serving to hold in the heady sweet aroma from the hundreds of perfumed rose bushes. I have stood between the great stone palisades and gazed out across the long narrow lake and smiled at the ineptitude of the novice rowers as they circle endlessly in their hired boats.

But, eventually, I have returned to the knights. I laugh at the amusing antics of the jesters and the comments of the ‘king’ and marvel at the athleticism and skill of the knights. Their horsemanship is superb and their skill with the sword, the axe, the mace is awe-inspiring. The occasional clatter of steel on steel rings out across the field of battle and is mixed with the mock cries of pain from the vanquished.

Eventually, the tournament ends and the knights and their attendants take the plaudits of the crowd who all slowly disperse, me amongst them, chattering happily amongst themselves.

For the record, when the points were finally totted up, the blue knights, my chosen team, won this day.