Why the hell do I go to Bicolline?

Once a year, I disappear.

Not like “turn off Slack/Teams notifications” disappear. I mean full-on, rip-the-cord and vanish. No laptop. No meetings. No work. No glowing rectangle glued to my hand feeding me endless dopamine hits and existential dread. I pack my gear, drive north, and step into a medieval village in the woods of Quebec.

For seven days, I’m not Jason the software engineer grinding through sprint cycles ... I'm Angus Lachlen, Company Sergeant of the Horse and Hound.

Complete with silly accent because, why not?

And as a proud member of the Horse and Hound, I serve on a cannon crew. Yes. A real fucking cannon. We haul this beast across battlefields like lunatics, load it with 3" Nerf balls, and rain foam death on our enemies. It’s ridiculous. It’s glorious. And when it lands a perfect hit on some poor bastard sprinting across the field, it’s pure joy.

To outsiders, I know how this all sounds. Grown adults swinging foam weapons in costumes, shouting in bad accents, pretending to be elves, orcs, mercenaries, ... drunk scots. Sure. There are silly moments. Of course there are. But here’s the thing; this isn’t about escapism because life is too hard. It’s about stepping away from a reality that’s been engineered to keep us stressed, distracted, and endlessly “productive” in order get get a sense of perspective.

In the real world, there’s always one more email. One more Teams ping. One more “quick” Asana/Jira ticket at 4:55 p.m. on a Friday... In this world, there’s none of that. Just you, your friends, a village full of hand-built guild halls, and thousands of other people who’ve all agreed to buy into the same shared hallucination for a week.

And the people… Jesus, the people. I’ve never been around a more accepting crowd in my life. No one gives a damn about your job title, your income, your politics, or how good your costume is. You can be a banker, a barista, or a burned-out developer lugging a Nerf cannon across a field. Doesn’t matter. You’re welcome. No judgment. No ego. Just laughter, camaraderie, and the occasional sword or cannon ball to the face. (eh sorry about that..)

At Bicolline, there’s no pressure. No expectations. No quarterly goals or performance reviews. Just a simpler world where your worth isn’t measured in KPIs or Git commits.

For one week, I’m not in the rat race. I’m a man with a sword, a tankard, a cannon and a crew of like-minded weirdos who remind me what life feels like when you’re not chained to a glowing screen. Sometimes I catch myself in the middle of it and just laugh. Like, really laugh.

There I am, sweating buckets in the August sun, hauling a heavy ass medieval-style cannon across a field with a pack of lunatics in tabards, yelling about flanks and reload times. My boots are caked in mud. My shoulders are on fire from dragging that beast uphill for the third time. And yet… I’m grinning like an idiot.

Because let’s be real. In the “real world,” I’m just a regular guy. A software engineer. A husband. A guy who eats too many late-night snacks and occasionally argues with his dog about who owns the couch. I’m not a warrior. I’m not a tactician. But out there? Out there I get to be the guy calling shots, aiming a cannon, and—if I’m lucky—nailing some poor sap in the chest with a foam projectile from 100 feet away.

And yeah, there’s silliness everywhere. People running around in Skaven masks. Drunken pirates belting out off-key songs and shooting their pistols at 2 a.m. Someone inevitably trying to convince us that the cannon needs to be redesigned with area denial in mind.. etc... But no one cares. (Especially about the area denial thing.) That’s the beauty of it. Everyone leans in. There’s no room for cynicism here because everyone’s too busy having a blast.

Bicolline isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation. You don’t have to be the fittest, the smartest, or the best dressed. You just have to show up, grab a tankard, and join in the madness. (Seriously bring some kind of cup, alcohol is a bit of an inevitability.)

And I think that’s what I love most. In a world where we’re constantly judged by algorithms, by bosses, by strangers on the internet ... this place just accepts you as you are. No resume. No follower count. No pressure. Just you, your crew, and whatever character you’ve decided to play for a week.

By the time I pack up to leave, I’m sore, sunburned, and probably dehydrated. I smell like smoke and sweat and bad decisions. And I feel… lighter. Better. More human somehow.

Because for one week, I remembered what life felt like before constant notifications and endless digital noise. I'm recharged.

That’s why I go.