You hand-stitch a shirt with period buttons, sleep cold in a canvas tent, and eat what they'd have eaten, all to chase those few hours when the modern world genuinely drops away.

There's pedantic argument about exact stitch counts and gear that costs a fortune, plus weekends of mud and authenticity-policing.

Then a stranger asks you something in character and you answer without thinking, and for a moment you're not pretending. You're just living a Tuesday in another century.