In my re-enacting days I remember falling out of the window of a pub bog in Wiltshire - the inconsiderate 16th century cowboys who'd built the place had done so on a hill, so you went in through the front door at street level, but wandered through to find the bogs on the second floor.
After much drink was taken, I needed to clear my head, so I opened the window, sat on the ledge and inhaled gratefully - only to pass out and pass from the knowledge of man.
Eventually, at around two in the morning, I came to in (thankfully) a freshly dug flower bed under the window. Completely disorientated, wearing a 17th Century cassaque, doublet and breeches and covered in soil, I staggered towards a small track I could see at the end of the garden and through a gate - to be dazzled by the headlights of a Mini Cooper being driven in a lethal manner.
The car lurches to a halt and a rather ditsy woman emerges from behind the wheel and says: "Omigod, are you OK? Are you a ghost? Have I just hit you?"
I'm none too coherent at that point - so she assumes she has hit me and tells me to get in.
The upshot of it was, a piping hot shower, my clothes cleaned (if that was possible, given the state of 'em) and pressed, all the tea I could drink, bacon and eggs until not even I could eat any more, and a lift back to the camp-site at dawn from the woman - who turned out to be the local schoolteacher and quite mad, in the nicest possible way.
There are all my comrades in arms, looking like something the cat dragged in, as I arrive, washed, shaved and even fragrant. "Bloody hell," says one. "We wondered what happened to you. Last we heard you'd gone for a dump. We searched the bogs but couldn't find you, so we gave you up for dead and drank your beer."