Medieval Hygiene: Did Medieval People Stink or Is That Just Modern Snobbery?

The Middle Ages tend to get an unfair reputation when it comes to hygiene. Say the words “medieval Europe,” and most people imagine a stinking crowd of peasants, mud up to their knees, rotting teeth, and unwashed nobles dabbing perfume on top of disaster. It’s the kind of mental image that makes you grateful for indoor plumbing. But like most popular myths, it’s a mix of truth, exaggeration, and sheer invention—with a few whiffs of genuine horror.

Let’s start with the nose. Did medieval people smell bad? Yes, sometimes. So do we, if we skip showers for a couple of days. But not everyone in the Middle Ages walked around like a compost heap. In fact, personal hygiene was taken surprisingly seriously—especially before the Black Death rolled in and ruined everyone’s optimism.

Bathing wasn’t a forgotten art. Medieval towns had public bathhouses, often mixed-gender, where you could soak, chat, eat, and, if the Church wasn’t looking too closely, do other things entirely. In England, they were called “stews,” not because of the smell but because they were hot and steamy. Imagine a medieval spa day: wooden tubs, scented oils, linen towels, and attendants pouring warm water over you. By the 13th century, London had dozens of these bathhouses. Parisians had even more, and the Germans were practically addicted to bathing. There are records of towns with public baths on every corner, open well into the night.

But of course, nothing good survives unpunished. By the late 14th century, when plague, disease, and general paranoia took hold, the Church began warning that too much bathing could make you morally slippery. The logic was simple: naked people in warm water might start enjoying themselves. Also, many bathhouses doubled as brothels, which didn’t help the PR. So the more pious started avoiding them, not because they loved dirt, but because they feared sin—and maybe infection. From there, it was a short slide into the idea that washing too often was unhealthy, even dangerous.

Yet even when baths fell out of fashion, people didn’t stop cleaning themselves. They just did it differently. A good medieval morning routine might include washing the face, hands, and mouth with a basin of water and a linen cloth. Monks were particularly strict about it. The Rule of St. Benedict demanded regular washing, including before meals. In wealthier homes, servants brought pitchers of warm water to the table so guests could rinse before eating. It was less about smell and more about manners.

Soap existed too, though it wasn’t exactly Dove. Medieval soap was made from animal fat and lye—a caustic mix that could strip paint, skin, or at least any hope of moisturisation. In England, the city of Bristol was famous for its soap production as early as the 12th century. The French preferred their own, scented with herbs or lavender. And if you couldn’t afford soap, ashes and sand did the job, albeit less pleasantly.

As for the teeth, things weren’t as grim as Hollywood suggests. Toothbrushes as we know them didn’t exist in Europe until the 17th century, but people did clean their teeth with cloth, twigs, or powders made from crushed herbs and salt. Bad breath was a concern, especially in courtly circles. Medieval recipe books include mouthwash recipes using mint, anise, and even wine—which, frankly, doesn’t sound terrible.

Smell, though, was relative. A medieval nose didn’t expect a world of lemon-scented surfaces and fabric softener. Cities smelled of animals, smoke, and humanity. Streets doubled as sewers, so there was definitely an underlying funk. But within that, people tried to keep themselves and their homes decent. Rushes on the floor were regularly changed and sprinkled with herbs like lavender, mint, or thyme to mask odours. Women carried pomanders—small metal balls filled with perfumed wax—and rich men wore scented gloves. The upper classes spent small fortunes on rosewater, vinegar, and spices to wash and scent their clothes.

Let’s not forget that the medieval sense of smell was a survival tool. Noxious odours were thought to cause disease (the miasma theory), so people actively fought against bad smells. They weren’t indifferent; they were cautious. If a butcher’s stall stank, you didn’t think “eh, it’s Tuesday”—you thought death was in the air. Incense in churches wasn’t just for the glory of God but also to counteract the reek of hundreds of unwashed pilgrims praying in close quarters.

Still, there were plenty of genuine hygiene horrors. Toilets, for instance, were primitive. In castles, the latrine was often just a stone chute over a moat—a poetic detail that makes one reconsider romantic notions about medieval fortresses. In towns, chamber pots were emptied into the street with a cheerful cry of “gardyloo!” which loosely translated to “look out below!” Waste management wasn’t exactly organised, and rats took full advantage. Medieval London was basically a buffet for vermin.

Water, too, was a mixed blessing. It was often unsafe to drink, which is why beer and wine were the preferred beverages, even for children. But people still used water for washing, cooking, and occasionally bathing. Wells and rivers were vital—and sometimes contaminated—but the concept of clean versus dirty water was well understood. People would boil water or fetch it from cleaner sources if they could.

And what about the hair? Long, oily locks might fit our cinematic image of the Middle Ages, but people did wash their hair, just not daily. Women combed their hair carefully, often with fine-toothed bone combs to remove lice and dirt. Head coverings helped too. A wimple wasn’t just a modesty accessory—it was a medieval dry shampoo substitute. As for men, short hair was easier to manage, and barbers doubled as surgeons, which is never a comforting combination.

Monasteries, interestingly, were hygiene powerhouses. They had running water systems, bathhouses, and even rudimentary flush toilets. Monks washed their hands before prayer and meals, trimmed their hair regularly, and laundered their robes. Visitors often commented on how clean and orderly monastic life was compared to city living. The irony is that, centuries later, Victorians would rediscover cleanliness and act as though they had invented it.

Perfume deserves a mention too. The medieval perfume game was strong. People scented everything: gloves, veils, letters, even holy relics. Nobles commissioned exotic ingredients like ambergris and musk, imported from far-off lands. In a world without deodorant, these were social armour. Smelling pleasant meant you were refined, civilised, and—most importantly—rich. Peasants didn’t have perfume, but they did have gardens. They hung herbs in doorways, burned sage, and made simple rosewater infusions. Not exactly Chanel No. 5, but not a total olfactory tragedy either.

Then came the Renaissance and its plague paranoia, and people began believing that opening pores invited disease. Doctors advised against bathing, recommending instead the vigorous rubbing of the skin with cloths to remove dirt without letting the dangerous air in. Nobles changed linen frequently instead, believing clean clothes purified the body. Queen Elizabeth I reportedly took baths once a month “whether she needed it or not,” which sounds like the slogan of a medieval deodorant ad.

So did medieval people smell bad? Some of them, sure. The poor who lived crowded in towns without access to clean water probably did. Travellers, soldiers, and anyone stuck on a pilgrimage route for weeks in wool clothes definitely did. But the idea that everyone reeked all the time is exaggerated. Many cared deeply about cleanliness, even if their standards and methods were very different from ours.

If you wandered through a 13th-century street, you’d get a mix of smells—fresh bread, dung, woodsmoke, beer, roses, sweat, and maybe incense wafting from a chapel. Not pleasant by modern standards, but not apocalyptic either. People adapted to their sensory environment. In fact, they probably thought the same of us: artificial scents everywhere, deodorants masking stress, bleach in the air. Imagine a medieval nose stepping into a 21st-century supermarket—they’d faint from the chemical bouquet.

Ultimately, hygiene isn’t just about soap and water; it’s about culture. Medieval Europeans lived in a world where smell carried meaning—moral, medical, and social. They didn’t aim for sterile; they aimed for balance. And though they lacked plumbing, antibiotics, and fluoride toothpaste, they weren’t quite the walking olfactory crimes history has made them out to be.

So next time someone jokes about how people in the Middle Ages must have stunk, remember: they were bathing in rosewater while we’re spritzing antibacterial gel between Zoom calls. Who, really, has the more civilised scent?