Why Oktoberfest Started with Love, Not Lager
It all started not with beer, but with a wedding. In October 1810, Munich was decked out like a proud aunt at a family ceremony, waving ribbons and baking pies. The whole city gathered to celebrate the marriage of Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria — a man who would later become King Ludwig I — and Princess Therese von Sachsen-Hildburghausen, whose name sounds like a Scrabble win. To mark the occasion, someone had the bright idea of holding a horse race on the fields outside the city gates. That’s it. No beer tents, no oompah bands, no strangers in lederhosen singing “Ein Prosit” on benches. Just a royal wedding and a bit of galloping.
The races took place on 17 October 1810, and Munich’s citizens loved it. The site was named Theresienwiese — “Therese’s meadow” — in honour of the new princess, and locals still affectionately shorten it to “Wiesn”. When the horses stopped running and the newlyweds waved goodbye, someone suggested, “Let’s do this again next year.” That simple decision gave birth to what would become the largest folk festival in the world — a yearly pilgrimage of millions who drink, dance, and pretend their outfit is traditional enough.
The early Oktoberfests were more county fair than beer carnival. There were agricultural shows, prize cattle, and patriotic speeches about Bavarian virtue. The horse races continued until 1960, but by the late 19th century, people had clearly decided watching horses sober was overrated. Brewers stepped in, setting up beer halls and pavilions. Munich’s six major breweries — Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräu, Löwenbräu, Paulaner, and Spaten — transformed the event into a monumental drinking spree that somehow still counts as “cultural heritage.”
By the time electric lights arrived, Oktoberfest had grown into an illuminated wonderland of fairground rides, marching bands, and gigantic mugs of golden liquid. Locals called it “the fifth season of the year.” Every year, the first barrel is ceremonially tapped by Munich’s mayor at noon, shouting O’zapft is! — “It’s tapped!” — as if announcing the start of humanity’s most cheerful endurance sport.
It’s worth remembering, though, that Oktoberfest wasn’t always just an excuse to drink one’s body weight in Märzen. Its timing, late September to early October, made practical sense — autumn was harvest time, the weather was mild, and the beer had finished maturing. Originally, the festival began later in October, but organisers wisely moved it forward to take advantage of warmer evenings. Germans love efficiency, even when it comes to drinking.
Through wars, epidemics, and recessions, Oktoberfest has survived like a stubborn old tavern keeper. It was cancelled in 1854 and 1873 because of cholera outbreaks, and during both World Wars. When peace returned, Munich simply dusted off its beer steins and carried on. The 1950s brought back the pageantry: traditional parades, dirndls, brass bands, and the sense that Bavaria had reclaimed its cheerful soul after the darkness.
By the 21st century, Oktoberfest had become a phenomenon far beyond Munich. From Tokyo to Texas, Sydney to São Paulo, local versions popped up, each claiming to be “authentic.” Some are charming imitations; others look like stag parties gone rogue. But nothing compares to the real Wiesn, where 6 million visitors each year consume more than 7 million litres of beer, 500,000 roast chickens, and enough pretzels to rebuild the Brandenburg Gate.
What makes Oktoberfest remarkable isn’t just the beer, it’s the ritual. There’s a certain choreography to it: the clinking of steins, the shared tables where bankers, students, and tourists alike become comrades in song. The brass bands play “Sweet Caroline” right after Bavarian folk tunes, proving that cultural identity can survive anything, even Neil Diamond.
And then there’s the attire. Dirndls and lederhosen, once everyday workwear of Alpine peasants, became symbols of regional pride. Today, they’re fashion statements ranging from historical purism to sparkly nightclub chic. Tourists rent them for the full experience, only to discover that lederhosen are less forgiving than expected after two litres of beer.
Oktoberfest’s atmosphere feels both timeless and absurdly modern. The beer tents — vast wooden cathedrals decorated with hops and fairy lights — each have their own personality. The Hofbräu tent is the rowdiest, where Aussies and Americans chant in unison; Augustiner remains the local favourite, serving beer from traditional wooden barrels. Families prefer the calmer mornings, when the smell of roasted almonds and fresh gingerbread fills the air before the revelry truly begins.
Beyond the foam and folklore lies a fascinating bit of economics. Oktoberfest generates roughly €1.5 billion annually for Munich. The city’s hotels, restaurants, and souvenir sellers owe much of their September profits to the merry crowds. Yet the event remains surprisingly grounded. The beer served must come from Munich’s six traditional breweries and adhere to the Reinheitsgebot — the 1516 purity law stating that beer can contain only water, barley, hops, and yeast. In an age of pumpkin lattes and glitter IPAs, that’s oddly reassuring.
The myth that Oktoberfest is purely a “beer festival” misses its deeper purpose. It’s also about community, celebration, and Bavarian identity — an exuberant reminder that sometimes, life is meant to be toasted rather than analysed. The locals see it as a reunion with history, a toast to the city’s roots. The fact that it started as a wedding celebration is poetic in itself: it’s about union, connection, and perhaps a little madness.
Every generation leaves its mark on the Wiesn. The 1960s brought pop music and international visitors; the 1980s saw the rise of eco-conscious tents serving organic beer and vegetarian options (though ordering salad at Oktoberfest still raises eyebrows). More recently, security measures have tightened, and glass steins were briefly debated before everyone decided that plastic just didn’t clink right.
And then there was 2020 — the year silence fell on the Wiesn. For the first time since the Second World War, the festival was cancelled due to the pandemic. The beer stayed in barrels, the fairgrounds empty. Munich felt strangely sober. Yet in true Bavarian spirit, virtual toasts filled social media feeds, and people promised: Nächstes Jahr, wieder auf der Wiesn! — next year, back at the Wiesn. And they were.
Today, Oktoberfest is a contradiction in motion — a 19th-century folk party thriving in a digital age. Influencers snap selfies next to century-old carousel rides; engineers drink side by side with farmhands; and everyone temporarily believes that dancing on benches is the height of elegance. There’s laughter, music, and occasionally the sound of someone realising their phone just took an unexpected beer bath.
For Munich, Oktoberfest is both heritage and marketing genius. It projects an image of Bavarian warmth and cheer that outshines stereotypes of German seriousness. Visitors come expecting precision; they leave remembering joy. And amid the chaos, it still pays quiet tribute to the royal couple who started it all two centuries ago — Ludwig and Therese, whose marriage gift to the people turned into an annual global hangover.
If you wander the Theresienwiese when the tents are gone — just open fields and distant Alps — it’s hard to imagine the noise and colour that fill the space each autumn. But the spirit lingers. Locals still call it “Therese’s meadow,” and maybe, somewhere, the ghost of that first wedding day gallops past, leading the parade of centuries of cheer.
In the end, Oktoberfest isn’t about beer or Bavaria or even tradition. It’s about the shared human urge to celebrate something — anything — together. It began with a toast to love and grew into a toast to life itself. And that, in a way, might be the most intoxicating part of its history.