There’s a tendency to give nature a face. To call it Mother, as though that makes it knowable. But nature doesn’t ask permission, it moves with an insistence that isn’t kindness so much as inevitability. The land remembers what it’s supposed to do. Season after season. Loss after loss. Growth returns not because it’s hopeful, but … Continue reading Mother Nature…
There are moments in stories where a woman is named a witch, not because she’s stirring something in a cauldron and speaking to the moon, but because she knows something she hasn’t explained. Or she lives alone. Or she simply doesn’t behave as she’s expected to. It doesn’t take much. She’s always noticed, observed too … Continue reading The Witch & Hare…
May’s Flower Moon takes its name from what can no longer be contained. After months of restraint, petals bloom and the land remembers how to speak in colour again. This is the point in the season when buried secrets root themselves. What was once hidden begins to shape the present, influencing where we step and … Continue reading The Flower Moon…
They’re not delivered as stories or lessons per se. They’re just statements we store in our memory bank and acknowledge, but don’t quite know why. I’m sure you’re familiar with many. Don’t walk under a ladder. If you break a mirror, expect seven years bad luck. Don’t open an umbrella indoors. When cows lie down, … Continue reading Old Wives’ Tales…
We might tend to think of magic as on-stage high drama. Light. Noise. Drum roll. But in folklore the oldest magic is rarely dramatic. It blends into the ordinary, passing for weather, for coincidence, for something you almost didn’t notice until it was too late. Subtle magic is patient and doesn’t demand belief. It waits … Continue reading Wanna See Some Magic, Mister…?
Hag stones are easy to miss. Half-buried along riverbanks or tucked between pebbles on the shore, they can appear ordinary at first glance. But once you notice a hole worn clean through its centre, smoothed by water and time, you know you’ve found something special. This month we’re neck-deep in folklore, and in folklore nothing … Continue reading Hag Stones…
Every region has its quiet monsters. When I say quiet, I mean they’re not polished and don’t have names everyone recognises. They’re local. The ones spoken of once, then not again. The sort of stories that survive not because they’re written down, but because someone lowers their voice when they’re mentioned. In parts of Yorkshire … Continue reading The Iron-toothed Bogeyman…
I stayed at Langley Castle for my birthday. Fourteenth century. Moss-covered stocks on the lawn. Peacocks by the fountain. Wind finding its way through the gaps in the stone, howling its insistence to be let in. Creaking floors and staircases. Tapestries and paintings of long-dead kings and queens. Suits of armour standing guard in corridors. … Continue reading The Grey Lady…
Don’t get too excited, April’s Pink Moon rarely has anything to do with its colour. Its name comes from the North American wildflower ground phlox. It’s one of the earliest flowers to bloom, bright pink against soil that still remembers winter all too well. It’s a moon named not for what it looks like, but … Continue reading The Pink Moon…
In folklore, March winds weren’t merely empty air. Across Britain and northern Europe, the winds of early spring were believed to carry voices and warnings. People once spoke of the wind as though it was capable of listening back. Doors weren’t bolted just against cold, but against what might slip through on a sudden gust. … Continue reading When the March Wind Calls…
R. H. DIXON 