Far beyond the trodden roads, beyond even the narrow trails cut into the mountainside by the shaggy-haired goats, is a long and narrow field of wildflowers that follows the curve of the slope, where lightning crackles among the blooms, patient as a spider in its web.

Call me old-fashioned, but I truly believe soup is meant to be made in a cauldron over an open fire under a full moon with the sound of wolves in the distance.

You take in a bag of wool to wash and card for a neighbour, who offers in payment anything you find in the fibres. You humour them—the feel of wool in warm water has always soothed you—but then you find a few strands coloured brilliant violet, tangled around a silver charm of a curling ram’s horn.

You take in a bag of wool to wash and card for a neighbour, who offers in payment anything you find in the fibres. You humour them—the feel of wool in warm water has always soothed you—but then you find a few strands coloured brilliant violet, tangled around a silver charm of a curling ram’s horn.

Three days of clear skies is enough to dry up the muddy road, and so you head into town, your handcart laden with spice mixes, sheafs of pressed paper, and a few small brooms. And of all the things you trade for—necessities and the few indulgences—the jar of fresh bitter greens is your most prized.

I walked the woods, by the old railroad trail, when last I visited. Echoes of old engines, of metal wheels singing on metal rails, of the thump of the hammers that drove the spikes that held the rails to the ties rang in my ears. That was home, not the house I slept in, not the people who shared it.

Three days of clear skies is enough to dry up the muddy road, and so you head into town, your handcart laden with spice mixes, sheafs of pressed paper, and a few small brooms. And of all the things you trade for—necessities and the few indulgences—the jar of fresh bitter greens is your most prized.

You wear the talismans of your heart like armour, trusting in them to keep you grounded: -a long skirt embroidered with spiderwebs and daffodils, sewn in summer sun -a small river stone pendant that whispers stories of movement and change -the memory of a kiss, from the one who loves you as you are

Wild Flower Eater. © Kelly Louise Judd

To the east is a series of ponds where the water is always perfectly still, no matter the wind or weather. Folk steer clear, mostly, but last solstice you crept close, following a story you’d heard from the starlings, and in the wee dark hours saw a different sky of stars reflected in each one.

To the east is a series of ponds where the water is always perfectly still, no matter the wind or weather. Folk steer clear, mostly, but last solstice you crept close, following a story you’d heard from the starlings, and in the wee dark hours saw a different sky of stars reflected in each one.

The stairs are worn smooth down the centre, rough stone inlaid with spiderwebbing lines of quartz that catch and carry the light from the surface. You count sixteen silent steps down, and trail a careful hand along the rounded earthen ceiling. At the bottom, a curved room—empty of all but echoes.

The first few raindrops land with audible clicks, like small jaws snapping shut. You rush inside to throw open every window in your cottage and watch as an undulating wave of birds heralds the coming of the storm. They screech inside, fighting and frantic, as the fanged rains descend.

Walnut trees are less familiar than oak trees, but it turns out they appear in plenty of superstitions, legends, and folk remedies. Let's get to know the walnut tree in this week's episode of Fabulous Folklore! pod.co/fabulous-fol...

You take a picnic to the old pear tree, where the ground is soft with moss and new grass, and fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper through its leaves. You wake to a small orange cat on your chest, kneading tiny tears into your shirt as it watches you with eyes as blue of a far off sea.

You take a picnic to the old pear tree, where the ground is soft with moss and new grass, and fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper through its leaves. You wake to a small orange cat on your chest, kneading tiny tears into your shirt as it watches you with eyes as blue of a far off sea.

You sew an extra pocket on your coat out of some scrap green corduroy, intending to use it for acorns and pretty stones. When you slip your hand in to check the last stitches though, you find a length of daffodil-yellow ribbon, a small disc of wax-wrapped cheese, and three roasted walnuts.

You sew an extra pocket on your coat out of some scrap green corduroy, intending to use it for acorns and pretty stones. When you slip your hand in to check the last stitches though, you find a length of daffodil-yellow ribbon, a small disc of wax-wrapped cheese, and three roasted walnuts.

You arrive at the shore just as the dawn boats come in, and get first pick of the morning’s catch. You trade a jar of honey and a bottle of star mead for three fat cod: one to roast for friends tonight, one for a stew for the hob family who live in the oaks, and one fresh for the shadow-striped cat.

an illustration titled "Six of Boons" from the Forest of Enchantment Tarot deck.

You arrive at the shore just as the dawn boats come in, and get first pick of the morning’s catch. You trade a jar of honey and a bottle of star mead for three fat cod: one to roast for friends tonight, one for a stew for the hob family who live in the oaks, and one fresh for the shadow-striped cat.

A blackthorn winter, a lambing storm, a foal-storm. I could hear the lambs, one field over, bleating & running to their ewes for cover & comfort under their woolley bellies. Sometimes, still, the weather & seasons remember their pattern.

You find a small jar of paint at the split oak where you often leave bits of honeyed bread or small trinkets. There’s a light inside that seems to shift like clouds, or a wave over sunlit sand. After some thought, you paint tiny flowers on the staircase and a field of stars on your bedroom ceiling.

Sparrowhawk chasing the birds based on an experience in our garden

You find a small jar of paint at the split oak where you often leave bits of honeyed bread or small trinkets. There’s a light inside that seems to shift like clouds, or a wave over sunlit sand. After some thought, you paint tiny flowers on the staircase and a field of stars on your bedroom ceiling.

Goodnight. Apple Tree: Seven for a Secret, Catherine Hyde.

‘Hemlock spiders share two unique features with their namesake, despite their huge webs mimicking leafless maples rather than the evergreen: a droopy apex of their web, ready to curl around anything that lands in its “branches,” and a powerful neurotoxic venom.’ -from “The Sundered Valley: A Study”

Immediately preordered from my local indie. This looks breathtaking.

‘Hemlock spiders share two unique features with their namesake, despite their huge webs mimicking leafless maples rather than the evergreen: a droopy apex of their web, ready to curl around anything that lands in its “branches,” and a powerful neurotoxic venom.’ -from “The Sundered Valley: A Study”

I drew a few pictures for @stoutstoat.co.uk's new book Carved in Stone (www.stoutstoat.co.uk/products/car...) it's probably the best-researched project I ever worked on, and also it looks beautiful. Lots of amazing artists worked on this! Anyway here are some pictish vignettes

Summer Sky, 1955 by Alfred Joseph Casson

A book exchange pops up without warning in the middle of a neighbour's barn. You stuff your pockets with every shiny trinket you can find and hurry over, jostling elbows with others hungry for new stories, and you trade a ring for one clothed in willow bark, about an owl emperor and a trickster.

A book exchange pops up without warning in the middle of a neighbour's barn. You stuff your pockets with every shiny trinket you can find and hurry over, jostling elbows with others hungry for new stories, and you trade a ring for one clothed in willow bark, about an owl emperor and a trickster.

Brown Hares, Andrew Hutchinson.

You curl into your window seat as the sun rises, feeling the balance shift from night to balance to light. The morning casts a golden sheen on everything—your wind-chapped hands, the clouded glass, the scattered sketches across your floor—and you breathe in relief for another equinox safely passed.

Depictions of owls in Hookland are claimed as avatars for their Queen. Every carved set of eyes, every stitched set of tufted ears, ever pair of painted wings. All are her agents. She peers at us from pictures, hears us at prayer. Those with secrets beg her mercy. – #CLNolan

important

Blue-black feathers fall with the rain, nine in total arrowing into the earth to form a rough circle. Some perfumed with honeysuckle, some laced with sharpened frost. One whose quill tip drips amber honey. And in their centre a boulder marked by axe and ice both, heavy as a secret, forever locked.

Happy Ostara and wishing us all a Spring of blooming hope and cloud-soft kindness. 🖼️ Spring, Romaine Brooks.

Blue-black feathers fall with the rain, nine in total arrowing into the earth to form a rough circle. Some perfumed with honeysuckle, some laced with sharpened frost. One whose quill tip drips amber honey. And in their centre a boulder marked by axe and ice both, heavy as a secret, forever locked.

You wait until the sun is hovering just above the horizon and go into the yard, packets of seeds filling your apron. You scatter lavender, ox-eye daisy, poppy, lupin under the last light of the day. A dozen hares emerge from the wilds beyond your fence, still as statues as they watch you.

Humans love the scent of rain (petrichor) because we have evolved to. Our noses are 200,000x more sensitive to the smell of raindrops touching the soil than sharks are to blood in the water... 🌧 🎨 Carlos Bracho

“Of all the things I wondered about on this land, I wondered the hardest about the seduction of certain geographies that feel like home - not by story or blood but merely by their forms and colors...." (1/2)

Sometimes when you climb Stepstone Hill it's hard not to imagine that you are on an island. You look down and can feel an incoming ghost tide. Waves of phantoms coming across the fields below. Spectre surrounded, a sense of being above time. – Frances Tailwood #VOH

You wait until the sun is hovering just above the horizon and go into the yard, packets of seeds filling your apron. You scatter lavender, ox-eye daisy, poppy, lupin under the last light of the day. A dozen hares emerge from the wilds beyond your fence, still as statues as they watch you.

'Glowing Sky' (1988) Viktor Zaretsky

A little pastel I did. Art soothes the soul in these trying times… #art #pastel #trees #sky

Ghost Flock, Alasdair Wallace.

a painting by the French artist Jean-Pierre Cassigneul.