The wise children of Hookland are prepared in a ways no Cub Scouts ever are. They hold in their heads a dozen false names - Charlie Dazzle, Jo Planter, Bobbie Anchor - to give to any Faery who demands one from them. For names are powerful and tricky things. - #CLNolan #FolkloreSunday

You wouldn’t stand up in a cinema a shout: “I know where that was filmed!” It would be filthy manners. Please don’t do this is Hookland. We respect the fourth wall in the county. My DMs are open if anyone wants ask where a picture was taken. Replies publicly breaking the fourth wall will be hidden.

The Long Neolithic persists in the now. Its stones are engines of mystery. Its stone are engines of connection to a past of dead reverence. We become lithic pilgrims. Unable to deny how they speak to our imaginations, our aching need to wonder. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStoneSunday

Contrary to rumour, I am not walking people’s dreams. The county itself is a different matter. Of course, it is the headless ones that follow you home.

Goodnight from Chas Mailer, worried he will never be able to sleep again after glimpsing Wishbloods playing football with a sheep skull. Goodnight from High Barley, where the full moon is silvering the fields and slipping along on lace-frosted lanes. Goodnight from Hookland.

Rose’s project during the Christmas school holiday has been making papier-mâché representations of Hookland’s most famous witches and their familiars including a Headless Bear. She's set them all on string above her bed like a garland of sorcerous intent. – Helena Lee in a letter to her sister, 1980

Happy #Caturday from Britton St in Smithfield. One for @hookland.bsky.social I think

Tourists see a windmill and think how quaint, how picturesque. If you've lived around here it's a bit different. It's a painful symbol of the Society of the Miller's Word. Fearful folklore, weather magic extortion. Truth is, sorcerers often exploit others. – Mike Bascomb #VOH

@nickawde.bsky.social Good to see you here Nick.

Goodnight from Bessie Redfern, wishing her resident poltergeist would leave out pulling the bedclothes off until nights were less full of ice. Goodnight from Greenbolt Manor, where all the hounds in its old oil paintings having begun to howl as death omen. Goodnight from Hookland.

I know some people take twilight as a signal to hurry home – especially when their route home crosses an old churchyard – but not me. I love boneyard lingering at twlight. That's when the tombs whisper loudest. That;s when you hear all its best gossip. – Izzie Barber #VOH

Along alleys, wyndes and neglected cobbles, we find ghosts. Not grand names made spectre, not phantoms of infamous murderers, but ghosts none the less. The shades of ratcatchers, laundry workers, gin-soaked spirits on way home from the pub. Ghosts taking the shortcuts they knew in life. – #CJosiffe

Goodnight from Ellie Carver, wishing her dad didn’t always think a good New Year’s Day family treat was a visit to yet another bloody haunted castle. Goodnight from Jennet Covell, constructing psychic flypaper to trap any soul that floats passed in the night. Goodnight from Hookland.

"Here's a drop for the Bone Horse And here's to the Absent Tree By light of Moon with shining spoon I raise my cup to thee." Words by & with @taliskimberley.bsky.social Following a @hookland.bsky.social tradition.

I did a bit of @hookland.bsky.social year walking last night and while I can't print what I learned, I can see that this the year is the way of the green paths. This is my first 'mucking around with linocut bits from my stash' print of the year #printmaking

The stream that begun high on the moor rushes to meet its salt dissolution. It has carved the ghost soil, collected its tithe of stories for the King-Under-the-Sea. If you've ever wondered how he knows so much of our doing inland, it is because each river and brook is a spy.

The land has been year-walked. The future has been met in the lanes and ways. The cunning folk have conferred. On the doors of The Raven, The Woodwose's Crown and all the other pubs they use, the proclamation has gone up: 'This is the YEAR OF THE GREEN PATHS.'

What the cunning folk of Hookland do on #NewYearsEve - year-walking. May your troubles not cross the threshold of midnight. May blessings walk down the lane to meet you in the coming year.

Goodnight from Cunning Davey Ash, readying himself to year walk the lanes in search of the new year’s secret name. Goodnight from the revellers at The Bell, waiting for the deer-skulled Lord of the Forest to bring in his blessings at the stroke of midnight. Goodnight from Hookland.

Right, before the year walking commences, time for a roasted pear cider to warm the cockles and make the necessary libations.

Hooklanders have many names for twilight. Among my favourites are 'the blue hour' – capturing the sky's long-stretching towards bruise – and 'rook rest'. The latter holds part of my practice. I love to stand before wood edge at rook rest and here their gossip of the dying day. – #EmilyCBanting

It isn't hard to spot the tomb of a former member of the Duat Club in Ashcourt Necropolis or any other county boneyard. They all display some form of gaudy Egyptomania. You can't help but wonder if rumours of mummification are true, just what grave goods they hold. – #MattAdams

Delighted to add another to my collection of a genre I call Hookland Schoolbooks. 60s and 70s anthologies of poetry and prose, usually themed and illustrated with gritty back and white photos. Always edited by the head of English at some midlands comprehensive school.

Goodnight from Jason Bamfield, adding to the graffiti ghost stories worn by the walls of the docks. Goodnight from Ashcourt’s Black Horse Corner, where Tony Pickess is preaching the cosmic gospel of the Planet Skareg to everyone waiting for a tram home. Goodnight from Hookland.

Those broken-limbed, time-disfigured sentinels above us observe in slow judgement. We rush and flicker in their stare. We see their breaking and they see ours. Sometimes I hold my ear to their walls in hope of hearing whispered memories, unhurried stories. – #CLNolan

From the Hookland A-Z of Influences AKA Growing Up Weird. M is Misty: #Misty #Comics #Hookland

I hate Christmas, not least because all manner of foolish folk send me cards with robins on them. Hateful birds. Don't they know robins are a death omen? Who in their right minds sends you one of them through the post? The Royal Mail ought to make it illegal. – Shirley Deyne #VOH

Goodnight from Roy Bartlett, troubled by seeing men in rubber suits and breathing apparatus poking around the Alwyne Lane lay-by. Goodnight from Rosalind Dare, desperately trying to remember the correct spell to refuse someone with Corpse Glamour. Goodnight from Hookland.

People round here all know the folklore of the Hagthorn Wall. You might first hear it in the playground, but later you’ll come across it again in pubs and the like. Not everyone believes it, but everyone treats the hedge with caution. You’d be mad to want to attract a witching. - Carole Gray #VOH

There are some properties we pass by and know without entering, that they are haunt homes. We understand this not from perception of grandness nor length of history, but a radiating sense of disquiet. Inside can only be a territory of glimpse and whispers. – #CJosiffe #Ghosts

Yes. A Mire Maid thing will be written in 2026.

Goodnight from The Bottled Imp tavern, where a pale ale fuelled punch-up has broken out on whether white horse of summer or grey mare of winter is the best Bone Horse. Goodnight from Rex Hill, wondering why his shadow has grown wings on the walk home. Goodnight from Hookland.

Walking into a field with erected stones – whether menhir, circle or portal tomb – is to cross into a territory of wonder. Archaeologist, ley-hunter, stone botherer or pagan pilgrim, we all feel a sense of marvel rippling across our psychic skin. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStoneSunday

Goodnight from Ian Peak, wondering if The Bombsite Dogs was the best band to book for a pub haunted by Blitz traumatised spirits in desperate need of a stiffener. Goodnight from Nora Knight, travelling to Sea Raven Rock to make offerings to quell the coming storm. Goodnight from Hookland.

'The Lost Owl', a pub frequented by ex-Pylon People when mooring nearby 🌿

When The Hum fell silent, many ex-Pylon People took to living on houseboats on the county's canals. No longer marching under their temporary transmission tower temples, they remained somewhat nomadic, often mooring close to a pylon's reflection. – S.P. Gill, 'Ragged Walkers Revisted', 1982

We wander winter afternoons where the light is too weak to keep the ghosts at bay. Stumble onto paths that can only be haunted. Each footstep scuffs up stories, scuffs up spirits. We walk and leave a wake of whispers. – #DAKilroy, 1982

On December 27th, walking with a sharper care is common. For the Boxing Day Bounds have been beaten. We all know where our borders are and what lies across them. We feel their threshold spirits as a dream-thrum, as insistent itch of warning when approaching them. – #CLNolan

When Hooklanders talk about the county being haunted by an ‘Iron Witch’, you have a moment of confusion. Do they mean Margaret Thatcher or do they mean some other malevolent entity that is withering the land and stealing hope? – Dr. Michael Benn, 1981

Goodnight from Sue Bedwell, regretting taking the kids to The Babes In The Wood panto at The Mercury Theatre as its given them Master of Moss nightmares. Goodnight from Jo Hargate, gone to bed early to avoid the Boxing Day party getting to the séance stage. Goodnight from Hookland.

As a child I wondered a lot about the gates in the boneyard wall at St. Wulfram's. Who used them? Were they for the people in the houses behind the wall to visit relaitves or were they for the dead. I could never quite rid myself they were for the convenience of the latter. – Sarah Buckler #VOH

There are two venerated, much feared trees on the edge of Barwell Common. Known as Whip Scar and Tangle Knife, they are home to particularly quarrelsome Wood Sprites. To pass between them has a fearsome terror tithe and even if it's paid, you are still likely to hear them spitting curses.

Goodnight from Connie Bunning, writing out a new list of who to curse after spending several hours too many with her extended family. Goodnight from Steph Wade, still pondering the meaning of getting the Woodwose’s Staff silver charm in the plum pudding. Goodnight from Hookland.

Day 25 of #HooklandChristmasTree. Maybe you had too much apple brandy last night, maybe you've been flustered cooking/resolving family fights, but the last decoration goes on at lunch. A silver Starfall Common Falling Star with a trail of squishing star rot. Blessings to you all.

Christmas is hard for many. The years roll, the ghosts at the table increase. We’re haunted by the absence of voices, of laughter engines who drank and ate with us. This can be day of remembrance rituals. For what it’s worth, Hooklanders near and far are in my candles today. Be gentle on yourselves.

Goodnight from Mary Judd, taking the bees a ritual slice of cake as she keeps her manners and tells them all her news. Goodnight from Evie Hobbs, desperately trying to stay awake till the hour on Christmas Eve when animals are said to be gifted the power of speech. Goodnight from Hookland.

Day 24 of #HooklandChristmasTree decoration. We place miniature ceramic bee hive on the tree. Time to tell the sleeping bees all our news, tell them of the year. All its joyful arrivals, all its harrowings and sad exits. We sing them the land and ask for honeyed blessings.

Later, we shall walk the same path through the boneyard to midnight mass. It shall be more ghost-crowded then, for in death many seem to remember the ritual of life and walk beside us. Each year adds to the roll of phantoms. – #CLNolan in a letter to #ArthurMachen, 1929

All sorts of weird folklore gets rolled out on Christmas Eve. Animals speak, house hobs demand apple brandy. It's the one night when the winged dogs that climb and perch in churches can change positions. Magics and strangeness always seems thick today. – Nancy Appleyard #VOH

Goodnight from St. Hedwig’s Polish church, where Father Backzkiewicz is repairing his Gwiazdor disguise before heading out on a round of gift-giving and fear-induction. Goodnight from Mike Hargate, back from doing business across the Bone Border. Goodnight from Hookland.