We are chuffed to share The Halloween Dossier cover! Astonishingly, David Southwell (#Hookland) & Tony Walker (Classic Ghost Stories Podcast) have said very kind things - leaving Virgil speechless & Keith asking for a raise. Full reveal & member release 31/10 👇 tinyurl.com/5ds4vyr6 Keep a lamp lit.

Did anyone just see that? What a magnificent specimen!

Sunday walk. Trees all copper and fire along the disused line, through the old ironworks, quarries, and ancient beechwood written of by The Bard. The air felt full; like history breathing too close, humming in the roots. Something walked behind me, steady as memory. #Hookland never really leaves you

The fog’s arrived early, there's a smell of scorched apples, and Something’s moving under the village bonfire again. I’ve written down what it whispered in The Hallowe’en Dossier. Copies available soon, assuming the post still reaches this side of #Hookland ko-fi.com/virgiltwobyf...

The moon’s too clean tonight. It’s the sort of light that makes every puddle look like it’s remembering something. Dogs won’t bark, clocks keep hesitating, and I swear my shadow just winked. Best keep bread in your pocket and don’t look the moon in the eye. It remembers. A #Hookland night.

@goonpod.bsky.social Have you, on your audio travels, happened upon the aural delights in Listen Through The Brown Window (@soullessparty.bsky.social)? Fun in a distant-cousin-thrice-removed-from-the-Goons kind of way, not least in the wonderful attention to detail over the soundscapes they create.

I sat down to my boiled egg with soldiers this morning & found the top already off, & the yolk looking back at me in a faintly accusatory tone. Checked the egg box, & it explained everything. I'll need to speak with Mrs Burgin at the corner shop about sourcing her local produce from #Hookland

October 1st and a cold snap overnight. The scarecrow in the North Field has turned to face the lane again. Nobody admits to moving it. Seagulls won’t go near it, and they’re not fussy. Last night someone heard it knocking on the grit bin for salt. Could be nothing. Could be #Hookland.

Found a sign this morning. A crow on the post looked like it had done the paperwork. I asked if it was council business or a Barrow Marsh advisory they speak of in #Hookland. It blinked like I was late to my own haunting. The fog smelled of hymn books & burnt nettles, so I took that as confirmation.

@jayforeman.bsky.social @markcooperjones.bsky.social Dear Map Men, Can you help? We are all a bit uncertain about where we live. Best wishes Virgil Twobyfour

@loremen.bsky.social I found this old tome in a neighbour’s potting shed, wedged between their back issues of Peat Monthly. Should I wear gloves before attempting the Surye Wanton Tricks, or is a strong cuppa protection enough? And should I keep it away from my biscuit tin? Any advice welcome.

Morning tea. Mist hanging like pearls on every cobweb. September has tiptoed in while the beans weren’t looking. The month reminds me nothing truly ends, just changes shape, like a bucket turning into a colander over time. If you see me staring at the mist, I’m trying to work out what it’s plotting.

Late summer sun amber & thin sliding thru nettles brushing my skin It hangs in cobwebs it dozes on gates it lingers on apples deciding their fates Swallows rehearse their farewell song the day feels borrowed the night too long Here in the hedgerow where shadows run I warm my hands on late summer sun

Woken at dawn by what I assumed was a celestial trumpet heralding the end times. Turned out to be Mrs Tappley’s ferret getting stuck in her euphonium again. Postman handed me a parcel addressed to ‘The Unknowable One (Care of Potting Shed)’. Contents: a single radish & a note that read ‘Soon.’

The Eve of St. Pegrin’s Wiggle Ah, Friday! That most wobbly of weekdays, when the sky smells faintly of nettle wine and burnt hope, and one can almost hear the sigh of the village as it collectively decides not to finish anything important before Monday.

Beltane Blessings from me and the mysteriously smouldering gnome by the pond

This morning while tending to my ceremonial boots, an event transpired. A horse galloped across the garden, adorned in my late aunt’s nightdress and carrying a basket of milk teeth. It neighed in Latin before disappearing near the compost pile, which now exudes the aroma of printer ink and betrayal.

You don't want to know

Today’s Triumphs: One slightly overenthusiastic Victoria sponge (jam leakage unavoidable but life-affirming), and one allotment carrot that appears to be making a spirited attempt to escape its own fate. #AllotmentMysteries #VillageLife #CakeIsAGatewayToJoy #FugitiveVegetables #VirgilsVictories

Been in the garden all day whispering encouragement at sprouting beetroot. Found my tea from three hours ago. Still warm. Probably cursed. Mrs Penfold’s building a ship in her conservatory again. #NotANormalThursday

This weeks' Almanac rb.gy/cl7xah

Happy #NationalTeaDay from me, Manky Beryl, and a brew dark enough to see the future in.

Tea grim. Found feathers. Mabel glared. Crumpet. Life continues.

Virgil here. Easter. Ghost wellies. Creme Eggs too small. Her at No.23’s at it again. Found a haunted hat. Tea’s on.

Eastertidings from the village

Barrow Copse tree. Rude shape. Thumb cameo. Classic me.

Spotted earlier by the Old Wishing Well. Either someone’s lost a bit of themselves or the Travelling Fayre’s sending out feelers ahead of schedule. Gertie Loop was muttering about The Tatterman last night down The Cracked Flagon, so you know what that means. Or you don’t. I don’t.

Fog’s thick tonight. Heard a whistle. Saw these lot by The Goose & Formal Complaint. Whole air’s gone odd. Might be the Fayre coming. Or gas.

🖼️ EXCLUSIVE OPPORTUNITY 🖼️ A totally unique piece by our anonymous local artist. Depicts what could be a woman (or a potato), holding a flower (or a mop). The colours are bold. The forms are… well, there. Art? Yes. Need it? Probably. Just £4, it's yours. Pop by the Charity Shop. One of a kind!

The feast day of Saint Obscura, Patron Saint of Forgotten Things, will be held Thursday at St. Agnes’ Church. Please bring broken clocks, lost buttons, and cracked teacups (preferably with unsettling patterns).

🌀 Virgil Twobyfour – Live Update Started my morning with deep meditation and a plate of waffles. One of them had a pattern that looked suspiciously like the Face of the Universe. Upon closer inspection, it was just syrup. Still, I take this as a sign that breakfast is sacred.

Found a cloud shaped like Geoff Butterwick’s face. He owes me £2.50. Should I ask the sky?

Virgil here. The sky over the allotments looks like a disgruntled fish today. Avoid decisions involving sandwiches and legal matters.

Virgil here. Can you read this? I don’t trust this platform — everything’s too blue and nobody’s shouting about pickles. Very unsettling.

You may now find me dispensing wisdom, wittering about marrows, and sharing exclusive glimpses of the Great Cosmic Scone here, Instagram and Farcebook. Come along, bring your tea, and join me where the vibes are mellow, the vegetables are mildly suggestive, and the wisdom is flaky but well-risen.