Sanctuary…

March 25, 2015

sanctuary

M&Ms

I just fuckin’ love M & M’s…

March Moon…

March 25, 2015

MarchMoon

Reading right now…

March 25, 2015

exotic

Magic…

March 25, 2015

dancingroundthefire

Magic is a two-way process: you use it to change yourself and in return, it changes you. Letting yourself enter a magical reality is not about creating an enclave of magic beyond your everyday life, but of allowing magic in – allowing for the intrusion of the weird, the irrational, the things you can’t explain, yet are undeniably real.

Phil Hine
Condensed Chaos

Indefinable presences…

March 25, 2015

Corridor

The moment I entered the house I became the victim of an anomalous species of fear. I saw nothing, but I instinctively knew that strange, indefinable presences were there, watching us with sphinx-like faces. I felt them, standing in the doorways, lurking in the angles of the hall and landings, and peering down at us from over the balustrades. I felt that they were merely critical at present, merely deliberating what attitude they should adopt towards us; and I felt that the whole atmosphere of the house was impregnated with a sense of the utmost mystery–a mystery soluble only to those belonging, in the truest sense, to the spirit world -Neutrarians – spirit entities generated solely from spirit essence and never incarcerated in any material body–spirits initiated into one and all of the idiosyncrasies of spirit land.

ELLIOT O’DONNELL
HAUNTED PLACES IN ENGLAND

Books everywhere…

March 25, 2015

Bookends2

“BOOKS EVERYWHERE. ON THE SHELVES AND ON THE SMALL SPACE ABOVE THE ROWS OF BOOKS AND ALL ALONG THE FLOOR AND UNDER CHAIRS, BOOKS THAT I HAVE READ, BOOKS THAT I HAVE NOT READ.”

Edna O’Brien
Country Girl

My Country Life…

March 25, 2015

Fireworks

Living in the sweaty armpit of nowhere, it soon becomes apparent that there are many festivals to be celebrated during the course of a year; probably this is an attempt to relive the boring, turgid lives of the villagers?

I’m partial myself to the blessing of the corn at the end of harvest.

Last year the ceremony took place on James Muddyduck’s farm outside St Crewyn. Cllr Burnem and Cllr Nobwell were in attendance, along with thirty or so villagers in various stages of decrepitude. The ceremony opened with Georgina Plimp-Davis leading everyone in prayers – these spoken raggedly in the Cornish language (which hardly anyone understood anyway), and then were repeated in English by the Rev Charles Bryce-Bridge.

Old James scythed the last ears of corn (most of the rest had rotted in the ground to be honest), which he held up to the south, the east and the north (never to the west – that ancient symbol of death and darkness), incorporating all the winds blowing over the land, as he cried aloud in Cornish a blessing for the corn.

Following this, Duncan Delco read aloud from Deuteronomy (Chap. 8 vs.7-10) in Cornish, giving thanks for the earth’s abundance and six months of almost continuous, unrelenting effin’ rainfall…

Rev Charles Bryce-Bridge, never one to be left out, addressed the assembled villagers on the importance of heritage, history and cultural links that stretched back to the distant (Pagan?) past. His speech attracted some desultory applause.

The ceremony finally concluded with the singing of “We Plough the Fields and Scatter”, the vocals supported by the wonderful village silver band…

The highlight of the day, of course, was everyone packed together in the tiny pub afterwards, drinking themselves blotto, their dull faces flushed, eyes glazed. And their voices loud enough to disturb the generations of buried dead over in the old church yard across the road.

Wonderful, this rural life!

Simply Wonderful…

The other event of the year that I find fascinating (disturbing?) is Guy Fawkes night in early November. They always slaughter a ram or two for the celebration, roasting them on a huge metal grill over a freshly dug firepit. The air always reeks of Arctic cold, and burning flesh…

Last year’s celebration was made all the more memorable by Rev Charles Bryce-Bridge tripping over his own feet and sitting in the flames of the bonfire below the sagging Guy. I’ve never seen that man move so damn fast before…

Trousers still smoking, smoldering, he was assisted back to the vicarage by the church organist, Ms Devina Tuggwell who did her best to cover the vicar’s obvious inebriation. Ms Tuggwell is renowned for her fresh baked chocolate cake, her work with WI, and her magnificent cleavage. She and the Rev did not return that night, so it’s most probable she was practicing on Bryce-Bridge’s organ again.

But then came the firework display, rockets, bangers, starshells, mortars, jumping jacks and what-have-you, flashing and spraying the night with crazy phosphorescent light and streaks of wild-fire like the tracks of comets. Noise and smoke…and, of course, the pissing rain. Yeah, but not the usual miserable, soaking drizzle we’d become acclimatised to – no, this was the full on Noah’s flood downpour, the stuff of patriarchs and prophets…

But, luckily, hardly anyone noticed the rain. We were all far too pissed to care…

chantofthewitch

Today…

March 25, 2015

Book or two