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In case it is not immediately obvious, I’m not a great fan of Organised Religion. I prefer my spiritual belief system to be disorganised. A bit of a ramble and a couple of pine cones make my temple.

To illustrate this point I accidentally harassed a Chaplain the other day. I was on duty in the library and the perfectly personable gentleman introduced himself. He is a Council Measure to assist staff with their ‘stress issues’ caused by the tumbrils arriving to collect those newly volunteered into redundancy. The Chaplain is here to help and, with that in mind, we began a spiritual discussion.

Some half an hour later and I was part way through my Pagan diatribe, having only just arrived at a mention of running naked round the Ring of Brodgar, when the Chaplain seemed in a sudden hurry to leave. “I have to go… over there” he pointed quite, well, pointedly, into the middle distance and ran off.  I have this effect on Jehovah’s Witnesses too, many of whom are seen fleeing from my doorstep with Morrigan at their heels.

One of my problems with organised religion is the sidelining of women and the mad idea that women don’t have a part to play except to do the flowers or polish the silverware. Even nowadays, when women vicars are largely keeping the Church of England on its knobbly old knees, there are those who disapprove of ‘women’ in ministry. So. Not for me. No thanks. There’s enough sexism in life without encouraging it in your faith.

The Vikings had other ideas of course. The sensible Scandinavian peoples believed that women had intuition and insight and that some women, called the Völva or staff bearers were the shamans, the people who could help connect with the spiritual.  Yes. I like that. Let’s share the spiritual chores folks. It’s a religion not a Gentleman’s Club.

I can hear you, you know, whispering about the blood and darkness, the ‘human sacrifice’ of pre-Christian belief. I can see the smug sneer and the assurance that I’m cherry picking my pagan information and research here. I’m avoiding the bad bits.  No. I’m not. I’ve seen Lindow Man on display and I understand his fate. I think we can close the subject of pre-christian religious brutality down quite quickly once we think of the idea of The Atonement. Plus we  can all dismount from our high modern religious horses, bow our heads and recall Joan of Arc perhaps, or the 20th century horrors of the Magdalen Laundries.  And no one of course expects the Spanish Inquisition.

Anyway, I am not here to proseltyse. I’m here to lend a flavour of what I believe.  “Do you believe in fairies?” someone sniggers at the back. Why not? What’s the difference between a fairy and a saint?  No. Seriously. What is the difference? A stained glass window?

I am not the kind of person who feels compelled to make others follow the same spiritual path.  I feel connected to a Pagan idea of belief and spirituality but to my mind, this is something fundamental, it goes beyond a label. You cannot pin a Pagan in my book.  Anyone who jumps up and says “No you’re not Pagan, you don’t do this and observe that and why aren’t you in your Druid robes?”  is missing the point. The point is, there shouldn’t be rules, just connections.  Instinct. Intuition. Thought.

Many people, over the post-Christian centuries, have belittled and diminished the word and idea of ‘Pagan’. If you’re a Pagan then, to some people, you’re a bit of a New Age hippy at best, at worst a joke.  Ha, worshipping trees? This, I’m sorry to tell you, is a bully boy tactic employed in the sweeping change to Christianity. If you make something small, if you pick on something you can diminish it, you can push it aside. Its like a mega brand supermarket taking over the corner shop. You disconnect people from their own spirit and frighten them and force them into your way of doing things.  You must be a bully boy if you want to steal away belief.  Let’s, for the sake of this blog, slot in the phrase ‘pre-Christian belief systems’. Yes. Before there was Jesus there were other ideas, there were trees and the sun.  There were wolves and snakes and hares and it was all connected.

Pre-Christian belief systems were about this connected sense of the world. People worshipped the sun because it affected their lives. It  shone on the crops and it all but disappeared in the winter time. If you are living in the landscape you are more connected to it. To me, there is nothing stupid about worshipping the sun. Why not? Saint Sun? There is a certain logic to it.

I was raised in the Church of England, so that’s my established religion reference point. Sundays appeared to prove Einstein’s Theory of Special Relativity; outside Church, time ticked with an atomic regularity; inside Church, it slowed to spaghettify us all. The joys I found were in singing hymns and candlelight. I even like the word ‘Hymn’ and its odd cluster of consonants. There are lots of other beautiful liturgical terms; plainsong and litany are two examples. Language played a big part for me. There’s a lot to be said for ‘Thee’ and ‘Thou’.

The vestments were splendid too, my mum, a skilled needlewoman, embroidered two sets of vestments for our church, that folks, is just how Churchy we were, plus my dad was the organist.  I loved the colours of the fabrics, the gold of the thread she had used.  At the end of the service the servers at the altar would snuff out the candles and I loved to watch the thin curls of smoke leave contrails in the cold church breath.

It was brutal stuff of course, even in the soppy old C of E. At Christmas we were all singing to the Infant Jesus and everything was Christingle and mangers. A few months later Easter dawned and there was the violent and dark story of the Crucifixion. There is little more bloodthirsty and terrifying, to your average eight year old, than the Easter story. Crowns of thorns. Swords. Nails. Crosses.Tombs. Religion is not PG rated. I shudder at the memories of Good Friday.  I will gloss over the fact that Christianity plastered its Paschal doings all over the Pagan idea of Oestre, a time of rebirth and fecundity. You don’t nail the Easter Bunny to any sort of cross, rather you let him run wild and free across the nearest field bringing life and vigour.  Oh. Er sorry about that. Forgot to gloss. Oops.

I preferred the Roman and Greek Gods and their squabbles and triumphs. There was sunlight and magic in these Gods, they were more, well, human. They had faults and mischief and they were connected with the world. There is the Celtic pantheon too, appealing with its wise salmon and War goddess. Yes, a woman on horseback, wielding a sword, talking to crows, an idea that plugs straight into my central imagination system. Mabh and Epona make my heart beat faster.

My idea of being Pagan is the idea of looking out into the world and letting it speak to you. It is about looking up into the sky or into the branches of a tree, watching a squirrel move her kits out of the path of the sparrowhawk.  It’s more Springwatch than Eucharist.  It is about the wooden spoon that speaks to you because of its shape and the burn marks you have made on it over the years and the fact that that spoon adds better flavour to the stew than this other spoon and you have no idea why.  Let everything speak to you, you just have to listen. It is not about commanding or chastising or a catechism. The badger is your bishop if you are Pagan inclined.

My own Pagan beliefs are about the mythic whilst also looking out and up in the Here and Now. Each day Odin sent out his ravens, Hugin and Munin, Thought and Memory, to keep an eye on the world and I think about that whenever I see a raven or any of the corvids. I connect to their intelligence and beauty. I did some research on the flight of birds for a creative writing workshop and the knowledge that their muscles are springloaded, that they have big hearts to power their flight only added to the joy I feel when I see jackdaws lift out of the trees in my garden. They enjoy their flight.  Walking along the canal last week, my husband and I watched the jackdaws coming in from all across the sky to roost in a particular stretch of woodland. The massed sound of their calling reached right inside, to the place I would call my soul. The way that they greeted each other, one battalion rising to thread themselves through and between the other and all twist and drop and swoop together, lit the twilight of the day. There are some religions that maintain animals don’t have a soul; stand beside that woodland and tell me they don’t.  You are missing the point. The spark. The life.

There is something epic about a red kite hanging on the wind, yawing and stooping.  There is beauty and practicality and strength in a swan’s foot. Ever looked at a swan’s foot? It is time you did.

Of course somewhere I can hear Richard Dawkins footsteps rushing to catch me up and tell me that nothing has a soul, only bones and sinews, it’s all neural synapses.  I’ll listen to him. Yes, I know, Biology.  Yes, yes, Physics.  I see the science, Richard, I understand perfectly.

I also see the sky reflected in a robin’s eye.

 

 

Several centuries ago, in my former incarnation as a tv scriptwriter, I spent four days trapped in a car on the highways and byways of Devon with a crumpled map and a crazy producer. We were embarked upon a research trip for a Sunday night series about alternative lifestyles, living off the land and, most importantly, the idea of new starts.

In magic, there is a situation… alright let’s not dither about here… what I mean is that there is a spell, there’s a spell that can be cast whereby someone is ‘mazed’, that is, they can’t find their way to where they are going. Wrong turns and turnabouts, dead ends and backtracking.

That happened to us for the entire four days. Devon is like that, it crackles with the Old Magic, the one spelt with a ‘k’.

Firstly we had to find our accommodation. This was in the days before SatNav and so we had a map. Except that the map seemed to shift and alter, side roads and backlanes snaked around us, looped and turned us.

“It is here. It must be. Look, the station is right here.” we pulled into the empty and wildflower blown car park by the remote and deserted platform. From our correspondence with the family run B&B, The Barton, as it was called, was in the village, reached by turning up left past the station and proceeding half a mile up the hill. This is where our first problem was created, the village was not really a village. It was a derelict seeming pub and a station.

“This is the village.” my producer colleague decided. “Look.” She pointed to the sign ‘Welcome to Chagton Quagford’ Yes. This was the place and yes, the station sign confirmed this telling us very clearly that this was indeed ‘Chagton Quagford’. The sign slightly above us beside the track read ‘Do Not Alight Here’ and was rather more unsettling.  Glancing up from the map I thought I saw Bernard Cribbins waving red bloomers in warning but the illusion vanished to reveal a red carrier bag caught in a nearby hedge.

We set off once more, my finger pinned to the place on the map marked ‘Barton Barn Farm’. We needed to take the next turning on the left. Not there? It must be further along then, the next perhaps? The next then. Maybe. Possibly. Suddenly along a road we had travelled three times already, the lane to The Barton B&B cut in.

It was a beautiful base, a remote and only partly renovated farmhouse complex complete with nesting swallows and latched doors. In the morning there was homemade marmalade for breakfast and the owner, a glamorous middle aged woman in blue coveralls, told of the ghost that was rattled by the renovations.

“It’s mostly just footsteps in the long corridor outside your rooms. And sometimes it knocks on the doors, but just don’t answer it. Just slide the bolt shut and it will be fine. Oh, would you like trout for tea?”

With the hair on the backs of our necks prickling and our evening meal sorted we piled back into the car for another day of Devon. The producer had arranged all manner of meetings with people who were living an alternative lifestyle, something which nowadays has gained eco-credentials, a life termed ‘off grid’ and quite trendy. When I visited the Devon smallholders and hobby farmers, there was nothing trendy about them.

The first farm was on the edge of Dartmoor and so, almost at once, the mazing began. The map was swizzled upside and down, we turned and turned about, we drove widdershins, we tried  turning down the opposite lanes to those shown on the map. Once again, as if by magic, the track to Dunster Farm sliced off from the road. There is no ‘as if’, there is only magic.

This farm track was very long and very bumpy and the hawthorn hedge curled over so that it was like a deep tunnel. At the end of the track was a farm of ancient lineage with a flagged yard and mossed stone steps rising to mullioned doors and leaded windows beneath a stone tiled roof. A fox sat by the barn door and watched my colleague try and park between the collection of rusting vintage tractors and the stone horse trough.

“Should we get out?” she asked. The farmhouse door stood open but there was no sign of life, no one to greet us. It looked as if it had just been abandoned, as if the occupiers had, in a recent moment, fled.

“I think so. They’re expecting us.”

“No. I meant because of the fox. They’re a wild animal aren’t they?” she glanced in the wing mirror, the fox had vanished and in his place was a weatherbeaten gentleman in a wax jacket and tweed hat. He paid us no attention either, trudging off in wellington boots into a muddied field.

We crossed the yard and my producer knocked on the open and venerable oak door studded with iron giving onto a long hallway crowded with boots of every description. There were boots enough for a small battalion of infantry.

“Hello?” she sang out, there was no immediate response “Hellooooo?” she tried again, taking three steps into the hallway. There was a scuffling at the end of the room and a pack of five dogs snarling, barking and drooling came barrelling towards us. Just as we were about to run for it a commanding voice boomed out.

“Stop that, Naughties. Stop it at once.” and a weatherbeaten middle aged woman with tweed hair stepped out of a small side room with a half eaten hardboiled egg in her hand. The dogs mobbed her, tails wagging. “Get back…get away…” She looked at my producer who was stepping back across the threshold. “Not you, not you…I was talking to the dogs.” and she snaffled down the remainder of the egg.

In the antique kitchen there were two vast Victorian pine scrubbed tables but no chairs and so we stood and chatted as our hostess put the kettle on the range.

“There’s cake if you’d like some…” She reached into a bottom oven and a small white cat stepped out. “Oh, Smudge…get out get out.” The cake had provided a warm cushion.

We ate cat cake and drank strong tea and in the middle of the conversation about the difficulties of a smallholders life in a National Park, a peacock flew in at the window and came to sit on the table in front of us. Our hostess appeared not to notice as its tail swept at the cake crumbs and draggled in my tea. Myself and my producer said absolutely nothing.  The peacock ate the cat cake. I took notes, of everything, the mould on the walls, the myriad collection of antique china, the threadbare woollens and dirt patinaed moleskin trousers, the idea of a life lived hand to mouth, never mind a halcyon ideal of garden fork to dinner fork.

We said our farewells. The cat got back into the oven and we got back into our car.

The mazing continued. We were turned hereabout and thereabout. Each smallholding we visited was wilder and more desperate than the last.  My producer was what I call a ‘fluffy bunny’ sort of animal lover. It was a skewed mix. She thought the calves were ‘cute’ where the smallholder saw them as possible lunch or the means to buy his kids new shoes. There was no distance between these farmers and the reality. These people, quite sensibly, viewed a piglet as a prospective bacon sandwich.

“You should have been here last week when there was the big storm…we had to butcher the pig on this table…” one lady told us with gusto as we ate eggy pastries that she had recently foraged from her kitchen bin.  “It was a bugger getting it in through the door.”  I could imagine, the farmhouse we were in was a medieval building, narrow and low slung and crossed with beams.  I longed to have been there, to have had that intense and visceral experience. It might sound cruel but, above all, these people had a relationship with their animals. They were essential, lifegiving in fact and they were respected. That pig, however odd the kitchen carnage might have seemed to us urbanites, had a proper death. This woman knew and valued the pig, knew how to deal with its carcass and cure its hams.

These people lived on an edge, not just the edge of the moor. There was a bartering system in full swing, smallholders swapping eggs and cheeses, handmade and extremely locally sourced, for tomatoes and onions. If you want my lamb then your husband can come and fix our gate. They had all taken a conscious decision to live a different life and the visits I paid to those farmhouses are something I look back on often, they were odd and weird and above all wonderful, in the oldest sense of the word. That four days was full of wonders.

The most wonder was at a small bungalow at another edge of Dartmoor. You would think that modern construction, well modernish, it might have been built in the 1920s, would preclude it from the general ancient magick and ‘mazing’. You would be wrong. This bungalow played hide and seek with us for almost an hour, emerging at last from behind a vast and thorny hedge via a small green gate; green from mould and rot and a distant memory of paint.

The old lady lived there with her grown up daughter. The daughter was tomboyish and patinaed with earth and greenery. She was a sprite, no question. Their relationship was conducted with barks and growls and it was clear that the daughter was happiest outside the building where she could be with the elements and her animals. She had a collection and was something of a gamekeeper. She had knowledge and was known to help and heal some of the animals she found. We learnt this from her mother, the daughter herself wary and sullen.

“Show them your animals, darling…” her mother struggled up from the armchair and shepherded us out with her stick “Out , that way…in the garden.”

The garden was a wild grotto and Nature was in charge. In probably a few hours the brambles and old man’s beard would overtake the house, standing there you could hear the plants growing. A small space was cleared in the dirt for hutches and there were chickens and ducks.

“Oh…ducks…” my producer cooed. I had learnt by this point that you coo at pets, not at prospective foodstuffs.

“Hate ‘em. They’re bitches. Nasty.” our tomboy informed us “Want to know how to kill ‘em?”

My producer quailed a little but I was game, if you are going to eat a duck then you have to know how to dispatch it and I thought it would prove useful for the writing. A broom handle is involved. That’s all I will say. Killing chickens is a knack too. You don’t want to chop off their heads, there is, instead a way of breaking their necks, that is like prestidigitation. It’s a skill, a humane one and I know, this is not a blog for the vegetarians. With a duck and a chicken thus sacrificed to the Gods of Root and River we were shown the prize.

This creature was in a cramped triangular hutch, the only wrong note in the whole weekend, and a loud and singing wrong note. This creature was taller than I had imagined, long graceful legs filled with a coiled energy, keen to escape the confines of the chicken wire and wood. Long ears, bright eyes, an elegant head. This creature, was a brown hare.

Brown does not describe it. I have seen a few hares since but none had the colouring of this one. The fur was sleek and polished and the deepest ambered bronze colour I have ever seen. This hare took my breath away with the silhouette it made, the curve of its back, the angles of ear and head, of legs, powerful yet slim. It was a thing of great beauty, shimmering with life.

I still dream about that hare. I dream that I unhook the latch and let it run wild.

 

 

Spells. I’ve been right/write in the middle of the end of a second Witch Ways book, and I’ve been really working out the magic stuff. I’m picky as well as Pagan. I know what Strengths I want and how the mental mechanics of it must work.

Once again I must bow to the Pratchett school of Witchcraft and admit that I prefer a more hands on approach to the practice of magic and indeed, the not practicing it but steering well clear of the dangerous volatile stuff. I want my witches, all three of them, to be armed and dangerous, but only to those who mean harm and are dangerous. Ooh, I quite like that, I might use that sometime. Oh. I just did.

Anyone having a quick tramp round Glastonbury in their glass slippers can see that there’s some seriously heavy industry around Wicca and witchcraft. You don’t need to travel all the way to Diagon Alley to get kitted out these days either, you can, if you can’t get yourself down to Glasto, click and receive any number of witchery pokery goodies.

That said, on my internet prowl of Witch Kit I feel that I’m not really sure what you’re ‘supposed’ to have and what you need. It is a bit like hiking I suppose, do I really need this solar powered charcoal grill or should I invest in this survival bag instead? Hm? My head was literally spinning (hey, witchcraft anyone? Spinny head is top of the to do list) after a brief browse over some ceremonial daggers. These are for your rituals (instructions online) and they go by many different names including ‘Athame’. You can have any dagger you like, long and thin, short and sharp, embossed, engraved, curly bits on the handle.

There’s any number of cauldrons and pots on the market too, take your pick. Plastic seems a bit of a waste of time really but I suppose it looks decorative by your hearth next to your magic stuffed cat. In Glastonbury there are actually some stuffed cats, not the cute cushiony kind filled with kapok but the dried and skinned kind made by taxidermists.

Dagger. Pot.  Magic cat. Check. What else? Nice velvet cloth for your ritual table anyone? Or a lovely sweeping black velvet gown for your next coven meeting or if you’re really proper, Sabbat? Pointy black hat? Victorian style boots? I am giving away my particular witchy preferences here. I am old school. You can have any colour you like as long as its black, any hat you like as long as its pointy. And black.

If you need to sort out your transport to the Sabbat then how about a lovely Lakeland Plastics besom? In this case I don’t think a Dyson will do it.

Oh, good grief I almost forgot! Wand? Where would the average witch be without a wand? Imagine getting to your chosen Sabbat and finding, on a search of the many and myriad silk lined pockets of your velvet coat, you can’t find your wand?

Imagine. You would be powerless.

And that is where the shopping stopped and the spell binding began. It is all very well having a wand but what if someone takes it from you? You shouldn’t need the wand itself, what you need is the power it represents. A wand is, if you look at it, a pointy stick. It could be a twiggy bit that dropped off an elm tree, a splinter that shaved off a chair leg, a chair leg itself. It doesn’t matter, it is the person wielding it that counts. The wand is just a point of focus so I wonder if a knitting needle wouldn’t do just as well? Especially a needle that has knitted a lot of jumpers with love and two-ply. Surely that must empower the needle and make it, essentially, a wand?

The ritual dagger? Does it have any power at all if you got it off the internet and it was made in China? There is a magical theory that things only take on a talismanic effect if they mean something to you, if they are imbued with a spirit of use. A ritual dagger is too glamourous a creature, it’s a fake. Your true ritual dagger should be something that you like the feel of when you use it, something that is to hand, it sits on the worktop or rests in the drawer.

Now I have to clamber back onto the psychiatrist’s chair here. My Grandma Ellen would cut you down to size with the phrase ‘You slept in the knife drawer’. By this she meant you were a bit sharp and needed to come down a peg. This phrasing is, effectively, one of my Grandma’s spells, not that she knew it. She had no interest in anything Pagan. She was all for the Pope. This phrase, and its idea of taking up the attributes of the knives, has stuck with me. I cannot put a knife away, butter or dinner, without thinking it. I am bound in a small way, to the knife drawer and its contents. Consider that at certain times of stress I think of myself having a short nap in the knife drawer and gathering in the strength. At other times I just hide in amongst the imagined blades for protection. For me, there is linguistic and memory magic in the word ‘knife’ itself, a word we were given by my favourite band of people, the Vikings.

So shouldn’t a breadknife be as useful if you need an Athame? After all, it is trusty and hardworking and familiar. My breadknife came from Ikea but it is the best cutter ever and, better still, it sounds like a sword as you pick it from the worktop. Bingo. The objects that become most talismanic belong to you and have power only because you alone know what that power is.

Is it wrong that I have a soft spot for ladles too? Just the sound of the word ‘ladle’ casts a mental spell for me, of soup and steel and fairytale. It is also apparent that almost all my pans are cauldrons. I thought I bought them because they are capacious but neat on the hob, the handles don’t stick out. Nope. I was filling the big black one with boiling salted water and my son commented “You’re cooking pasta in a cauldron.” He’s right. I bought them because they are cauldrons. Practical but magic.

It is not the weapon that matters, but the idea of actually being the weapon yourself. No one can disarm you if all your power is inside. I worked out that the most powerful room in my house is probably my kitchen. I love my kitchen and the cooking I do there. It is a messy wasteland scented with garlic and rosemary and slightly mouldering washing but, I warn you, don’t confront me there. All my power concentrates into that small, culinary space and, rest assured, the knives and ladles will be out.

 

 

 
 

‘a highly original talent’ – Beryl Bainbridge

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