First up is the youTube site of Donna Leigh; Tarot Tribe Beyond Worlds - don’t be fooled into thinking this is just for tarot – she has plenty of Lennie links and vids for us Lennie-addicts (Lennie being the shortened version for Lenormand, obviously )
If you are totally new to this form of divination and have, like I did, no former knowledge of it, then this video is a good place to start, as it will give you an idea of the method and what can be achieved by a simple 9 card (3X3) spread.
I have a confession to make…
I am a Lenormand-aholoic …
Yes, the cards have possessed me – I wake, having dreamt of the cards; I eat, reading about them; I sip cups of Red Bush tea, watching youtube videos about them… I am addicted!
(whispers) … Apparently, I am not alone either!
Thank the Gods!
Links et al, will be following!
So you see, Dear Reader, I haven’t deserted you entirely – it’s just… well… those pretty little cards have bewitched me… and who can blame me for falling in love with them?
After years (and I do mean y.e.a.r.s….) of struggling with tarot cards, finally, I have a system (besides Geomancy, Dowsing and Scrying in general) there is a system which not only do I understand, but ‘speaks’ to me!
I know I have a long way to go before I can truly say, “I can read Lenormand” but I can say I’m an enthusiastic beginner and that, in it’s self is wonderful!
You can expect allot more from me on the subject in the future…
I visited the site of the Gallows, one windy day in April, armed with nothing but a modicum of psychic protection and my trusty phone to take grainy pictures of the site. At times the wind was so strong the phone was rocked as the winds tried, unsuccessfully, to rip it from my grasp.
If you’ve read part one, you’ll know that summat was up…
At the time, I just blindly carried on.
My visit to the strange little public park where the Gallows were once sited, down at Boughton, not far from Barrel Well Lane and St Paul’s Church was over, but the lane down behind the memorial to Gorge the Martyr called me.
I’d been reading Roy Wildings, excellent little book, morbidly entitled, ‘Death in Chester’ (recommended to me by Charley of The Mystic Masque). So knew that the lane was on the way to the site of St Giles’s and thought I’d take a gander.
This whole bank of the river Dee has large, impressive houses built on it (except for the site of the Gallows… ) and walking down the lane I could see why it was marked as a private road; many impressive doorways lead off it, into expensive homes. But it was St Paul’s, towering above that was the most impressive!
I retraced my steps up Barrel Well Lane…
…noting as I climbed back up to the busy road how my sense of smell had returned to its usual nothingness – as I stopped by the monument to George Marsh, it struck me for the first time, that the sickly sweet scent, with an underlying aroma of death, might not have actually been in the air at all, but come to me through the veil … But I swept that thought aside, convinced I had done enough to stop ‘anything’ getting through that shield I’d put up around me!
Turning right, past the monument, walking on a short distance, I spotted the fork in the roads, mentioned in the book along with the water fountain, Victorian I should imagine and for one short moment I hoped there was water still in it…
No, it was dry, no doubt caped by Elf n Safety or Environmental Health for unsanitary reasons. Disappointed to say the least, it had occurred to me that a water source here would be an excellent resource – but that was not to be.
Resigned I walked on around the wall, wondering where the graveyard would be. The book gave an indication, but no photos. It turned out I was walking next to it.
A raised round(!) wall about four or five foot high – a sign perhaps of a pagan site?
Who knows, but no way in, other than to clamber up the wall, something I didn’t really want to do that day…. On reaching the main road again, I found the wall plague pictured.
St Giles hospital and Chapel, was founded by Earl Ranulph III of Chester (1181-1232) as a refuge for the lepers of the area. It’s exact site being on the crossroads where the old Roman road forks. Today, the black and white building pictured behind the graveyard, sits on the very site.
Today, only the graveyard remains, the hospital (which gave the area the name Spital) and Chapel being raised to the ground during the Civil War of the 17thC. It was outside of the city walls, and therefore could have been used by the opposing army, so it was destroyed in 1643 as a preventative measure.
So this was the place poor George’s supporters bought his remains. I shuddered at the thought of his death, and hoped there was someone there to put his soul to rest – the wind whistled around me, not as strong as it had been, but though I didn’t want to admit it then, it seemed to say he was not at rest at all… Quite the opposite in fact if my recent dream was anything to go by.
Since then, musing on the events that have followed this visit, I remember a discussion with David Furlong once. A group of us were considering helping a Soul to move on, and the subject had moved onto the faith that Soul had held in life. David explained that they would be in purgatory if that’s were they believed in life, especially if certain rituals, such as the last sacrament, were not performed. I wondered where George had expected his soul to go when he died that fateful day in April 1555… If he was considered a martyr, would the living hold his soul to the place of his death?
I also considered the conversations I’d taken part in on the Traditional Witchcraft group on FB; about a soul, either the first or last person buried in a graveyard becomes the sites guardian… Could George, the Martyr, be one of these restless souls?
There is a local tale, which I read about in Roy’s book, that the street by St Giles’s was cobbled (paved) with the skulls of Welshmen, killed in the Welsh Wars, by a Normal Earl.
Truly, this seemingly innocent spot of Chester, had seen some awful times.
My ‘visit’ over, I took the opportunity to window shop in a few antique shops along the way, to earth myself, and muse over the events.
Little did I know how this ‘visit’ was to affect me over the next few days! But I unexpectedly decided to take a few more photos at the Gallows Hill park, but from the road… I think this could have been when ‘something’ followed me home… In retrospect, I could feel it, tagging along until I got to the canal bridge, where I stopped and mentally performed a banishing on the brow, while looking to all and sundry, I was just enjoying the view… Then I moved on (on more than one level) and returned home.
So the situation is ongoing – my research into those that died at that spot continues, and the synchronous events also.
It is worth a mention, as I intend another ‘visit’ and subsequent post about it, that witches have been hanged there. At first, I thought it might have been them who were calling – not poor George. But he was the one who has come through the strongest, and there we are. These things often turn out so very differently to what we hope, or expect!
These witches, were they witches at all? Somehow I doubt it, but it is interesting to note that two of them were from Rainow.
Rainow?!? I hear you cry – well yes, indeed, so what you may think – but if I tell you that Rainow is very close to Thursbitch, then you might indeed understand… If you don’t then read on. For those of you who do, you can skip the next paragraph!
About two years ago I became obsessed with Thursbitch, a short novel by Alan Garner, based around the real life valley (not far from Rainow), the strange events there and the even stranger death of a young man who froze to death on Christmas Eve. A stone marker on the road side marks the spot he was found, and the strange fact that a single footprint made by a woman’s shoe was found in the snow besides him. But it was the valley that entranced me so. I shall leave a link for you to follow the trail yourself, Dear Reader, for it is a fascinating place, that seems even to this day, to be alive … Full, of mystery and mysterious goings on.
So in 1656, three women were hanged as witches. They were found guilty of bewitching a woman to death. Their bodies were cut down and taken to St Mary’s Church, near the Castle, and buried in the ditch there.
(Note, the Shrine of Minerva is across the other side of the river, and Mary, is often revered as a Goddess would have been… all parts of the paper chase)
I doubt their souls are at peace at all, innocent or guilty! But they deserve a few flowers from yours truly, as does George himself.
After living in so many different places, and experiencing so many different levels of spirit communication, I can, with some brevity, say, for certain, this place named Deva, (Goddess) by the Romans who founded it ‘speaks’ nay ‘shouts’ as loudly as the open reaches, and wild places of Orkney…
Now there’s a surprise!
Or is it…?
The whole saga lies under the mantle of the Queen of the Crossroads, Keeper of the Keys, and She who watches over the liminal place between birth and death, Hekate!
She, who is so old, that no definite source for her can be found – heck, even the Greeks knew she was older than the Titans!
My experiences with her, my UPG (unproven personal gnosis), are marked by a particular ‘feeling’ – a sense of Her. Dark, huge, all encompassing! I’ve felt this in various places, of various ages, including a burial chamber on Orkney…
She is older, and far more known, than modern scholars can trace – and as She is mentioned in the Scotish Play, would have been known during the time periods of both George and the three witches, tho’ I doubt George would have paid her much heed, unless she came to him at the moment of his passing in the flames and took his soul as one of her own?
Who knows, but I think there’s work to be done with him in the future.
Exactly what this will entail, I can’t say, knowing how these things rarely turn out as I expect…
I don’t often blog about my dreams – somethings are just not up for public consumption, plus it can become boring for you Dear Reader, reading about the weird things that go on in my dreamscape!
So why am I bloging about this one? What makes this so special? Easy – it comes after the visit to the Gallows Hill and the research on George Marsh – Martyr. It also raises a few points about working with the Land, and the spirits therein, and hopefully, this journey I am sharing with you is not boring?
Expect updates on this one too – there’s much to chew over!
The dream occurred about midnight; the traditional ‘witching hour’ – how do I know this? I woke and looked at the bedside clock.
I also note that this dream happened on the point of Sunday, the Sabbath moving into Monday. The day of the Moon.
Checking my Moon diary, I see the moon is of course on the wane and in the sign of Sagittarius – all of which are notable for one reason or another.
This is all relevant and for those of you who record their dreams, that will be obvious. For those of you who don’t, it might be time to add these little, but important details to your dream diary. Looking back at such seemingly insignificant points will often produce a cry of delighted retrospective understanding!
First a note on what I mean by over view.
We, when asked what did we dream about, often go into great details about the strange things that were actually happening… like we were eating a large marshmallow, or wearing no clothes, or flying, falling, or a myriad of other things. These are the details – the over view is, if we can but dig ourselves out of the details, which often bog us down, is what the message is/was/shall be… Flying naked, for example, would depend on what has been going on in your waking life. If you’ve just started a new job, it could mean several things; vulnerable – on show – doing well etc etc etc… which is why it’s impossible to, correctly, unravel another’s dream for them – the Dreamer, has to relate the dream to their waking life.
So, here was I in my bed, dreaming about being in my bed, asleep……
An entity, a presence, enters my home and stands in the open doorway of my bedroom looking in.
In my dream, I wake (tho’ not in reality) and deal with it in the usual manner.
But it resists.
Now I take proper notice. i.e. I am in a state of lucid dreaming, taking action consciously, but on the Astral…
I am aware of it but is it aware of me?
It would seem so.
I try unsuccessfully to banish it again.
The Dreamscape shifts.
I am on top of the world; literally, observing, corpses.
The entity in my bedroom has gone.
This is not so much about the dream, but what is going on around it – taking into account the recent visit, the research, the questions I have forming in my mind… some of it, is personal, and some of it, may make no sense to anyone but myself, and a great deal will be ongoing for all of the former reasons!
What is clear, is that I should have put certain things into action – I didn’t and was caught with my lucid dreaming pants down!
So to say I am left with more questions than answers, would be quite true – but… is this how I was meant to be left?
One thing I have taken from the true story of George Marsh, is how strong his convictions of faith were – he stuck by them; foolishly?
He was offered a pardon, but did not take it – was that true?
It is recorded, so I can only assume it is the truth – but the truth is written by the victors, as we know, so who is to say… what ever, this may be a distraction… the truth is, I am being contacted – the next time I will be ready.
However – I am confused as to the corpses …
The reign of Bloody Mary, (1553-1558) saw many people put to death for their beliefs.
The daughter of Henry VIII and his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, she came to the throne on 19th July 1553, after her younger half-brother, Edward VI died earlier in that month; it was Lady Jane Grey, who succeed to the throne immediately after the untimely death of the young, sickly Edward – Mary had to fight for her right to rule, but that is another story, and does not concern us here, now. What we need to consider is that Mary, was responsible for plunging the country back into the Catholic faith her Father had done his best to remove, in order for him to rid himself of her Mother, so that he could marry the infamous Ann Boleyn.
To say she had a difficult childhood is somewhat of an understatement!
She came to the throne, determined to reinstate her faith and saw fit to remove any dissenters causing her brief time on the throne to be one of the bloodiest in British history; hence the name by which she will always be known; Bloody Mary.
It was under her rule that the Rev George Marsh, (born 1515 in the parish of Deane, near Bolton in Lancaster) who was by then a widower with children, was bought to ‘justice’; he was found guilty of heresy – he being a Lutheran kind – a penalty of death by burning at the stake was passed on him in 1554 by the court which sat in the Lady Chapel of Cathedral, the Bishop of Chester, one Dr. Coates, passed the sentence.
George Marsh, heretic, was imprisoned awaiting his death.
On the appointed day, April 24th 1555, said to be a windy day, he was taken in chains to the Gallows Hill by the Sheriffs, just outside the centre of Chester. It is said that on the way, he read his bible and on reaching the stake he turned to the crowd that had gathered only to be told to stop his sermonising. A pardon was offered to him by the Vice-Chamberlin, but only would it be granted if he recant his Protestant faith – off course, he didn’t – George had a reputation for being a firm man, not easily swayed; he had courage.
What happened next, could have come right out of a modern day Hollywood block buster; one of the sheriffs, John Cowper of Overleigh, attempted to rescue George! What exactly happened, is unclear, but the attempt was (sadly) thwarted and Cowper fled – from Chester over the Dee river bridge at Farndon, to Holt in Wales and freedom. As a result, his family were ruined, loosing their lands and there he hid until Bloody Mary died!
Whether George Marsh knew this attempt would take place, we can only speculate – but the failure meant he had to meet his Fate in the flames… it is said the fire could not be lit, and when it was, it kept going out and that the wind came in eddies causing him much suffering – but the flames of that badly made fire, eventually consumed the the spirit and body of George Marsh that windy day in April; he was burnt to ashes, as the Bishop had decreed.
These ashes were gathered up, and taken to nearby St Giles Church near by, where they were buried in the Church yard with no marker…
But Gorge Marsh was not forgotten.
The memorial raised in the 19thC (pictured here) near to the Gallows Hill, reads:
“George Marsh born Dean Co. Lancaster.
To the memory of George Marsh martyr who was burned to death near this spot for the truth sake April 24th 1555.”
When the spirits call, we mere mortals, must answer!
This is how I felt just a few weeks after the move to Deva – and the spirits that called me, called me to a certain place, a place of death most horrible.
For a short, intense while, I became obsessed with the whereabouts of the Gallows Hill!
With thanks to a friend on FB, I bought a book called ‘Death in Chester’ written by a local chap called Roy Wilding. The book confirmed the location, which I had identified myself, using practical methods (Google Earth) to follow up ‘leads’ given to me, cryptically by those spirits. I was not surprised to find that women, accused of Witchcraft, were hanged here…
But the obsession drove me on to discover more about the history of the place, and before I was really ready, I set out on the first pilgrimage.
The day was not a pleasant one; the dark skies threatened rain; the strong wind sent the clouds scuttling along at great speed, and it was cold. Not a day to set out on foot to go looking for a place that screamed ‘you come!’ to me – yet I could not ignore it any longer – I had to go!
I dressed warmly, and put on a good waterproof coat – checked the map, but set it to one side, deciding to answer the Call; spirits would guide me… I knew the way roughly, I walked down the road, turned right and walked towards the city centre. After about a mile, crossed the canal bridge and a little further on I came across a cross roads and thought I knew it – turns out I’d walked in the direction of the Gallows Hill by accident the week before! Coming back from the city, I’d taken a wrong turn, and well, got lost. Seems the spirits wanted me to visit them then, only I’d turned back and found my way home the way I’d come… this told me, my obsession wasn’t just my imagination.
I pressed on, along the busy road; a dual carriageway – no place to cross; and so busy!
Then the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; without warning, there was no traffic – I could cross… and did so… coming to the public ‘park’ that is the site of the Gallows!
I paused… too easy – I’d found it far too easy.
Or it had found me…
I earthed myself; becoming aware of modernity around me; the traffic – the houses – the people – the wind – the sky – the ground beneath me. I stepped into the Now; all present and paying attention!
This was important, I knew from experiences past, to shut out, completely, anything trying to make contact with me – there would be time enough for that in the future, so I did what I do to be totally unconnected.
I cut off my psychic senses.
I cocooned myself; silence; unemotional; stillness filled my cocoon, and I descended the steps into the awful place, totally on my own and able to evaluate the place with out disturbance!
I went down the steps into what I can only say is a place were the council have tried… they’ve tried to make it a nice place… after all the views are spectacular! But there were no benches for anyone to sit and enjoy it. No wonder, I thought – in my well (or so I thought) protected cocoon, who would want to linger here?
So I stood for a while gazing out, watching boats row up and down the river, feeling safe, and allowing my mind to wander…
I even took photo’s…
I even mused that this view could have been (quite possibly) the last thing many people saw…
But what was that smell… it came on the wind, in waves, a sickly sweet smell, with a tinge of something behind it – could it be those spring bulbs? On such a windy day? Or the cherry blossom? Or… something else…
Unawares, caught up in a mixture of sight and smell, distracted and opened, a rush of a sensation over took me…
I galloped in thin air, twisting and turning, eye’s bulging, gasping for air but none came; I danced the hang-mans gig as my ears burst…
The smell filled my head – the smell of death masked by flowers.
Shaken, I left quickly – now aware of a mist over the place, at the top of the steps I quickly ‘opened’ my senses and set up a barrier betwix me and the place.
Fire – the mist, I sensed, was a code for fire – I’d seen it before many times; in burnt ruins; in a burnt out church, deep in Wales, in the roof of the rebuilt building; mist… meant there had been burning here too.
That’s when I saw the obelisk…
*Real Time Note: Now I know who this is dedicated to, but, in order to ‘get the facts right’ I’ve just gone along to Wiki for a link, incase you, Dear Reader, wish to case these facts up further… imagine my surprise when I read this… remembering this event is chronicled in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs… I quote: “George Marsh was executed on a windy day in April 1555….”
I was there on a windy day in April.
I am STUNNED by this – so much so I have to go away and think about the implications – the message given and how I can apply it to my praxis – I was going to go on and write about poor George, the Christian Martyr, burnt at the stake by Bloody Mary (Mary I, catholic Queen of England, daughter of Henry VIII and Catharine of Aragon) for sticking to his guns, but I am absolutely bowled over by this…
Picture time! See this fella? He's a genius cucullatus, to give him his Latin name, but whether he was a Roman import or a native, his original owner wouldn't have called him that. Genius cucullatus just means, 'spirit in a hood'. This one, which was found at Birdoswald on Hadrian's Wall, is the only one in Britain which is a single standing statue.
My corner of the world has changed again
Over the last few weeks I’ve been settling into a new home, a new area and a new life style.
This country lass is now a city dweller – from country lane to city suburb!
And WHAT a city – small, compact, friendly… should I worry there’s still a law that says you can shoot a Welshman (with a bow and arrow) on a Wednesday within the city walls…? I don’t think so… at least I hope not!!!
There’s enough history here for me to sift through to keep me happy well into my old age as the city was founded two thousand years ago by the Romans – a shrine to the Goddess Minerva, still stand down by the Old River Dee Bridge, and the Gallows Hill has already been visited.
As regular readers will know, part of what I do is bound up with the place I live – the Land, the Ancestors, the history of the place is what I seek out and honour as I too tread in their footsteps. The preliminary steps have been taken and accepted – seems the spirits of place are friendly; but then the connection I have with them does go back many years, as this is a place I planned to live as long as 45 years ago as a school child! The Fates have seen fit to see to it and I am grateful to them
There is so much to write about… so much to see and do!
The symbolism of keys is well known – not only are they sacred to a certain Dark Goddess, but they make for powerful amulets too. Their uses only limited by the imagination.
I was asked by a friend, to find her a key for a specific purpose – it had to be small, hand forged, and old… and most of all, she wished me to work a certain intent into the cord and she also asked for something to link her with the ancestors; I had just acquired a few bone beads and we thought they would work a treat. As her patron deity is Hekate, it was easy from there on in – the hunt was on for the right key.
It began at All Hallows, I scoured the antiques shops, flea markets and online sites for quite a while – a good few months in fact! Eventually, I found them, the perfect little bunch of hand forged, medieval casket keys which had been an metal detector find!
They came just at the right time for me too, as I’d just learnt to spin with a drop spindle and the prospect of creating the magical red thread seemed a perfect plan!
Consulting our Moon Diaries, the timing was agreed upon and tonight, I put together the months of planning and magical spinning into several intense hours!
It had been agreed, as I had found three, that she would choose just one, for she has just one box of secrets to open – but that I would work on all three keys for her to choose from. The other two will be offered up for sale soon, so if you are at all interested in one, please check out my FB page, as I’m sure they’ll go quick – I don’t offer up my ‘crafting’ for sale very often, other than commissions for friends.
Today is the New Moon, the first day of the moon-th.
A day, when, in my corner of the world I open up the doors of my home and sweep out the physical and psychic dross of the last moon-th!
Sigils created, empowered and not given to the elements they were fashion for are buried as many of these are for long term healing, or to bring long term change. I give them back to the earth where the transformation will slowly carry on…
I clean my altars, inside and out, and tidy my stocks of herbs and incense, essential oils and leave my crystals (yes I have a few) out in the elements to imbue the cleansing tide… today, a Sunday, it is raining (smile) .
I leave my censer outside after cleaning out and restocking it with pre-ritual.
I created a Telurian incense ala Huson; buried it in the garden to mature over the coming weeks – this time next moon-th I shall reclaim it from the chthonic realms to use in my New Moon ritual.
I love how magical work flows…
Finally tonight I perform the usual ritual to call upon my patron Goddess to cleanse and protect my home… drawing three cards from my favourite deck of tarot cards for the three coming moon phases. I give thanks, offerings and libations.
The day leaves me full of peace and quiet excitement at whats to come; I open my diary and plan my magical operations. I have keys to embellish with red thread for someone; and as I have to make a few for them to choose from, the others may be offered up for sale.
I have the planed Bull Roarer to make, so I will be looking for a good day to traverse the wild wood to harvest the wood for it, and then to fashion it while the wood is green. A joy – for this is one of my favourite things to do – others may follow if I have the orders I expect. I shall be spinning the chord for this too – oh joy!
There are brews to make, wool to spin, pictures to draw, incense to make, and spells to cast – and healing to do.
Life, in my little magical corner of the world is very good
Oh – and there will be plenty of Love to make too… Iz a happy Bunz
Over the last few weeks I have been learning how to spin with a drop spindle – something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now, as I have plans for thread spun with intent. But first I had to find a supplier – I didn’t want to get just any ordinary drop spindle but one that resonated with me. I discarded the one’s that looked like just a bit of tat, and while I did consider making one of my own, I decided against that for now, shelving that possibility for later.
So after a little research, I came across this maker and supplier of drop spindles – I liked the blurb that went with the ad; that Jenniver Lauxman McCorkell is involved in the history of her home land of Scotland and that there’s a picture of her at the Ring of Brodgar, Orkney! So I went ahead and splashed out on one of her kits – and before I knew it had mastered the art of drop spindling and was creating yarn of my own! Fabulous!
The art of spinning is well know through out the Occult – the Sisters of Fate, are often shown as three women, who are know in different cultures as the Moirae, and the Norns, just to mention two, who dispense our fate, or wyrd.
One spins our fate, while the other weaves it into the fabric of our life and the last holds the shears ready to cut the thread when our life is done!
So the magical aspect of spinning and weaving is clear, just from this short example. But what about this ‘magical thread’?
We all know about intent, how we weave it into our spells, our crafting, our praxis ~ we all know how important it is, but there is another, less obvious aspect to my ‘workings’, that in this quick fix, throw away society, is all but forgot!
Our intent is, in my not so humble opinion, is set at the very beginning of the thought that leads to the thing that we do. A bit like horary astrology, where the chart is cast, at the very moment in time when the astrologer understands the question! The thread, yes, the thread of that thought is wound and woven as the spell progresses – which takes time; time to not just cast the spell, but in the creation of the spell.
Thus, the threads of thought are spun together by the mind and bought to manifest with the hands – the elements of air are with the thoughts of the mind, the fire of the actions of our muscles, the emotions of joy as the thing comes together and finally the created piece comes to rest in reality, have been earthed by the actions and journey through the former three elements. A beautiful, yet simple, dance of manifestation.
Add intent to this dance, timed to match the correct moon phase, day of the week and planetary hour and we have something extra pokey and powerful! Add a chant and we have a dedication, a meaning, a reason, another depth to the thing we are creating – the thread, red of course, wove with a certain Goddess in mind, for example, with the chant of “Askei Kataskei Eron Oreon Ior Mega Samnyer Baui Phobantia Semne” is said to imbue the work with a magical depth that will empower the owner of such a piece.
I’m all for adding an extra omph to my works, for myself and especially for others!
So what will this magical thread be used for?
The answer to this is endless.
These are just a few uses I have already used the first batch for, or have future plans for.
And perhaps the most important, unseen aspect to picking up the spindle… it is the key to creativity on a different level, and has taken my creative bent to a different place, both in the mundane and the magical!
While out walking the lanes where I live, imagine my surprise when I came across these little beauties peeping through the leaves and grass of one of the verges.
Snowdrops! A sign that early spring is not too far away!
Candlemass is my favourite time of year, when the worse of the dark, winter days are behind us, and although there may be frosts and snow yet ahead, I know it will not last too long, as the Sun’s warmth is increasing, and the days are now noticeably longer!
Soon it will be time to celebrate with a Ritual for Candlemass, and buy first early potato’s to chit, and then slide under the warming earth on the waning moon. As I plant them, I will be looking forward to their harvest and all the yummy veg that I will plant in between. I am still feasting on last years potato’s, there are leeks and parsnips still in the ground. All planted to the moon, as my Grandfather taught me. I really do have allot to thank him for. He taught me how to recognise the seasons too, how to watch out for the first, subtle signs that winter was turning to spring, and watching for the first snowdrops is something I have done for fifty years or so!
So it is to him I dedicate this whole blog, from this day on.
This is for you Granddad, in your memory.
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