I hid them carefully,
The tokens left
In the forest keep
Of dreams sheltered
Far too long from mists,
Continue reading at Hearing The Mermaids Sing
Nothing quite impressive about simple fungus..

But feathers having fallen so hidden in the crevice high in the tree, a token of the spiralling descent of their once private land, set off a unimagined set of events. This land was a certain land, a land set aside …
Continue reading at What if we all cared?


Child of light
Dance to the wish of your heart
Stars bloom for you
The universe plays
A sacred rhapsody
And peace flowers
In gentle song

Caught in confinement
Longing for open spaces
Memory takes flight
*
Reblogged from SC Skillman :
This is the fourth in my series of glimpses into the subject of my new book Paranormal Warwickshire which will be published by Amberley Publishing on 15th November 2020.

Today I feature two locations very near to my home: the Saxon Mill pub and eatery north of Warwick town, and Gaveston’s Cross, hidden in a wood on privately-owned land across the road.
Continue reading at SC Skillman
Michael Pondnoddle whistled. ‘Blow me, I never thought…’ He lost his thread as his children disappeared inside the arcade, squealing at the flashing lights and buzzing noises.
‘What’s up, Mikey?’ Coleen watched the children disappear as she spoke. She set off after her offspring, without waiting for an answer.
Michael walked slowly forward, until he was within touching distance of the ancient figure. His voice shook slightly. ‘Hello, old friend.’ He put a hand on the painted plaster of the cloak and imagined the vibrations that had shook the display, remembered the mesmeric eyes, the cartoon twitching of the moustache and the scary clacking of the jaw as the machine intoned its responses. His finger traced the gold leaf of the machine’s name that ran beneath the crude cast of the crossed legs. ‘The Great Mysterio’.
Continue reading at TanGental

Why does a tiny village like Kilpeck hold such a fabulous church? Because once it wasn’t a small, forgotten place, but the seat of nobility and, according to the information board, parts of the castle still remained. We left the church by the straight, modern path that crosses the remains of the moat and leads to the castle. The old path through the churchyard to the church door zigzags like the Norman decoration of the arches… the devil and unquiet ghosts, it was believed, can only follow a straight path. It felt as if we were the ghosts in this place.

The sky was darkening, casting threatening shadows over the land and turning the damp greenery too vivid for reality. The rain had brought impossible colour to the summer landscape. Our first glimpse of the castle showed us the remains of a large, steep-sided mound with the jagged and broken teeth of crumbling walls as its crown. Little remains of the stonework, but the earthworks are impressive enough.

The first known ‘castle’ on the site was a motte and bailey topped by a timber structure. It was built around 1090 by William Fitz Norman de la Mare, who was given the lands by William the Conqueror. The area was then known as Archenfield and the castle was to be an administrative centre. The timber structure was later replaced by a stone keep of which little now remains.

The earthworks are still impressive though and from the summit, not only can you see for miles, but you can still see the depth of the ditches and easily defensible height of the motte, with its steep drop into the river valley below.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
Dear Wen
This clinging to the classical world has always puzzled me and can only be down to those pesky Romans (Acch-Phut)…
When in Rome do as the Greeks do.
This was over sixteen hundred years ago mind and ‘Pythagorean’ triangles were employed in our stone circles thousands of years before that, as discovered by Alexander Thom, and verified by Robin Heath.

Neither of whom had, or have, much in the way of worldly ambition but instead used, or use, truth as their yardstick.
That’s right, a yardstick, which in length geometrical is three feet!
It is high time the sheeple woke up to their God given rights and sent the fleecers packing…
Continue reading at France & Vincent
The grassy patch was a nondescript part of the wild green that dotted the landscape. If you would pass by,you would hardly give it a second look. But if you would give it a careful perusal,you will find a hidden artist working his magic on Nature’s canvas. The invisible hand had used his feathery quill to paint a variegated splash of vivid colours on the canvas of green leaf.
Continue reading at The Indishe