Winter's Grave

marsh pilgrims & tattered taffeta

The first blackthorn blossom in the lane near the Alder Carr. Flowering seems late this year, and most of the buds are still tightly furled. 31 March 2025

Even when the light rises

I see the dance of dark.

These wings of tattered taffeta

in ancient blackthorn

marked.

I am the dawn of silence

whittled apart.

A mourning of spirits

drawn soft in the sky.

These messengers of magic

in earthly battle cries.

Emily R Paget, ‘Dance of dark’

Hello friends, and a very warm welcome to Bracken & Wrack as we tiptoe over the threshold into April.

It’s been an early spring full of adventure, some related to my current Fen Bride candle project and some not directly, although somehow we seem to have found ourselves walking the liminal edge between water, land and sky most of the time.

In this edition of Bracken & Wrack:

• Marsh Pilgrims: a spring equinox journey

• Along The Spirit Path: encounter at a stone circle

• Lady Day Musings: a cake and a video

• The Devil & The Lady: reflections in the well

• Tiddy Mun Again :-)

Looking at the dozens of recent photos on my camera roll, it’s remarkable how many of them have wide skies and reeds at their heart. I knew that placing the location of one of my candle-stories in the fenlands would bring out some deep ancestral connections and perhaps also provide a visceral context for the novella about St Pega I’m playing around the edges of. But I didn’t really guess that so many of this year’s adventures great and (seemingly) small would revolve around the wetlands, nor that the spiritual rewards would already be so great.

One of several derelict wind pumps met with on a four day walk from the-cottage-between-the-heath-and-the-sea to the Kitty Witches of Great Yarmouth. Via a roundabout route, of course ;-) 25 March 2025

Little stories everywhere. See the arched window in the derelict wind pump? As I stood watching in the semi-dusk a barn owl flew out of it and silently disappeared over the marsh. A jewel-like moment which reminded me of my very first candle project, Owl Flight. Here, incense smoke curls from an empty Owl Flight vessel in Acorn Wood, watched by a tiny barn owl painting by Catherine Hyde.

Fingers on the map have excitedly traced out the route of our pilgrimage for this year. Strange, perhaps, that it was dreamed up some time ago and yet the wide vistas of the flatlands are set to feature strongly. Then again, I always say there are no coincidences. If all goes well, it will be split into three segments of around three days each, timed to be close to the spring equinox, midsummer solstice and autumn equinox. The plan has always been to start out on foot from the cottage, but I will leave the destination as a surprise to unfold over the Bracken & Wrack year.

I’m afraid that what with getting the preordered candles packed and posted (still some left if you’re interested) and being out on the land gathering more stories to share around the Bracken & Wrack campfire, merry mayhem has ensued with regard to my new moon and full moon publication goals. But I will always appear at some point with this newsletter tucked under my arm, so please sit and enjoy a quiet read with a cuppa, hopefully in the spring sunshine.

Stained glass with spring flowers in St Mary’s church, Wroxham, Norfolk

Oh, just a note to say - this edition of Bracken & Wrack is illustrated partly with photos from this first stage in the journey, which included an exhilarating tract through the wild marshlands with no modern-day facilities (or even roads) for miles around. But I do need to go back a little way with stories from earlier in the season too, so don’t expect any neat chronology here - my mind just doesn’t work like that :-)

Let’s begin here.

St Christopher opposite the south door, Crostwight church, Norfolk

I feel incredibly lucky that the tiny ancient church of Crostwight stands nearby in the fields, with only a farm and a handful of dwellings for company. Among a glorious range of red-ochre early medieval wall paintings on the north side stands a massive St Christopher. He holds the christ-child tenderly on his shoulder with his left hand, grasping his trusty pilgrim-staff with the other.

Christopher always fills the space he is given and somehow expands beyond it in all directions. He’s a giant, after all. And his staff - often (although not at Crostwight) sprouting green leaves - not only supports his journey but acts as way-shower and marker of the land. To open the south door of a medieval church and sense the saint’s Otherworldly presence directly opposite, well, let’s just say it’s no wonder he was placed there to bless and protect those at the start of any journey, whether into known or uncharted territory.

Like us.

We left a small gift, took up our staffs, and began.

The Bronze Age barrow in Bacton Wood. Sorry to digress, but I can’t resist adding that in this well-loved local woodland there is also evidence of earlier Neolithic activity: lots of flint tools, pottery fragments, copper alloy artefacts, human bone and what’s known as a ‘pot boiler’ site. These are prehistoric mounds of burnt stone, and actually no-one actually can say definitively what their purpose was. My favourite interpretation is that they show where ancient saunas or sweat-lodges took place. 23 March 2025

One of the joys of this sort of pilgrimage is the unexpected and always thought-provoking encounters along the way. After a few miles on the old railway line and beginning to feel that a rest and refreshments would be nice, a couple walking from the other direction smiled and paused when they reached us. Completely unprompted, the woman told us of the wonderful tea, coffee and homemade cakes being served at that very moment in the village hall and explained that it was just five minutes’ walk from the track. Should we go and see? Well, experience has always shown that signs of favour from the gods like that should never be ignored ;-)

Soon after that, we were sitting at one of the many little tables in the village hall, each covered with a vintage embroidered tablecloth and decorated with a bunch of daffodils. Indeed, the event itself was the community’s joyous annual celebration of the thousands of daffodils that line each side of the road leading to their village, known locally as The Daffodil Mile. A beautiful event in its own right, of course, but also it has to be said that there’s little that’s as reviving as coffee and a big slice of sticky ginger cake. And, while our enormous backpacks and our pilgrim staffs undoubtedly caused a talking point, it was wonderful to be warmly greeted and made to feel so much at home there.

One of the attractions that had been arranged for the village’s special day was the opening of the forge and demonstrations of his craft by the resident blacksmith. We stood and watched, aching backs forgotten, as the fire glowed, sparks flew and the smith’s hammer echoed as it has done there, incredibly, for four hundred years. The magical art of the smith seems to stir something deep within us all, and the small building drew a constant stream of visitors. The blacksmith explained that before he took on the forge it had lain unused for two years, but apart from that there’s an unbroken line of smiths since the 1680s at least. And wonderfully, all their names are recorded.

The current Honing blacksmith in his forge, 23 March 2025

More stories from the trail next time …

The million gorse petals seemed to be flames sown by the sun. By the side of the road were the first bluebells and cowslips … they lay upon the grave of Winter. I was quite sure of that. Winter may rise up through mould alive with violets and primroses and daffodils, but when cowslips and bluebells have grown over his grave he cannot rise again: he is dead and rotten, and from his ashes the blossoms are springing. … I had found Winter’s grave; I had found Spring, and I was confident that I could ride home again and find Spring all along the road … as I sat in the sun on the north side of Cothelstone Hill on that 28th day of March [1913], the last day of my journey westward to find the Spring.

Edward Thomas, In Pursuit of Spring

ALONG THE SPIRIT PATH: encounter at a stone circle

‘Oh I’m sorry, I’ll get out of your way’. The man with the back pack was apologetic, but waiting for people to engage with the stones and move through in their own time was all part of the experience of spending time with the Nine Ladies of Stanton Moor.

We put down our cameras and the usual light conversation ensued. The man’s partner smiled but said nothing, gazing around her and taking a few steps in different directions. Perhaps she welcomed the opportunity just to be there with the circle in the sunshine.

The stones shimmered within swaddling bands of slender young birch trees, whose closely-ranked trunks reached on tiptoe to touch fingertips before dancing away. Curiously, the squat and weighty stones seemed to sink sleepily into the earth while at the same time buzzing with energy. No wonder they drew people to them.

In truth, not many of the visitors seemed to engage fully by touching the stones, or even by taking photos. But still, somehow, they had found their walking boots carrying them here, perhaps along the ley lines that the man - perhaps in his early forties - was eagerly describing. He did seem eager, a bit desperate you might even say. He was looking for something. There was a hunger in his eyes.

Ley lines, energies, different dimensions coexisting. And all from the perspective that one day all this would be verified by the scientists. ‘There are more things out there than science currently acknowledges, but it will’.

His words came fast, but all the time there was a feeling that he was trying to latch onto something, to make sense of the transience of life. After all the stones were thousands of years old and here we were, standing among them, adding our presence to their story in the here and now.

And where is the here and now, even?

The man touched the side of his face. He was full of questions; anxious for the universe to respond, to give certainty, a sign that this life was not the only one we had to look forward to. He spoke of ‘levels’. His partner, in her floral top and walking trousers, stood apart. I didn’t detect any impatience on her part. The place had her in its spell and it was some time before she gently suggested moving on.

By this time we had reached the heart of his concern. He believed - or, I should say, fervently hoped - that these ‘other levels’ that run parallel to our own reality are the key to immortality.

Despite looking not much older than my son Adam would have been now, the man gazed straight at us and said he was looking forward to sloughing off his tired old physical body and starting again in a form that would never fade.

His partner gently touched his arm and smiled. ‘Let’s leave these people to their photography.’ And, hitching their day-bags higher on their backs, they turned away from us and disappeared along the spirit path towards the next level.

Nine Ladies stone circle, Derbyshire, 1 March 2025

We’re just beyond Lady Day now - at least by the current calendar, although we still have a few days to go before the Julian Calendar equivalent date. It’s a favourite of mine, although more for the feeling of the rising of the green at this time than for any specific reason I could name.

Last year, I wrote quite a lot about Lady Day, otherwise known as the Annunciation, and if you’re interested it’s here in Bathed In The Green. In that edition of Bracken & Wrack I also gave a recipe for a vegan Lady Day Seed Cake, the seeds in the cake seeming especially appropriate at this time of verdant new growth. This year, I’ve made the cake myself, and I can tell you it’s really good. In fact, two or three days after baking it’s even better, as long as you keep it in an airtight container. Remember, you’re definitely not too late for Old Lady Day, and it would be nice at Easter as well :-)

Last year I put together a little YouTube video all about Lady Day, so I thought you might like to see that too.

Here’s something I wrote this year while thinking again about Lady Day. It’s a memory of something that happened during one of those forays into the Fens I mentioned earlier in this newsletter. On reflection, the purpose of that visit, at least partly, was to collect stories in support of my Fen Bride candle. Perhaps the Bride herself is another iteration of The Lady?

THE DEVIL & THE LADY: reflections in the well

The Devil’s Dyke stretched ahead of us as far as the eye could see. It’s unthinkably deep. Constructed by Anglo-Saxon people perhaps 1600 years ago and over seven miles long, the bank behind it is more than 30 feet tall and 120 feet wide in places, High above the flatlands, we walked between bramble, blackthorn and briar.

Not knowing where the holy well was actually nestled, there was nothing for it but to leave the track to explore every dip and thicket, eyes peeled for that tell-tale glint or at least a stand of reeds that might betray the presence of water. But somehow the topography didn’t seem right, and there was no sign of any stream that might be fed by a rising spring.

The fenland felt empty, or at least empty of tangible human presence. At last two dots revealed themselves as a couple of walkers. We asked them about the holy well. Although the couple said they walked that way often, they hadn’t heard of it. After scratching their heads for the most likely location, the man pulled out and smoothed down a paper map, then pointed over a field towards the old castle earthworks and church.

Eventually we found ourselves wandering over grassy lumps and bumps. We were not alone. The castle earthworks was clearly the well-loved haunt of dog walkers, and indeed of anyone who needed to step into a green Otherworld for a moment or two.

Crossing a stream we looked again for the holy well, but there was no ‘this is it’ tingle. Then I spotted an information board. Although it didn’t mention the well, it did name the area as ‘Spring Close’ so surely we were now, literally, on the right track.

The well wasn’t about to reveal itself lightly and still took some finding as we tramped round and round the earthworks, up and down the contours and between clusters of furze. Then we came upon a sign with a map pinpointing the holy well directly below the massive shadow of the church.

It could not have been more perfectly placed, or at least, that is to say that the church was carefully placed above the sacred well, which was surely there first. The land rose sharply, providing a platform for the medieval church builders to erect their own prayer in stone, while at its feet flowed the prayers of countless others who had come before and after, wondering at the mystery of the waters that bubbled gently and unceasingly from deep within the body of the earth.

Yes, this was the place all right. It seemed strangely neglected, as if its healing powers lay waiting, held back and almost forgotten yet undoubtedly as potent as ever. The natural basin where water trickled down through milky slits was choked with lank, rotting stalks. A few pieces of litter clung to the stones.

Quickly we cleared the debris, releasing the Lady from her chains, and the water seemed to flow more swiftly in response. Was it fanciful to imagine that the reflected bare twigs shimmered and danced more merrily, singing softly of unseen depths?

The Lady. Yes, we had unthinkingly called it a Ladywell like our Norfolk springs below St Mary the Virgin at Sedgeford and St Mary the Virgin at Appleton. We didn’t know until afterwards, when we had left our gift and climbed up to pay our respects to the stone wildmen-guardians flanking the porch, that here was another church of St Mary.

Well, I say we didn’t know. But something in our ancient memory did.

And in the same way, surely, something deep must have stirred when medieval people decided to dedicate Burwell’s newly-built church to the Lady.

The sacred spring below the church of St Mary at Burwell, Cambridgeshire, 13 February 2025

Finally, I promised a series of Bracken & Wrack recommendations but I didn’t imagine suggesting a video two editions in a row, let alone a second one about the Fenland entity Tiddy Mun who featured in the last issue, The Thin Earthen Track.

However, Tiddy Mun himself had other ideas. Beneath the last newsletter I found a comment by Wergulu Blue, telling me about his own music video featuring the legend of the wispy grey spirit, inspired by his righteous indignation at the injustice served to the fen-folk of old whose land was taken from them and drained to line rich men’s pockets.

It’s such a clever video made especially for his original song, and I recognised a wealth of symbols and references - for example the poppy heads and the big tea pot, which you’ll understand if you know anything about the properties of Poppy Tea. Even the fenland cottage felt familiar; I was reminded of my grandma’s tea table with the best china all laid out.

Usually I’m not a great one for humorous retellings of serious subjects, especially if I feel that folklore or magic is being belittled or treated flippantly. But here, love and respect for the fenland, its traditions and its people is clearly discernible, albeit through a gently-mocking filter. I loved the song and this multi-layered video (which Wergulu Blue tells me took 18 months to make) and hope you will too.

Well, I think that’s about it for this issue, so I shall just leave you with a sandcastle spotted on my nearest beach the other day when I jumped down off the prom for a breath of fresh air after a day of candle packing.

Until next time.

With love, Imogen x

Captured just as the tide came in, 27 March 2025