In this May issue of the Incredible Journey newsletter, I journey to the last Celtic frontier that stood against the Roman Empire. My fieldwork takes me north of Hadrian’s Wall into the ancient land of the Picti—the “painted ones”—where each Spring the night sky above Edinburgh’s Calton Hill erupts in the roaring fires of Beltane.

But before we meet the fire-lit faces of Beltane 2026, we step back two thousand years. Through historically grounded fictional characters, my story reimagines a Calton Hill Celtic settlement as it might once have lived and breathed—seen through the lives of one family, a master blacksmith, and a learned Druid. Here we encounter a matrilineal world bound by female inheritance, shaped by iron and bronze, and guided by leaders whose power lay in knowledge, ritual, and the enduring memory of place.

A Beltane Day in an Iron Age Settlement

Social Structure and Community Bonds

Agrarian life, kinship, and matrilocal household order

Standing on Carlton Hill, I see the sun lift slowly over the eastern waters of the Forth, and imagine its pale light touching timber roundhouses clustered on the slope above the marshy ground. Smoke already threads upward from low thatched roofs. In the largest house, run by Brigā Rigantīā of Brig-Dun, the hearth has never gone cold. It is her mother’s house in which she and the daughters remain while husbands come from other settlements, joining the kin of their wives. Brigā stands at the doorway, judging the morning air, feeling its dampness on her palms. She decides the day’s work: her daughter, Talorcia, is sent to the barley plots, her second daughter, Boudinā, to check the lambing pens, and her son-in-law, Drust, to mend wattle fencing trampled during the night.

Inside, the household stirs in practised rhythm. Grandaughter, Eponinā, grinds emmer wheat with a saddle quern, rocking stone over stone, while Brigā’s mother, Rigantā, plaits leather thongs for tethering calves. The talk is constant—short instructions, remembered obligations, news of kin from the neighbouring ridge. Kinship here binds labour and survival. Fields are not owned by individuals but held through lineage memory—passed through women. Rigantā remembers which strip of earth fed her mother and which meadow floods in winter. When disputes arise, it is elder women who recount inheritance lines, recalling births, marriages, and boundary stones long buried beneath grass.

Beyond the houses, men and women together guide cattle toward the temporary enclosures built for Beltane. The beasts shift restlessly, sensing the unusual preparations. Children carry bundles of dried brushwood, laughing and weaving between adults. There is excitement in the air, sharpened by responsibility. This day marks not only a celebration but a transition—the movement of herds toward summer grazing and the renewal of bonds between kin-groups who will gather before sunset. Every task performed now strengthens the ties that hold the settlement together: labour shared, food stored, lineage remembered.

Metalists and the Mastery of Iron and Bronze

Craft skill, ornament, and technological identity

By mid-morning, sparks leap from the workshop pit at the edge of the settlement. Here, the metalworkers labour—respected specialists whose knowledge passes through generations like guarded stories. The forge pit of Broccos Iron-Shaper glows, fed with charcoal carefully prepared over weeks. Bellows made from leather and wood wheeze rhythmically as a young apprentice presses them with steady feet. The iron within the crucible softens to a workable glow, its colour read like language by the master smith, who tilts his head and judges heat without touching flame.

Nearby, women sit with polished stones and small chisels, refining ornaments begun days before. A brooch takes shape—its pin slender but strong, its surface etched with tight spirals that echo patterns found in bone carvings and painted shields. These ornaments are more than decoration. They signal kin identity, alliances, and standing. A torc (thick, twisted metal worn at the throat) rests on a wooden form while its ends are smoothed into delicate terminals shaped like swelling buds. Each twist reflects hours of skill and the steady patience of hands trained from childhood.

Trade routes ripple outward from places like this settlement. Amber from distant coasts, tin from western lands, and copper from rugged hills pass through many hands before reaching the forge. The metalworkers understand these networks intimately, even if they have never seen the distant sources themselves. Their craft transforms raw earth into symbols of power and belonging.

On this Beltane morning, as smoke from the forge mingles with the scent of damp grass, the tools and ornaments prepared today will be worn during the evening gathering—bright metal catching firelight, marking both beauty and authority.

Druids and the Fires of Beltane

Learning, ritual authority, and nature-centred belief

As afternoon deepens, attention shifts toward the sacred enclosure just beyond the settlement’s outer fence. Here stand the Druids—both women and men—distinguished not by ornament alone but by bearing and voice. Their training has stretched across decades, memorising genealogies, healing lore, legal precedents, and the movements of stars and seasons. Druid Brigantā Fire-Keeper kneels beside a wooden bowl, crushing dried herbs into powder. Another traces lines in the soil, marking where the twin Beltane fires will stand once darkness falls.

Villagers gather as cattle are driven into a narrow passage formed between stacked woodpiles. Children cling to mothers’ cloaks, eyes wide with anticipation. Brigantā chants softly, voice low and rhythmic, invoking forces tied to land and sky—the fertility of earth, the safety of herds, the health of kin. When the fires are finally kindled, flames leap high, snapping and roaring as sparks whirl into the twilight. The heat presses against faces as smoke drifts across the gathered crowd. One by one, cattle are urged forward between the twin fires, hooves clattering, hides gleaming with reflected light. The smoke is believed to cleanse, to protect, to carry away illness that might threaten the summer herding.

Night settles fully, and the settlement glows with reflected flame. Music begins—horn and drum—echoing across the hillside. Dancers move in circles around the dying fires, bodies painted with ash and ochre, gestures echoing stories older than memory. Brigantā watches carefully, a guardian of knowledge and interpreter of signs: the direction of sparks, the behaviour of animals, the shift of wind. For Brigā and her household, this day has bound labour, craft, and belief into a single living thread. As embers fade toward darkness, the promise of summer lies ahead—secured through fire, memory, and the enduring strength of kin.

Ferocity when threatened

As the sun lowers beyond the western ridges, the calm rhythms of settlement life give way to a more watchful mood. News travels along kin networks faster than smoke on the wind—Roman soldiers have been seen again to the south, their roads cutting straight through forest and marsh, their forts planted like iron stakes into the land. The elders speak quietly, remembering past encounters. Roman writers such as Tacitus described northern tribes as fierce and unyielding, people who knew the land so intimately that bog, hill, and forest became weapons. In the settlement, farming tools stand beside weapons of defence: iron spearheads sharpened beside plough blades, hide shields hung near the doorway, ready should warning horns sound across the hills.

When conflict threatened, the same people who guided cattle and shaped ornaments transformed themselves into warriors of reputation and spectacle. Roman observers, including Cassius Dio, recorded their astonishment at northern fighters who stained their skin with pigments and entered battle with bodies exposed, their appearance as unsettling as their tactics. To Roman eyes, disciplined ranks and iron armour represented order; to the defenders of these northern lands, intimidation was a weapon in itself. Painted bodies glowed in firelight, hair stiffened with lime or bound tightly for combat. Warriors moved swiftly through familiar terrain, striking supply lines and vanishing into mist and woodland before heavily equipped legions could respond. These were not armies seeking conquest, but defenders resisting encroachment into ancestral ground.

Far to the south, Rome answered resistance with stone. The long barrier known today as Hadrian’s Wall stretched from sea to sea, its forts and watchtowers marking the edge of imperial ambition to control Pict movement and limit incursions. Yet beyond that frontier lay lands never fully subdued. Here, communities endured through mobility, memory, and fierce defence of territory. In this imagined settlement near the hills that would one day overlook Edinburgh, the children watching the warriors prepare would grow into adults who understood both worlds: the quiet labour of tending land, and the sudden necessity of protecting it. Their reputation for ferocity travelled southward with Roman reports, shaping the enduring image of northern peoples as both enigmatic and unconquered.

Edinburgh Beltane 2026

Two thousand years later, on Scotland’s most ancient night, painted bodies and fire still command attention—not on the battlefield, but on the slopes of Calton Hill, where performers step into flame-lit darkness to evoke the ancient power of spectacle. Wind still sweeps its slopes, and the turning of the seasons still calls people to gather at the edge of firelight. Two thousand years later, on the very ground where ancient communities once marked the changing year, thousands will again climb the hill—not to drive cattle between flames, but to witness a modern reimagining of Beltane, where sparks, shadows, and human storytelling keep the memory of seasonal fire alive.

Fieldwork

On the evening of April 30th, I stood among the gathering crowd on Calton Hill, camera-ready, waiting for the first sparks to rise into the dusk and anticipating the enthralling spectacle unfolding across three Acts of storytelling.

Act I — The Acropolis: Awakening from Winter

As twilight deepens over Calton Hill, the hilltop becomes a place of gathering forces. The Blue Men move first, steady and deliberate, their presence establishing order upon the rising ground. They are guardians of boundary and tradition, circling the performance space as if drawing an unseen line between the ordinary world and the ritual one. Behind them gather the figures of the May Queen’s white-clad court, their pale forms catching the last of the fading light. In their stillness lies the promise of awakening—white not as emptiness, but as the first brightness of dawn breaking across winter-dark fields.

Before the torches flare and the hill fills with fire, there is a smaller, quieter act—almost unnoticed by the crowd. At the Acropolis, hands work patiently against wood, drawing heat from friction alone. No flame is carried in; nothing is borrowed. Instead, fire is made anew. A faint thread of smoke appears, then a fragile ember, coaxed carefully into life. The kindling catches slowly, and from that first breath of life is spun to energise the flame and light the first torch. One source. From this single point, all other fires on the hill will take their light.

In that single act—the making of one fire from nothing—the logic of the entire night is revealed: that all transformation begins at a single point, carefully made and carefully shared. Then the stirring begins: the drums pound rhythmically, and a loud cheer spontaneously erupts from the thousands-strong crowd as the spectacle unfolds.

The May Queen rises from her winter slumber, supported by her attendants, while the Winter Green Man (The Withered Horned One) is burdened by the long season of cold in a flaming headdress. His movements feel heavy as he alights the Acropolis steps towards the May Queen, as though winter still clings to his limbs. The watchers on the hillside sense the tension between dormancy and life. The Winter Green Man is rejected by the May Queen.

Two thousand years earlier, Iron Age communities living beyond the frontier later marked by Hadrian’s Wall construction would have known this moment well—the fragile shift between winter survival and spring renewal. Fields lay waiting, their dead stubble burned to ash so the plough could turn fertile soil. The Blue Men guardians of today’s May Queen echo those ancient elders who once oversaw the careful use of fire, ensuring that renewal unfolded within order.

Act II — The Procession: The Hunt, The Flight, and The Return

Leaving the Acropolis stage, the procession begins with movement and rising tension. Torches flare as the performers descend into motion, circling the hill in a journey of theatrical stages that recall the ancient turning of seasons and the four elements. First is the fire arch stage. The Red Men burst into view with sudden energy, their bodies alive with heat and movement. They disrupt, challenge, and provoke, embodying chaos and untamed vitality. Their presence unsettles the ordered rhythm established by the Blue guardians, forcing the procession into moments of confrontation and escape. This is the Hunt—the raw pulse of spring’s unpredictability, when life pushes forward with dangerous force.

Among them, the Winter Green Man struggles between exhaustion and awakening, pursued and protected in equal measure. His journey through the torchlit procession mirrors the uncertain passage of the season itself. The archway is set ablaze. The May Queen passes through the cleansing fire and smoke, leading the procession around the hill towards the final stage (Act III).

In Iron Age farming communities, this was the time when cattle were driven between pillars of smoke, guided by steady hands and watchful eyes. Smoke cleansed and protected livestock before birthing and grazing began. The circling movement of performers—Blue restoring order, Red testing boundaries, White guiding the May Queen—recalls those ancient circuits through flame and haze. The Flight and Return feel less like theatre than memory, echoing the anxious vigilance of herders whose livelihoods depended on the survival of their animals through spring’s hazards.

Act III — The Pyre: Fire, Fertility, and Renewal

As the ritual nears its climax, the forces of colour gather with new purpose. The White-clad court surrounds the May Queen, their presence protective and unwavering, while the Blue Men hold the boundary between fire and crowd, maintaining order at the threshold of transformation. The Red Men, no longer disruptive, feed energy into the rising flames, their earlier chaos now harnessed into purposeful heat. At the centre stands the high-energy Summer Green Man, shedding the final burden of winter as he vigorously dances, juggling fire before the May Queen. The hill itself seems to breathe as sparks rise into the dark sky. The Summer Green Man is accepted and crowned by the May Queen in a fertility union to vigorous applause and cheering.

For Iron Age farmers, fire was not a spectacle but a matter of survival. After harvest, fields were burned to return ash to the soil, renewing fertility for the season ahead. Livestock were guided through smoke in the belief that flame purified and strengthened life before the birthing season began. The great pyre at the festival’s climax reflects these ancient practices, transforming destruction into promise. In this moment, the colours find balance: Blue holds order, Red fuels vitality, White protects new life, and Green embodies rebirth. As the flames fade and the crowd disperses, what remains is the enduring logic of renewal—an ancient understanding that from ash and smoke, life returns once more.

Epilogue

The fires on the hill do more than illuminate a night of performance—they reveal how deeply the past continues to shape the present. In the turning of seasons, in the careful tending of flame, in the instinct to gather as a community at moments of transition, we glimpse ways of thinking that long predate written history. Iron Age societies left no direct voice, yet their understanding of land, risk, renewal, and interdependence endures in quieter forms. The logic of their world—where fire cleansed, where kinship sustained survival, and where the balance between order and chaos had to be actively managed—remains embedded in human behaviour, even when its origins are no longer consciously remembered.

To engage with these traditions today is not to recreate the past, but to recognise its patterns and carry them forward with intention. Modern Beltane does not claim continuity, yet it channels something older: the recognition that renewal requires both release and responsibility, that communities are strengthened through shared ritual, and that our relationship with the natural world remains fundamental. In an age increasingly removed from seasonal rhythms, these reimaginings offer more than spectacle—they reconnect us to cycles that once governed survival itself. In that sense, the fire on Calton Hill is not simply symbolic; it is a reminder that ancestral wisdom, however transformed, still has the power to guide how we live, gather, and begin again.

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What next?

Inside Medieval Minds: Knights, Faith, and the Discipline of Service is the next step in this journey—a move into a world where belief was not abstract, but lived through rule, ritual, and action. This chapter will explore the extraordinary mindset of the medieval military orders, in which the knight was no longer an individual hero but part of a disciplined brotherhood bound by vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. From the legacy of the Knights Hospitaller to the enduring myths of the Knights Templar, the story will trace how faith and warfare fused into a single purpose: protecting others as an act of devotion.

But this will not be a story confined to the past. As with Avebury Equinox and Edinburgh Beltane, the search is for continuity—for the places, people, and moments where the ancestral mind still breathes. From ancient institutions that continue their charitable mission to modern volunteers who embody the same ethos of service, this next instalment will reveal how the warrior-monk has not disappeared but has evolved. Expect a journey through living traditions, powerful symbolism, and human stories that collapse the distance between centuries, where the values that once shaped crusader knights can still be found, quietly at work, in the present day.

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The Neolithic world was not primitive—it was planned, organised, and deeply connected to the land and the seasons. Come with me to Avebury, where fieldwork, voices, and landscapes reveal farmers, builders, and traders whose lives feel unexpectedly modern. This journey challenges the familiar myth of cavemen and replaces it with something far more compelling: a society that thinks, builds, and believes with deliberate purpose

Prologue

My folklore writing has often echoed agricultural and pagan British belief systems that aligned with the planting and harvest seasons. In this essay, we explore the exciting Neolithic origins of British farming, domesticating plants and animals as a way of life, marking a revolutionary turning point in human history and the beginning of modern human behaviour.

The transition from nomadic animal hunting and plant foraging to fixed-location agriculture began 6,000 years ago. The landscape of Britain changed forever, marking a period of human adaptation. A picture of a complex society is emerging. Putting down roots in a settlement meant changes in society — new norms of ownership, property, community structure and larger families. With this extreme change, observing and planning for planting, harvest and livestock birthing seasons became a critical skill.

Britain’s Neolithic farmers embedded rich and meaningful belief systems. They impressively designed and built highly precise artistic monuments, such as Avebury Henge and Stonehenge, which are older than the pyramids of Egypt. Their constructions of elaborate stone dressing and carpentry-like joints marked cosmological transitions, religious rituals, social gatherings, and likely facilitated trade. As in large-scale building today, each henge required a great deal of organisation, project planning, labour coordination, and on-site food supplies.

Clearing the Land: The First Fields

My story takes place 4,600 years ago, around 2600 BC, at the time of the March Spring Equinox, when the building of Avebury Henge is just beginning. Settlement houses are made of wattle-and-daub walls, with a hearth fire glowing in the centre to keep warm, baskets and food hung from the rafters to dry in the smoke, and clay and chalk-lined interiors keeping out the wind and reflecting the firelight. In archaeological evidence, finger impressions of both children and adults are found in the daub, perhaps made during winter repairs. Let’s now imagine a day in the life of a Neolithic farmer at Avebury.

In my fieldwork, I visualise dawn coming slowly across the damp fields as the sun rises, as it did before my eyes this Spring Equinox. A farmer steps from his home into the cold Spring morning air. Smoke from last night’s hearth still drifts above the clustered homes. The cattle have stirred in their enclosure throughout the night, uneasy at distant wolf calls. Before the sun has fully cleared the horizon, he is already moving among them, checking the hazel-woven fencing that keeps the herd separate from the wild cattle roaming the surrounding woodland. A calf born during the night must be coaxed to its feet. The animals are slowly driven out towards rough spring pasture, watched by dogs trained to keep them together and to warn of predators in the forests.

By mid-morning, the work turns to the earth. Beyond the houses, narrow strips of field have been cleared by fire, cattle shoulder-blade spades, wicker baskets and patient labour. The soil, heavy with winter moisture, must be opened before the season advances. With a red deer antler digging pick, he breaks the surface while others scatter precious seed saved through the winter—emmer wheat and barley carefully stored in clay-lined pits against damp and mice. This is the anxious moment of the year: too early and frost may return; too late and the crop will not ripen before autumn rains. Our farmer watches the sky as much as the ground, reading clouds, wind, and the lengthening light, generational knowledge passed down through memory rather than in writing.

Near midday, the settlement is busy with quieter but essential tasks. A woman turns grain on a hide to dry in the pale sun; another inspects the woven baskets that protect seed stores from vermin. Water is drawn from the nearby stream, and waste is carried away beyond the houses. People have learned that foul places bring sickness among both humans and animals. The farmer repairs a fence where the cattle will return at dusk, replacing broken stakes with hazel poles cut in the winter. Children scatter ash from the hearth onto a patch of poor soil, an early lesson in coaxing fertility from stubborn land.

As the light begins to fall, the herd returns, driven from the pasture while the shadows lengthen across the fields. Smoke rises again from the settlement, and the cattle settle behind their barriers where wolves cannot reach them easily. The farmer pauses before entering his house, looking westward at the sinking sun that marks the turning of the year. The Equilux balance of day and night promises the growing season ahead, but also reminds him of the fragile bargain he keeps with land, weather and animals. Tomorrow the same labour will begin again, and through such days—repeated across generations—the new life of farming slowly reshapes the ancient landscape of Britain.

Neighbours and Shared Labour

Before considering the monumental efforts that went into building Avebury Henge, I’ll first reflect on what it must have been like to move from nomadic small groups to living in a substantial settlement with fixed houses, where neighbouring families collaborated and protected their land for farming.

Morning light spreads across the chalk downs surrounding Avebury, where clusters of timber houses and working spaces lie scattered along the shallow valley. Smoke curls from hearths as families begin their day, and the settlement slowly fills with the sounds of animals, voices, and tools striking wood and stone. Our farmer steps out with his eldest son to check the cattle enclosure, passing neighbours already at work repairing fences or carrying water from the nearby stream. Greetings are brief but familiar; these are people whose families labour side by side through the seasons. Fields cleared from the surrounding woodland lie close to one another, and each household tends its own crops and animals. Cooperation is necessary—when a fence fails, or a calf wanders, it is usually a neighbour who notices first.

By midday, the settlement gathers into a loose rhythm of shared tasks. The farmer’s wife works with other women outside the houses, grinding grain on heavy quern stones while children move between the households in easy familiarity. A group of men are repairing a cattle pen, lifting and setting interlaced hazel fencing together, while others shape flint blades beneath a simple shelter of poles. Food and labour pass easily between families; one household may lend seed, another provide help in clearing a new strip of ground. The children learn quickly that survival depends on the strength of these ties. They carry small bundles of firewood to an older neighbour whose sons are away tending animals on distant pasture, receiving in return a bowl of milk or a handful of dried berries from the previous summer.

As evening approaches, the pace slows, and people drift together once more. Animals are brought back into their enclosures, and the last light glows on the high ground. The farmer and his neighbours speak quietly near the hearths about the weather, the health of the herds, and the timing of planting. Children play among the houses until called in by their mothers. In such daily exchanges—help offered, food shared, disputes settled, marriages arranged—the community takes shape. The land around them is slowly becoming theirs, not only through the work of their hands but through the bonds that tie household to household across the valley of Avebury.

Marking the Sacred Ground and Raising the Stones

There are slow, seasonal times when minds turn to art and beliefs. The archaeologist Colin Richards has suggested that elements in Neolithic thought were of earth, water, air and fire. The henge monument consists of an outer earth bank, within which sits a circular ditch filled with water, then a circle of high standing stones reaching up into the air and heavens, and finally fire hearths in the centre. Avebury Henge is the world’s largest stone circle! Our Avebury farmer will work with his neighbours, and potentially outsiders, to build a magnificent high-ground henge as a place to meet, party, and mark the passage of the seasons.

Beyond the cluster of wooden houses lies the open ground that will become the great Avebury Henge and stone circles, built and altered between 2600 and 2400 BC. However, before the first antler pick strikes the chalk, there are many gatherings to decide what would be built and where. Avebury, elders and skilled observers walk the land in the quiet hours of dawn and dusk, watching how the sun rises and sets across the surrounding hills. Wooden stakes driven into the soil mark out the vast circle that will guide the digging. Knowledge of seasons, horizons, and distances shapes the plan. Our farmer listens as these experienced figures explain where the ditch must curve and where the great sarsen stones should stand, each position fixed long before the labour begins.

Once the design is agreed, the work becomes a matter of careful organisation. Families from the settlement and neighbouring communities arrive in waves over many seasons. Some dig the ditch, others raise the outer bank, while separate groups journey to bring back the heavy sarsen stones. Food is gathered and prepared in abundance—grain from stored harvests, milk from cattle, and meat from animals slaughtered to sustain the labour. The farmer’s household contributes in its turn: his wife helps prepare meals at the hearths, his children carry water and tools, while he joins the teams hauling earth. The work is heavy, but it is shared; laughter and shouted encouragement travel along the growing arc of the ditch as men and women alike pass soil upward to the rising bank that slowly forms the great outer ring.

Day after day, month after month, and year after year, the shape becomes clearer. The ditch deepens, reaching the water table, and in the wet months, water gathers along its base, so that a shining circle surrounds the sacred ground. The farmer’s wife works with others, shaping the chalk bank, stamping it firm beneath their feet while children carry smaller baskets of spoil. Meanwhile, farmers travel to the Marlborough Downs to free the immense sarsen stones that weigh 20 - 40 tonnes and lie scattered across the grasslands. Using wooden sledges, rollers, and ropes, they slowly drag these stones over 2 miles across the valley floor. When one finally rises upright in its prepared socket, the whole settlement pauses in wonder as the great pillar stands against the sky—stone reaching upward into the air and heavens.

The farmer begins to see that the rising banks and standing stones are more than a gathering place. They are the visible result of planning, cooperation, and belief. A design set carefully into the land so that the movements of sun and season can be read by the community long after the builders themselves are gone. The centre becomes a place of gathering. Hearths are kindled there, their smoke lifting through the ring of stones, the fire a reminder of warmth, craft, and life itself. The farmer stands with his neighbours as the sun sinks behind the distant hills, watching its light pass between the stones at certain times of the year.

In this way, the monument develops over many generations, not from chaos but from shared purpose. The amount of observation, calculation, and precision needed to align with celestial events is significant. Yet those who guided it possessed knowledge that others respected—the ability to judge distance, remember seasonal cycles, and organise the labour of many households. Neolithic people managed this successfully!

Fieldwork: The Circle of Seasons

These stone circle alignments matter, for they help the community remember when to prepare the fields, when lambs will come, and when the harvest must begin. The great henge is more than earth and stone: it is a shared labour that binds the settlement together, a place where the elements—earth, water, air, and fire—meet, and where the passing seasons are written into the land for generations yet to come.

Roughly two to two-and-a-half millennia after the Henge was built came the Iron Age Druids. For Iron Age communities, monuments like Avebury would have been awe-inspiring relics of deep antiquity. There is significant indirect archaeological evidence that they continued to visit, reuse, and reinterpret these ancient places, attaching their own meanings, local myths and traditions. Modern Druids honour the four classical elements (earth, air, fire, water) and the four cardinal directions in rituals. It’s fascinating to consider that these contemporary earth-honouring concepts may not be separate from Neolithic ways of thinking. Just maybe they are the current custodians of a Neolithic impulse.

I visited Avebury henge on the 2026 Spring Equilux and, three days later, nearby Stonehenge, 16 miles apart across the chalk landscape of Wiltshire, for the Spring Equinox. The two sites share building traditions that use sarsen stones from the same Marlborough Downs region. One particularly interesting natural route between the henges is the Ridgeway, an ancient path that runs across high ground near both monument complexes. Our Avebury farmer would likely have known of distant sacred places, perhaps hearing stories of a great stone circle, a day’s pilgrimage to the south, where other communities gathered.

Modern archaeology increasingly views the two sites as part of a shared ceremonial region, sometimes called the Stonehenge–Avebury World Heritage landscape. During my recent visits, I chatted with Equilux and Equinox Druids at each site about their modern observations within the stones, and enjoyed their messages on cosmology, peace, and fertility in these spiritual places. It is easy to see how powerful psychological experiences may have occurred in Neolithic social gatherings through music and dance among these gigantic stone monuments. You can read my short essay on the Vernal Equinox battle between darkness and light here.

Epilogue

Neolithic people had local stone to quarry and mine. Yes, mine. There is evidence of flint extraction on the downs around Avebury, and at Grimes Graves (120 miles away), shafts were dug over ten meters deep! The flint from upper layers, today known as topstone and wallstone is of poorer quality than the deeper floorstone layer. Using red deer antler picks, Neolithic miners exploited floorstone flint by digging side galleries as far as nine meters from the shaft! Flint and other types of local stone were traded across Britain and even across the Irish Sea. Many polished stone axes found in southern Britain—including those from Wiltshire—have been traced to specific prehistoric quarry sites as far as 260 miles North. The source of the famous bluestones at Stonehenge came all the way from Wales!

In the end, what feels most striking is not how distant the Neolithic world of Avebury seems, but how familiar it becomes when viewed through the lens of daily life. The first settlers who chose to stay, build timber homes, clear fields, and raise families were shaping something recognisably human—community, responsibility, and belonging. Hierarchies emerged, gatherings were marked in great circles of stone, and materials from distant hills travelled along networks of trust and exchange, binding regions together long before roads or maps existed. Neolithic villages anchored people to place; their monuments anchored memory to landscape. Though separated from us by millennia, the rhythms they established—home, work, trade, celebration, and shared purpose—still echo in the way we organise our towns, value our communities, and leave our own marks upon the land.

Enquiries

Enquiries regarding book-length collaborations and extended narrative projects, including works developed in partnership with institutions or archive holders, are welcome.

If you enjoy my work, please comment or like this post. I appreciate your support!

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Share Incredible Journey

And if you really enjoyed it, you can even consider throwing a few pennies into the tip jar. Click the Ko-fi logo to help fund my research and writing. Until next time…

What Next?

Inside Iron Age Minds: From Ancient Picts to Modern Edinburgh Beltane

Edinburgh’s Beltane: From Ancient Galloways to Modern Flame

As the wheel of the year turns toward summer, I am moving my fieldwork from the silent stones of Avebury to the roaring fires of Edinburgh.

Beltane is not merely a festival; it is a profound social reclamation of Scotland’s Celtic heartbeat.

In this upcoming essay, I will explore Iron Age Celtic matrilocal society and the complex belief systems that once drove our ancestors to drive cattle between two fires for purification—and why thousands still gather on Calton Hill to witness the modern interpretation of this earth-honouring ritual.

In this deep-dive documentary, I will uncover:

• Female Power Foundations: How Iron Age women managed land, inheritance, kinship, and household economy across generations

• The Living Hearth: How Edinburgh’s Beltane became the global epicentre for the resurgence of Celtic tradition.

• The Social Pulse: Interviews and photography from the front lines of the 2026 festival, documenting the community that breathes life into the May Queen and the Green Man.

• A Journey Through the Veil: Desktop research meets the raw reality of the fire-procession, exploring the psychological need for ritual in a modern world.

The torches are being prepared. I will be on Calton Hill this April 30th to capture the sparks, the shadows, and the stories of Beltane 2026.

Ensure you are subscribed to the archive to witness the transition into the “bright half” of the year.

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Copyright

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images

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Reuse may be considered on a non-exclusive, fully credited basis, with copyright retained.

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In the late eighteenth century, England offered limited prospects to those without capital or connections. At the same time, Madeira stood at the crossroads of the Atlantic world—foreign, yet already shaped by British trade and custom. John Blandy chose Madeira out of necessity and foresight.

Prologue

When Daniel Defoe published Robinson Crusoe in 1719, he introduced Britain to a new kind of hero. Crusoe does not conquer or inherit; he observes, learns, and adapts. Alone, with little more than his judgment to guide him, he transforms an unfamiliar place into a livelihood. Often read as an adventure, the story is really about something more modern: the belief that a man can forge a future from resilience, observation, and trade, even when starting with nothing.

Nearly ninety years later, John Blandy would realise that concept. In 1807, he lived within the uneasy security of Britain’s middle-class commercial sphere, where respectability depended on trade, credit, and the smooth passage of goods overseas. The Napoleonic Wars did not ruin such families overnight; instead, they applied a slow, unyielding pressure. Markets shrank, shipping faltered, insurance premiums increased, and opportunities diminished.

Amid this tightening world, 24-year-old John Blandy embarked on his own Crusoe experiment — not on a desert island, but on a volcanic Atlantic outpost called Madeira — establishing the foundations of a trading business that would endure for more than two centuries. He left Dorset with only a letter of introduction from Richard Fuller, a banker in London. The letter, dated 23 December 1807, was addressed to successful wine merchants in Madeira and one of the island’s leading British shippers. It said:

We beg to introduce Mr John Blandy, who visits your island on account of ill health, and wishes to obtain employment in a Counting House. We will be obliged if you can promote his views, and accordingly recommend him to your attention.

— Source Blandys Wine Lodge — www.blandys.com

John thus began working on the accounts of a successful Madeira wine merchant: Messrs Thomas Newton, Thomas Gordon, Thomas Murdoch, and Robert Scott. Three years later, in 1811, John Blandy had learnt the trade and set up his own family business, which his brothers later joined in Madeira! More about that later. First, let’s explore John’s journey and Madeira as they were in 1808.

Journey

John Blandy’s journey to Madeira began long before reaching the sea. His departure involved first leaving his family’s Dorset farm and home by coach and horses, heading for the coast. He set out before dawn, trunks strapped high, letters of credit and introduction secured in a leather case, changing teams at posting inns as the miles fell away. Southampton, the nearest great harbour, Portsmouth, or London’s busy Thames docks were not just ports but gateways: places where inland merchants were transformed into Atlantic adventurers.

At the quayside, John Blandy stepped into a world shaped by war. Ships waited not only for the tide and wind but also on convoy instructions, with their departure dates uncertain and their destinations undisclosed. When he finally boarded, the coach journey was over, but the real risk was just beginning. The brief, bumpy ride from Dorset to the coast had taken him out of England; the long Atlantic crossing would usher him into a new business life.

Boarding the ship, he was greeted by the creak of tackle and a sharp smell of tar, salt, and damp timber, where sailors bent their backs to the last barrels of biscuits, beef, and fresh water. Britain was at war with Napoleonic France, and the harbour would have been alive with tension: convoy lists were checked, papers scrutinised, where rumours of French privateers traded as readily as tobacco.

Once aboard, comfort quickly gave way to confinement. The cabins were narrow and dim, shared with trunks, crates, and the ship’s constant movement; those without means slept where they could, swinging in hammocks or bedding down on rough boards. As the coast receded, days settled into a strict routine—watches called, sails trimmed, meals taken when the weather allowed—punctuated by bouts of seasickness, boredom, and sudden fear when strange sails appeared on the horizon.

An Atlantic crossing by sail was neither swift nor gentle: weeks of rolling seas, squalls, and oppressive calms tested patience and nerve alike. Yet as Madeira finally rose from the water, its terraced hills green against volcanic rock, the ordeal acquired meaning. For John, arrival was not merely landfall but survival, a passage through war, weather, and doubt into a place of promise, trade, and uneasy refuge at the edge of Europe’s conflict.

Madeira

Madeira, a Portuguese island linked to Britain through wine and treaties, was spared the full force of the Napoleonic continental blockade. It offered John Blandy something England could no longer offer: a future. His departure in 1808 was a calculated gamble born of limited options—an outward journey driven as much by quiet desperation as by ambition, and one that transformed a threatened livelihood into an entrepreneurial venture and a lasting legacy.

John probably left England’s shores not as a paying passenger, but as a participant. In an age when ships carried labour as readily as cargo, passage to Madeira could be earned through service—working as clerks, assistants, or trusted hands on a merchant vessel. The cost was modest, often covered by reputation or promise rather than money. A journey was funded through effort, skill, and the willingness to begin again.

Madeira lay directly on established Atlantic routes, and ships were already sailing there with provisions. Moreover, many of the powerful East India Company’s fast-sailing cutters victualled in Madeira, taking on water, vegetables, fruit, and wine cargo destined for India and England. Madeira’s fortified wine travelled well, strengthening on long sea voyages and finding eager markets across the British Empire.

As Europe descended into the chaos of the Napoleonic Wars, Madeira’s strategic position and British protection rendered it a rare bastion of relative stability. For John Blandy, it was an island where hardship could be exchanged for opportunity, and where enterprise, rather than birth, shaped his family’s future.

Foundations

John Blandy came to Madeira to work for a well-established wine merchant on an island poised between empire, ocean, and opportunity.

When he entered the counting house of Newton, Gordon, Murdoch & Scott, he stepped into a world governed by paper, ink, and meticulousness. The day would begin with morning twilight and stretch as long as vessels waiting to load or unload required attention. Tall stools, high desks, and ledgers filled with thick calf-bound pages comprised his immediate surroundings. Every transaction—whether pipes of wine sent to Philadelphia, freight charges to London, or advances to local growers—passed through his hand as figures to be set down neatly in ink.

It’s difficult to imagine in a computer age that there were no mechanical aids and no room for carelessness in 1808. Arithmetic was performed mentally or in rough columns before being entered into the ledger; a blot or mis-strike of the quill could leave a mark that might endure for decades. The discipline was strict: totals had to be carried forward, exchange rates calculated across different currencies, and correspondence copied neatly into letter books for dispatch on the next outward vessel.

As dusk fell, the work often continued. Candles were lit, their smoke and tallow scent mingling with the dryness of paper and dust. Under that flickering light, concentration needed to sharpen; shadows made figures harder to read, and fatigue increased the likelihood of errors—yet errors were precisely what could not be afforded. The counting house demanded a particular mental resilience: data stored in memory until it could be recorded, relationships between shipments and payments remembered across months, and trust maintained through accuracy.

In 1810, John briefly returned to England, where he married Janet Burden at St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and then sailed back to Madeira in 2011, accompanied by his wife and two younger brothers —Thomas and George — to build their reputations and fortunes. The brothers also carried with them the customs of provincial England: the quiet discipline of record-keeping, the importance placed on reputation, and the belief that credit was earned through behaviour as much as through wealth.

The family’s origins reassured merchants, captains, and buyers, while being distant from London freed them from rigid hierarchies. Capable of adapting, settling, and thinking beyond the short term, they bridged two worlds—bringing England’s measured customs into an island economy shaped by risk and trade, the Blandy brothers were prepared to take some calculated start-up risks.

They initially neglected to insure some sailing cargo to reduce costs and increase profits from their early sales. The business expanded rapidly, with 1812 documentary evidence of them internationally buying and selling numerous cargoes of flour, beef, pork, butter, lard, cheese, and candles, among other goods, in addition to their principal export of Madeira wine. They had established a sustainable position.

Wine

What was it like to run an agricultural wine trade in the 1800s? Madeira has fertile soil that supports lush vegetation. It is nicknamed the “floating garden” because it formed from weathered basalts, volcanic ash, and lava flows that released essential nutrients. Yet it is one of the world’s most mountainous islands, with 70-80% of its surface covered by rugged, steep slopes, deep valleys, ridges, and gorges.

Before dawn, grape pickers climbed slopes to the vine terraces that rose in tight, stone-ribbed steps, each one carved by hand into the mountainside, each demanding balance and stamina. Wicker baskets were slung low against the hip; knives were short and sharp. The grapes—small, thick-skinned, sun-darkened by Atlantic glare—were taken bunch by bunch, fingers numbed by the cool morning air and then tanned by the sun as the day progressed.

There was no cart to lean on, no beast to carry the load. Everything moved by muscle alone: the basket filled, basket shouldered, and basket carried down perilous steps slick with dust and juice to nearby presses. By noon, their backs ached, palms were stained purple, and the air carried the sweet smell of crushed fruit and sweat. At the nearby stone trough, the work changed but did not soften. The grapes were tipped in, and the pickers climbed in after them.

Shoes were discarded; trousers were hitched up. Then came the treading—slow at first, almost ceremonial, as the fruit gently burst beneath the feet. As the skins split, warm juice seeped up around the ankles and then the calves. The pace quickened as men stood shoulder to shoulder, arms linked for support, stamping in rhythm, their feet slick and purple, each step extracting more colour, tannin, and sugar from the fruit.

This treading produced the must (the fresh mixture of juice, skins, seeds, and pulp), which was poured into goatskin bags and hauled down from the hills slung across shoulders, each man carrying a sturdy staff to steady his stance on the steep descent. In Funchal, after mechanical pressing, the juice was channelled into large wooden vats for fermentation. These too had been created and set without machines, tightened with iron hoops and sealed with cooperage expertise rather than by measurement.

The day’s labour ended with rinsed legs, stained hands, and aching bones, but the process continued unseen as the vats warmed and stirred, the wine beginning its long fermentation. In Blandy’s wine lodge of Funchal, every cask carried the memory of human endurance, and the simple fact that nothing in Madeira was ever made easily.

Family

John’s family grew alongside his prosperity. From thepeerage.com genealogical source, I discovered seven children survived to adulthood: Charles, born in 1812; Janet, born in 1814; Anne, born in 1815; Alice, born in 1816; Alfred, born in 1822; Frederick, born in 1824; and Elizabeth, born in 1826. I also sadly found five other children who died very young: Elizabeth (1811, died aged 2); John (1817, infant death); Charlotte (1818, died aged 5); Emma (1820, infant death); and John II (1828, infant death).

This life-and-death balance, brutal to modern eyes, was unremarkable in its own time. For families like the Blandys, infant death was an expectation kept at bay by hope. Survival was never taken for granted in the infant years; it was something watched for, day by day, breath by breath. To raise a child beyond infancy was a quiet triumph in a world where disease claimed many lives before they had properly begun.

I could not find the cause of death for the Blandy children, but fevers were the most feared visitors of the era. A child could be flushed and crying one hour, then limp and unresponsive the next. Scarlet fever and smallpox swept through households in waves, sparing some children while claiming others with ruthless efficiency. Measles was often fatal to infants, too: it drained the body’s strength, inflamed the lungs, and left the child vulnerable to pneumonia.

Whooping cough persisted longer and more cruelly. It exhausted infants over weeks, each violent spasm of coughing stealing the child’s breath, sleep, and nourishment. Parents held tiny bodies upright throughout the night and learned to recognise the sound indicating the lungs were losing the fight. Diseases of the gut were also deadly and common. A child could fade within days, skin slack, eyes dull, voice gone.

Like many women of the 1800s, Janet Burden’s marriage was more about repetition than certainty: conception, hope, endurance, loss. In the early nineteenth century, childbirth was not a single ordeal but a repeated gamble with fate, undertaken again and again because there was no other way to build a family or secure a future. Each pregnancy followed the same quiet calculation—who might survive, and who would almost certainly not.

Parents learned a particular kind of emotional discipline. Joy was genuine but provisional. For families like the Blandys, this randomness of life influenced everything. When there’s a chance that several of your children may not reach adolescence, the future is not planned—it’s grabbed where it can be. The same world that demanded resilience from those who cultivated Madeira’s vineyard terraces demanded it in the birthing chamber.

Fieldwork

My wife and I arrived by ship on a February morning in 2026 as dawn was breaking. Funchal was lit by thousands of streetlights, strung like pearls in zigzag patterns up the hillside, with cloud and mist enveloping the upper slopes in mystery. Electric lights were not installed in Funchal until 1897, and in 1808, the city had 13,500 residents. Jump ahead two centuries to neighbourhoods that stretch far beyond the old harbour. Funchal is eight times larger than when John lived and worked on the island. Yet the flora, geology and farmland can be imagined as he would have seen them.

On land, we drove along the winding roads of the south and north-facing slopes. Clothing layers shifted from T-shirts to jumpers and raincoats within minutes. Eight microclimates! A drive that revealed how labour-intensive agriculture still is today. Narrow steps are still cut into the slopes for farmland unsuitable for mechanisation. Grapes are picked in much the same way as when John established Blandy’s, still harvested by hand into heavy shoulder-carried baskets.

In the afternoon, we visited Blandy’s Wine Lodge in Funchal, known locally as the ’wine cathedral’ for its extensive stocks of vintage wines. It’s a step back in time entering a flagstoned courtyard surrounded by charming, irregular buildings that serve as a living museum and house cellars filled with large, antique-looking wooden butts and maturation barrels. The aroma evoked centuries past, the air seasoned by the breath of wine and wood — wonderful. The tour concludes in a wood and leather-lined furniture tasting room, where else, and its remarkable vintage wine library — dust-covered bottles standing in place of books.

Epilogue

Over generations, the Blandys became inseparable from the story of Madeira wine itself. They did not invent it, but they refined it, protected it, and transported it around the world, turning a local tradition into an international emblem of quality and endurance. In the cool lodge, heavy with the scent of ageing barrels, time slowed, while beyond the island’s shores history continued—wars, markets, and empires rising and falling.

Stories gathered around the family known for resilience and keen judgement, and for their hospitality extended to statesmen and artists. These are not myths of magic or monsters covered in some of my writings, but the quieter folklore of perseverance, adaptability, and a long memory. This essay has traced the origins of legacy—where hardship turned into adventure, trade became tradition, and one family’s journey became part of Madeira’s enduring spirit.

By his death in 1855, John Blandy had established an international business with trade in England, Holland, Russia, the West Indies, and the Americas. In 1855, leadership of the business and considerable wealth were passed to his eldest son, Charles, marking the second-generation continuity of a dynasty that endures to this day.

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What next?

Six thousand years ago, the landscape of Britain changed forever. Our ancestors ceased their wandering and turned to the soil, marking a revolutionary shift that marked the beginning of modern human behaviour.

But for the Neolithic builders of Avebury, farming was never just about calories. In my next essay, I explore:

• The Dawn of Farming: How the domestication of plants and animals at Avebury triggered a turning point in our history.

• The Architecture of Belief: Why these early farmers built colossal, astronomically aligned monuments that still pulse with meaning today.

• The Living Ritual: Fieldwork photography around the modern Druid Spring ceremonies that continue earth-honouring spiritualities of our past.

As the Spring sun aligns with the ancient megaliths of the world’s largest stone circle, I will be documenting the ceremonies that bridge the gap between the first harvest and the modern seeker.

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Copyright

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and to all images marked © Martin Urch.

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Prologue

I recall the 1973 film Wicker Man, with Christopher Lee as Lord Summerisle and Edward Woodward as Sergeant Howie. In it, the outsider police officer burns in a wicker cage so the crops may grow. Music, excitement, and disguise accompany a ritual whose purpose is never in doubt: something living must be given so that the land, and the community bound to it, may endure. The horror of the film lies not in cruelty but in certainty. Everyone believes the concluding human sacrifice will work.

In Whittlesey, the logic is older and gentler, but unmistakably related. Here, the crops themselves dance first — stitched into a towering Straw Bear, led through the streets to fiddles, drums, and the steady rhythm of boots on tarmac. He bows, capers, and turns, a walking harvest animated by noise and goodwill, embodying the promise that the fields will wake again. Later comes the ending that modern eyes prefer to overlook: the understanding that this living sheaf cannot remain — the year must be given back to itself, and that even joy, once embodied, must finally be unmade by flames.

Introduction

From last month’s East Kent Hooden Horse to the Fenland Straw Bear, this photo essay continues a journey through England’s ancient agricultural winter customs. Here, Plough Monday unfolds in image and motion—its symbolism, Molly dancing, and a ritualised hope that is shaped by the older belief that winter is only broken once its due has been paid.

The Straw Bear traditionally emerged when the fields lay frozen or waterlogged and agricultural labour came to a standstill. It is a circumstance that feels uncomfortably familiar this January in the UK, relentless in rain, flooded fields, and ground too frozen to take a plough!

History

Today Strohbär (straw bear) customs are more common in parts of Germany and central Europe. Where folklore bears symbolise winter, wildness, and vegetative power. But in Britain, Whittlesey remains the sole surviving and celebrated example of this winter-disguise custom, recorded locally from at least the early 19th century, though it is certainly older.

In its earliest form, the Straw Bear was enacted not as an organised festival but as a necessity born of winter hardship. Farm labourers, thrown out of work by frozen ground and sodden fields in the weeks after Christmas, would gather informally — often at a farmhouse, cottage, or alehouse — and bind one of their number into a dense casing of straw until he became a moving effigy of the harvest itself. Accompanied by a handful of companions, and usually by musicians with fiddles or drums, they set out through the town, visiting homes, shops, and inns.

At each stop, the Bear would dance, not elegantly but insistently, stamping and turning to prove he was alive beneath the straw and to earn a few coins, food, or drink for the group. The music drew attention, the dancing justified the ask, and the procession moved steadily on. For those who took part, the custom was both livelihood and release — a way of surviving the dead season of the agricultural year by transforming enforced idleness into noise, movement, and a shared assertion that the land, like the Bear, would one day stir again.

Fieldwork

I arrived in Whittlesey at 10:30 am to join performers outside the Manor Leisure Centre. Imagine over 30 vibrant Morris Dance revival styles all crammed into a small space: the traditional Cotswold Morris, waving handkerchiefs, sticks, and bells on their legs; the rhythmic, raucous Border Morris from the border of England and Wales; the percussive footwork of Clog Morris from England’s industrial North West; and the high-energy, interlocking sword dances of Rapper. Particularly captivating for the Straw Bear festival is Molly Dancing, dressed in tatters and distinctive facial disguise paint, historically linked to Plough Monday in East Anglia, and known for its lively dancing.

Among over 250 Morris dancers, musicians, and performers, I watched the Straw Bear, fully energised and leaping to lively tunes, led by his handler through the bustling dance groups to kick off the procession and street festival. Outside the Leisure Centre gates, more than twenty press members, amateur photographers, and YouTube creators jostled in the rain for the best shot of the vibrant scene along Station Road. A riot of performers, surrounded by over 2,000 spectators, basking in the electric atmosphere of the event. At the end of Market Street, the parade stopped while the Morris groups performed across eight outside locations. It was here that I saw the Peterborough Morris guising cockerel stood before the BBQ Chicken sign — too good an opportunity to miss.

There were more Morris teams than any one pair of eyes could properly take in, yet one group asserted itself with such force that it was impossible not to follow them from street to street. This was Old Glory, Molly dancers of East Suffolk, carrying with them the rough winter voice of Edwardian times. Their faces were darkened in the old manner of disguise, their bodies held low and heavy, and their steps struck the ground with a percussive insistence that recalled the Plough Monday roads of earlier centuries. Nothing in their dancing sought elegance; instead, they leaned deliberately into coarseness, their movements pressing close, locking and breaking apart. The effect hovered between entertainment and clenched fist threat, with tightly interwoven, powerfully archaic shapes to photograph.

Behind the dancers stood the musicians of Old Glory, ivy bound about their hats and their faces stained the green of winter leaves. They did not smile, nor did they meet the crowd’s gaze; their eyes stared, fixed and unblinking, as if listening to something older than the tune itself. The women at the accordions were especially arresting, their stillness at odds with the relentless pulse they drove into the street — compelling, and difficult to look away from. They seemed less like players than conduits, drawing sound up from root and soil, issuing it without flourish. In that moment, the music felt grown rather than made, a slow, vegetal source that compelled the dancers onward and reminded all watching that life, even in its bleakest season, does not stop.

Epilogue

Whittlesey Straw Bear is a festival not to be missed. The streets become a stage upon which the past rises alongside the present. The Straw Bear guise is a towering figure of tightly bound straw, moving with energy that belies his inert materials, weaving through the crowds. Around him, liminal figures parade in beastly guises, echoing the masked processions of centuries gone by. Molly dancers stamp, their darkened faces and ragged coats whispering of Fenland winters when the roads were frozen, and labourers sought sustenance and ritual alike.

Animal companions and historic costumes carry the weight of a time before written records, preserving the gestures, songs, and interpretations of a culture handed down orally and physically through generations. The festival is not merely a spectacle; it is a living archive, a ritual thread tying the present to the seasonal, communal, and pagan rhythms of Britain’s distant past. I witnessed and photographed the Saturday street theatre. On Sunday, the core performers reassemble for the ceremonial burning of the straw bear. The time of sacrifice for good luck in the growing seasons that lie ahead.

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What next?

In 1808, with war on the seas and failure at home, the Blandys abandoned their Dorset farm and sailed toward the volcanic uncertainty of Madeira. What followed—risk, reinvention, and survival—would harden into a wine trade forged in fire and remembered across empires. Join me in Funchal as I follow a heritage trail shaped by danger, adaptability, and quiet courage.

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

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Prologue

Hooden is pronounced like wooden, yet the word itself resists easy explanation. For generations, it has invited debate. Some trace it to the sackcloth hood worn to disguise the man who carried the horse’s head; others look further back, hearing echoes of the Anglo-Saxon god Woden. Another theory links the name to Robin Hood, even suggesting that the Hooden’s companion, Mollie, may preserve a folk-memory of his beloved Marian. None of these ideas can be proved, but together they add to the layered history—and enduring charm—of the custom.

Origins

My clothing was once of a linsey-woolsey fine,

My mane it was sleek and my body it did shine;

But now I’m getting old and I’m going to decay…Poor Old Horse

— Traditional broadside folk song

In the deep midwinter of East Kent, when the icy wind blows in from the North Sea, an old sound once resonated through the lanes and trackways: the hollow clack of a wooden jaw. It was a sound that signalled mischief and merriment in equal measure. As households lit candles for the long December nights, they knew a visit might come—unpredictable, noisy, and exciting. This was the arrival of the hooden horse, and with it the peculiar midwinter custom known simply as Hoodening.

While the earliest generations who knew the hooden horse left no written records, their stories were passed down through memory and laughter. But if one imagines a cold December evening, long before streetlights softened Kentish village lanes, the scene begins to take shape. A group of farm labourers—laid off after harvest, spirits lifted by the promise of Christmas ale—assemble in a barn or stable. One lifts a carved wooden horse’s head, hinged at the jaw, and fixes it onto a pole. Then pulls a length of heavy cloth around himself to hide the performer and give the horse its body. Others don odd garments, absurd hats, women’s aprons, or borrowed coats.

Together, the hoodeners set out into the night, lanterns swinging, laughter carrying on the cold air. To the families who opened their doors, the sight must have been both wild and welcome. The poor old horse surged into the room, snapping, nudging and collapsing theatrically. Behind it came the rest of the troupe—a wagoner trying in vain to restrain the beast, a comic Mollie in makeshift petticoats, a musician plucking a tune, and a supporting cast. A few lines of improvised humour followed, and a comic mock death. Then, inevitably, the victim is revived by tonic of ale to triumphant applause. In return, the household offered gifts to the performers for their skill.

St Nicholas-at-Wade

St Nicholas-at-Wade is famed as a parish where travellers could wade across the Wantsum Channel onto the Isle of Thanet when it was separated from Kent. It was also one of the last parishes in Kent where the Hoodening custom survived, and arguably the most important one. The last recorded period when St Nicholas-at-Wade elders still remembered Hoodening as a living custom was roughly up to the early 1920s. It is also a key parish through which the custom was preserved and revived.

Hoodening was never merely a performance; it was deeply rooted in the very heartbeat of St Nicholas-at-Wade’s centuries-old agricultural life. In the 17th century, the parish was surrounded by fertile farmland, with arable fields, grazing livestock, and thriving hop gardens typical of east Kent. The village’s rhythm was dictated by the changing seasons. Come December, the harvest had been gathered, the ploughs stored away, and the mill grew quieter as winter set in. During this cold season, neighbours leaned on each other’s goodwill, sharing warmth through festive gatherings. It was in this vibrant, close-knit atmosphere that Hoodening truly came alive.

Every household knew the unwritten rule that hospitality to the Hoodening visitors was essential. Whether it was a mug of ale, a slice of bread, or a handful of coins—any small offering would do. More than a simple gesture of kindness, it was believed to be a pact with winter’s luck. Rumour had it that a visit from the hoodeners could bring good fortune for the year ahead—healthy livestock, strong workhorses, and bountiful harvests. Whether they genuinely believed in the magic or not, few dared turn away the hooden horse.

Fieldwork

Tonight, on the 18th of December, is the St Nicholas-at-Wade hoodeners’ 2025 opening night debut. Tim Downie [FolkLands Podcast] and I eagerly join the ‘Mollie’ (David Gray) and the cast before their much-awaited annual performance at Monkton Village Hall. This beloved venue has hosted one of their festive Hoodening performances for over 35 years, consistently packing the house with excited fans eager for Christmas cheer.

We joined a lively scene as the cast gathered in the kitchen, sharing thoughts and rehearsing lines—an entirely new script is written each year. We discover that their wooden hooden horse, Dobbin, is believed to be over 200 years old! It was used by hoodeners until around 1921 and reappeared in 1966 when the St Nicholas-at-Wade Hoodening tradition was revived. Shortly after the revival was formed, David Gray joined as a then-shy 18-year-old Mollie. David has performed the role annually ever since, which, by my count, is nearly 60 years!

As the kitchen door swung open to thunderous applause, Mollie stepped out, skirt hitched to ascend the steps onto a stage that was illuminated by fiery red spotlights, building excitement for the slapstick performance. With a sweeping gesture using a birch broom, Mollie captivated the audience, engaging with them in a grand tradition of banter. Next, we hear the trampling of feet leaving the kitchen, the ‘Wagoner’ cracking his whip, the hooden horse chomping its hobnail teeth, and a lively cast of farmhands bounding up the steps amid comic antics onto the stage.

A constant flow of jokes is shared as the battered old horse snaps, dances and wavers. Performers muddle their lines and break character by laughing at their mistakes. This year’s script amps up the drama: it’s the farmhand, carrying electric jump leads for the horse, who gets accidentally electrocuted, collapses, dies, and is miraculously revived by tonic. An unexpected twist that stays true to the classic death-and-revival motif, echoing ancient midwinter symbols of autumn’s end and the joyful promise of agricultural spring renewal.

The show continues with audience participation in lively singing of carols and folk songs, while Mollie moves through them collecting donations for this year’s chosen charity. In this village audience, leaving valuables unattended is not a concern. The attendees are a close-knit community of families who look out for one another. Here, the hoodeners’ performance is more than just a chapter in history — it’s a lively tradition, where centuries-old customs have left a lasting impression, and the timeless echoes of the wooden horse still mingle with the winter air.

Epilogue

As a family, we have often watched The Muppets Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve since its 1992 release. When Scrooge is walking through the snowy streets on Christmas Eve, a memorable early moment is Muppet horses singing “Here goes Mr Scrooge” with expressive eyes and a long face pulling a cart driven by a wagoner. The horse does a classic Muppet-style double-take reaction when Scrooge grumpily walks past. It’s delightful background comedy that takes me straight back to my 18th of December Hoodening night.

Britain may not have an official national animal, but the horse holds a special place in its cultural heart. With roots deep in ancient folklore. Although the earliest written references to Hoodening are generally placed in the late 1700s, the tradition of the cycle of death and revival harks back to much older midwinter customs. These traditions illustrate the waning of autumn and the joyful anticipation of spring’s return, with the horse embodying the spirit of virility, strength, and divine renewal.

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What next

From East Kent’s Hooden Horse to the wild heart of a Fenland Straw Bear, the journey continues. Another farm labourer, lost in a straw disguise, dances winter away—carrying luck, renewal, and the hope of fertile fields as the agricultural year is reborn. Join me for Plough Monday and the Whittlesey, Straw Bear.

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

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“How but in custom and in ceremony

Are innocence and beauty born” — W. B. Yeats

Prologue

Last month, we delved into the intriguing history of the Gunpowder Plot, exploring King James I’s choice to celebrate his 5th of November 1605 deliverance from assassination with public bonfires. The link with this month’s essay is that his thanksgiving observance coincided with the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter with public bonfires.

November 5th 2025, was the full Winter Moon — Samhain by the lunar calendar!

Samhain (pronounced “SOW-in”) is an ancient Celtic festival that signals the beginning of winter’s chill. During this mystical time, it is believed the veil between the living and the spirit world is at its thinnest, opening a portal for ancestors, fairies, dragons and otherworldly beings to cross into our realm. Celebrations include rituals to honour the deceased and glowing bonfires that serve as purifying symbols, illuminating the night with ancestral spirits and mystical energy.

You can experience the mystique of Glastonbury’s Samhain, also known as the Wild Hunt, where the streets come alive with legendary figures. Imagine Glastonbury Tor’s Lord of the Underworld leading a triumphant parade alongside the Summer King, Winter King, green men, fairies, and roaring dragons, all galloping through the town in a spectacular display of chaos and renewal, opening gates to the otherworld. In this folklore, dragons—embodying earth spirits—are woven into the very fabric of the hunt, transforming it into an epic battle for seasonal kingship.

Glastonbury

Nestled in the heart of the Somerset Levels, Glastonbury unfolds beneath the mysterious ascent of Glastonbury Tor and its towering presence. This enchanting town pulses with a sense of wonder, blurring the lines between myth and reality and is steeped in Arthurian legend. It is said to be the final resting place of Celtic King Arthur, possibly around 500 AD, when Britain fought the Saxons.

Considered the Isle of Avalon, Glastonbury’s mystique continues to enchant visitors with bustling streets filled with enchanting crystal shops, herbal apothecaries, tarot readers, and cosy cafés that welcome explorers of every spiritual path. The town pulses with a lively community of artists, healers, and eco-conscious residents, all drawn by its renowned reputation as a hub of pagan revival and earth-centred spirituality, making it a truly captivating destination.

Glastonbury’s festivals bring the year to life, weaving together residents and visitors to celebrate nature’s cycles. Since the 2010s, the Glastonbury Dragons group has transformed the Wild Hunt into a captivating Samhain event. This contemporary celebration breathes new life into a revered Celtic festival, honouring traditions while embracing modern magic-filled spirit. If you’re coming, prepare for an immersive experience with history, spectacle, and excitement!

Fieldwork

In Glastonbury, spirituality isn’t just a pastime but a way of life. It’s a continuous conversation between the land, ancient myths, and contemporary meaning. Far from being a wealthy hub by today’s material standards, it’s abundant in community and genuine connection.

Glastonbury exudes a vibrant bohemian spirit, embodying a countercultural vibe that’s both captivating and authentic. Strolling through its streets or gathering at festivals, you’ll likely notice the lingering aroma of cannabis—an emblem of the town’s laid-back, alternative lifestyle. This isn’t just about rebellion; it’s woven into a broader tapestry of music, art, and spirituality, reflecting a community that values relaxation, creativity, and free expression.

Beyond the dusky ‘joint’ smells, your senses will catch a hint of herbal blends or incense wafting through the air — evocative mixtures of mugwort, damiana, sage, and other sacred plants burned for ritual, relaxation, or to set a peaceful vibe. Locals and visitors often use these herbs ceremonially, embracing smoke as a powerful tool for cleansing, grounding, and connecting. In Glastonbury, this free-spirited atmosphere exudes a mellow, hippie-inspired openness that invites curiosity and calm.

It’s time for the thrilling Dragon Hunt! It kicks off at 3 pm at the Market Cross with lively Border Morris dancing and enchanting mystical dances performed by the Lady Amp. This captivating opening warm-up sets the stage for the main event. I sneakily slipped away from the crowd and met up with the final rehearsal of the procession at Butt Close car park, just behind St John the Baptist church.

Dragons roared to life, unleashing massive waves that shimmered along their long bodies, guided by the fierce summer and winter queens. I discovered Lord of the Underworld Gwyn Ap Nudd seated majestically on his throne within a hidden wall recess, attended by his loyal Green Men. All the characters were energised, preparing eagerly for the epic showtime that would begin at 4 p.m.

The procession surged into High Street, heading triumphantly toward the Market Cross. Crowds of thousands lined the streets, roaring with excitement as the thunderous beats of the Dragon Drummers echoed through the air. Glastonbury Dragons Herald roared, “The dragons are coming! Make way for the dragons!” The parade paused at the Market Cross for an epic showdown, with each dragon leader steering their fierce serpents into battle, filling the scene with thrill and anticipation.

Samhain’s celebration always ends triumphantly for the white dragon of winter. The procession then winds along Benedict Street, crossing a peaceful field toward the Tor Leisure Centre, where the rhythmic beats of Avalon drummers herald the arrival of the ceremonialists. The ceremony features an entertaining mock battle between the Summer King and the Winter King, with the Winter King emerging victorious. His victory comes with a vow to shield us all during the dark winter days.

During this meaningful ceremony, there’s much to cherish as it delivers a powerful message: to support and care for each other during the cold, short daylight days. The finale occurs when the mythical King Arthur appears dramatically clad in armour and wielding his flaming sword. He uses it to ignite a ceremonial fire, a sacred space where participants place their heartfelt remembrance notes to loved ones lost, creating a poignant and inspiring moment.

Epilogue

The Wild Hunt’s dragon folklore is deeply woven into Glastonbury’s legendary Arthurian and Celtic traditions, creating a captivating tapestry of myth and mystery. The red and white dragons’ story echoes in other British folklore, too, such as the legendary conflict between the native Celtic Britons and Saxon invaders in Vortigen’s Tower—an epic we’ll explore now.

Imagine a time when the mighty Roman legions withdrew from Britain, leaving behind a treacherous void filled with uncertainty and invasion. Into this turbulent chaos steps Vortigen (c. 425–470 AD), a legendary Briton king whose story is woven with struggles for sovereignty. Infamous for his decision to invite Saxon mercenaries to defend his land, his actions unwittingly opened the floodgates for the Saxons’ relentless invasion, laying the foundation for their eventual conquest of much of the island.

While historians largely accept that Vortigen was a real figure, his life story is woven with myth and legend. Embellishments that have grown over centuries. One of the most captivating stories is about red and white dragons under Vortigen’s Tower, where King Vortigen endeavoured to construct a formidable fortress in Wales.

The foundation would mysteriously crumble night after night, defying all efforts to build. Desperate for a solution, his magicians suggested using the blood of a fatherless boy. This ominous tactic eventually led to the emergence of Merlin, a mysterious and powerful figure born from a mortal woman and an incubus (a male demon).

Merlin told a startling tale: he said the tower’s failure was caused by red and white dragons buried deep beneath its foundations. When unleashed, these dragons clashed fiercely in the depths, with the red dragon (representing Celtic Britons) emerging victorious over the white (representing invading Saxons).

This legendary battle of red and white dragons foretold of Britons’ triumphing over the Saxons and around 500 AD, a series of battles were indeed won by the natives, the most famous of these was the Battle of Mount Badon (around c. 496–500 AD), where a British leader — later remembered in legend as King Arthur — halted Saxon expansion for several decades.

However, by around 600 AD, the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes dominated most of eastern and southern England. At the same time, the Britons were confined to Wales, Cornwall, Cumbria, and parts of Scotland, which was the most dramatic cultural and political shift in early British history.

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In my January post, discover the enchanting world of Hoodening, Kent’s ancient December folk custom. Dive into the lively tradition of the hooden horse—a whimsical wooden beast paraded by disguised performers, blending pagan roots with Christmas revelry. Explore its history, rituals, and revival as a winter piece of East Kent heritage that continues to enchant today.

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While Bonfire Night is a beloved nationwide celebration in Britain, honouring the thwarted Gunpowder Plot of 1605 with spectacular fireworks and family festivities, Sussex takes the excitement to a whole new level. Its local version is a thrilling, multi-week extravaganza that bursts with energy, featuring reenactments that transform the gunpowder custom into an unforgettable history festival.

Sussex is truly a firework of tradition, home to over 35 lively Bonfire Societies—the most of any region in Britain. But among this spectacular array, why pick Seaford? Because Seaford weaves a tale of intrigue, folklore remembers that King James I rewarded the man who uncovered the Gunpowder Plot with lands in East Seaford to recognise his heroic act that saved the King’s life.

History

Seaford thereby holds a distinctive place in Gunpowder Plot history, rich with a connection waiting to be uncovered. Before diving into the Bonfire event, let’s delve into its past through the eyes of Lord Monteagle, the expositor of the plot. In the shadowed undercurrents of 1605 England, where Catholic recusants whispered of rebellion against King James I’s Protestant yoke, William Parker (1575–1622), the 4th Baron Monteagle—a devout Catholic—stood at the precipice of loyalty and betrayal.

Lord Monteagle was a prominent figure in the English aristocracy and a member of the House of Lords. His wealth and status were built upon inherited estates, sprawling lands, and rental incomes, painting a picture of nobility. Among his holdings were grand estates in Essex and London, with family ties that traced back to royal favour in earlier generations.

He hailed from a distinguished Catholic non-conformist family, known for their quiet resistance and sympathy towards Catholic causes even during Queen Elizabeth I’s reign. However, by 1605, he had dramatically shifted stance: publicly denounced radical Catholic plots and pledged unwavering loyalty to King James I. He outwardly embraced the Church of England to restore his standing at court, marking a turning point in his life and allegiances.

However, Lord Monteagle was deeply intertwined with the Catholic plotters behind the Gunpowder Plot. His family ties ran strong—his brother-in-law, Francis Tresham, was a key conspirator and the son of Sir Thomas Tresham, himself a devout Catholic. Moreover, Lord Monteagle’s familiarity with Robert Catesby, the conspiracy’s mastermind, and Thomas Winter reveals a complex web of personal connections and clandestine secrets.

On the evening of October 26, 1605, while Lord Monteagle was dining at his London home in Hoxton, his life turned. His servant delivered an anonymous handwritten letter—now preserved in the UK National Archives—firmly urging him, as a member of the House of Lords, to skip the looming Parliament opening on November 5th to avoid a vague but dire fate. The letter includes:

…for God and man hath concurred to punishe the wickedness of this tyme, and thinke not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country, where you may expect the event in safety, for though there be no apparance of anni stir, yet I saye they shall receive a terrible blow this parliament and yet they shall not seie who hurts them this cowncel…

One theory suggests that Francis Tresham authored the mysterious letter, only to deny it later. Alternatively, some believe that upon uncovering the plot verbally, Lord Monteagle penned the note in a daring attempt to gain favour with the King. Regardless of its origin, torn between blood ties and self-preservation, he did not burn the letter or seek quiet counsel among his Catholic brethren. Instead, he galloped to Whitehall in calculated ambition. He thrust it into the hands of Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury—King James’s spymaster and architect of Catholic persecution.

A third conspiracy theory centres around the cunning Robert Cecil, whose watchful eyes seemed to see everything. According to the theory, Cecil knew the plot’s conspirators and their connection to Lord Monteagle. The letter in question was supposedly written at Cecil’s command, serving as a test for Monteagle and a safeguard for his secret sources. Make of that what you will. Regardless of the letter’s true origins, what happened next is known.

On November 4th, guardsmen made a shocking discovery deep within Parliament’s underground chambers—Guy Fawkes was caught red-handed, guarding an astonishing 36 barrels of gunpowder hidden beneath firewood and coal, with ignition tools at his side. After intense torture, a damning confession set off a dramatic manhunt, and the plotters were swiftly captured. In a fierce gunfight, some met their end. After his arrest, Francis Tresham confessed his involvement under interrogation and died in the grim isolation of the Tower of London. His corpse was unceremoniously dumped in a pit on Tower Hill, his severed head spiked over Northampton’s gates. Others arrested faced gruesome public execution after their brutal torture. They were hanged, drawn, quartered, and beheaded—stark warnings of treason’s deadly consequences.

Lord Monteagle’s vigilance earned him a princely reward from the King: a hefty £500 in cash and £200 worth of lands, believed by the Seaford community to be located to the east of the town. To his co-religionists, Monteagle was Judas reborn: a betrayer who traded for a baron’s gilded survival, ensuring the plot’s fiery dream crumbled to ash and infamy. Once whispered in prayer, his name echoed eternally in the Catholic lament—“Remember, remember, the fifth of November”—not as saviour, but as the serpent in their midst.

This daring episode secured Lord Monteagle’s place in Britain’s history and cemented his legendary status as the hero who thwarted one of Britain’s most notorious plots. Today, Lord Monteagle is celebrated yearly as a costumed figure leading the vibrant Seaford Bonfire procession.

Seaford Bonfire

Everything bursts into life at the bustling White Lion Inn, the vibrant heart of the Seaford Bonfire Society, kicking off my visit. Arriving at 5 pm, two hours before the grand procession, I was swept up in the atmosphere as a parade of colourful, flamboyantly dressed figures had already gathered, eager to revel in the festivities and sip on refreshing drinks. Lord Monteagle sat prominently among them, perfectly positioned in front of the dramatic Guy Fawkes tableau made of bamboo, willow, and paper—a sight to behold.

While I savoured a juicy cheeseburger and a refreshing ale, the costumed figures gathered along Belgrave Road, collecting their paraffin-soaked torches in anticipation of the parade. Every year, artisans craft over 2,000 handmade torches from wooden batons, felt, and wire—each one meticulously packaged to withstand the coastal winds of Seaford. As the clock strikes 7 pm, fireworks light up the sky, signalling the parade’s start. The procession begins at Claremont Road, with its long, shimmering tail sweeping gracefully into Belgrave Road, igniting the night with celebration.

Two blazing wheeled barrels led Lord Monteagle proudly through the streets, heralding the Seaford Bonfire Society’s grand parade. Following closely behind, around 700 vibrant parade participants showcased their creativity in themed costumes—from daring Pirates to enigmatic Seaford Shag Smugglers, rhythmic Pentacle and Phoenix Drummers, proud Saxons, and visiting bonfire societies dressed in striking costumes. The energetic beat of the drums echoed loudly, punctuated by ear-splitting explosions from barrels. This is going to be good.

The costumes are truly spectacular, showcasing incredible creativity and effort that fills the air with infectious joy within the community. Streets overflow with thousands of spectators, eagerly watching as the parade marches at a lively pace. It passes by the railway station and winds along Clinton Place to the Memorial, where a heartfelt tribute is paid to those who sacrificed their lives in war. After a solemn moment of reflection, inspiring songs are sung, and the poignant Bonfire Prayer is read, creating a moving and memorable experience.

The traditional Sussex Bonfire Societies’ Prayer to commemorate the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 begins:

“Remember, remember the Faith of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot

I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason

Should never be forgot….”

This first segment of the parade culminated in a spectacular burst of ground firecrackers launched from a pyramid frame. I was so close that I felt the shrapnel bounce off my skin as the sparks scattered around me—a truly exhilarating finale to the first act. Participants then eagerly seized new torches, while the knowing crowd swiftly stepped back, giving room to pass. With excitement in the air, we marched down Broad Street, our sights set on the inviting shoreline ahead.

Nestled along secluded beaches and rugged terrain, Seaford whispers tales of a storied smuggling history. One group of Bonfire Society members, the Shag Smugglers, wore distinctive hooped jumpers and neckerchiefs, with symbols inspired by the town’s proud cormorant emblem and maritime wrecker folklore. Among other eclectic members celebrated on Seaford’s Crest are the Pirates and Saxons. Seaford Bonfire Society is a vibrant group that revived itself in 2010 to breathe new life into Sussex’s traditional torchlit processions—an enchanting homage to Seaford’s rich past.

The parade surged through the High Street’s shops, where the Seaford Bonfire Society’s (SBS) torch banner blazed spectacularly. The flickering flames reflected brilliantly in the narrow gaps between shop windows. My frantic weaving and dodging around the fiery torch barrels with a camera felt like an exhilarating dance. Finally, we arrived at the Martello Fields, which lie against Seaford Beach. Several stories high, a colossal bonfire came into view—an incredible creation that a dedicated team had spent three intense days building. Excitement for pyrotechnics was everywhere!

Imagine the thrill as a staggering 10,000 spectators flocked onto the bonfire field. As each Bonfire Society strode onto the arena, lively announcements crackled over the PA system, revealing their unique styles. The traditional Bonfire Prayer echoed through the night once more, building anticipation. Then, the sky lit up with breathtaking aerial fireworks, though I’ll spare you the photos since you’ve seen fireworks before. Instead, I focused my camera on the ground firework display that followed, equally mesmerising, culminating in a jaw-dropping explosion of the Houses of Parliament tableau.

A huge splash of paraffin was poured around the base for igniting a towering bonfire of pallets. As the flames erupted, the sea breeze whipped them into a wild, dancing inferno. Within moments, the entire stack was engulfed in fiery glory, its intense heat pushing towards the cheering crowd, carried on the onshore wind. The blaze reached a breathtaking peak, prompting us all to step back. No wonder the bonfire is saved for last — it’s the ultimate spectacular finale!

Epilogue

King James I’s choice of public bonfires to mark his escape from murder is a fascinating detail. The tradition of late October and early November celebrations with fire has deep roots, dating back to before the Medieval Saxons’ Winterfylleth (winter full moon) celebration.

During the earlier Iron Age Celtic pagan period, Samhain was a sacred bonfire festival that marked the end of the harvest and the start of winter. According to the solar calendar, this will take place on October 31st. It was believed that during Samhain, the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest, making it easier for spirits, ancestors, and supernatural beings to cross into the world of the living. People would light bonfires to honour and communicate with these spirits, forging a powerful connection between the realms.

The Christian festival of All Saints’ Day, celebrated on November 1st, adopted the timing of the pagan Samhain. All Hallows’ Day festival builds on the original Celtic traditions. Just the night before, October 31st, is celebrated as Halloween or All Hallows’ Eve, a time rich with spooky festivities.

And here’s a fascinating reveal for 2025: November 5th coincides with Samhain based on the lunar calendar—the Winter (full) Moon. It’s a remarkable alignment that adds a mystical layer to Guy Fawkes festivities across Britain this year!

These intriguing connections set the stage for my upcoming December publication, where I’ll explore the mystical significance of Glastonbury Samhain. Stay tuned for an enlightening journey into ancient traditions and their modern echoes!

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Experience the mystical Glastonbury Wild Hunt & Samhain Festival in my December photo essay! Vibrant rituals, ancient traditions, and enchanting moments await. Dive into the magic! #Glastonbury #Samhain

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Imagine the historical moment unfolding in England. The year is 1066, a time of monumental upheaval, where destiny takes a dramatic turn. The death of Anglo-Saxon King Edward the Confessor in January sparks a succession crisis that ignites a fierce power struggle. In an epic showdown, the Anglo-Saxons clash with relentless Viking warriors at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, only to face another formidable foe—the Normans—at the legendary Battle of Hastings. This year is defined by bravery, chaos, and fierce battles that will shape the future of England!

The Horn Dance is a captivating tradition that transcends its origins. As we delve deeper, we’ll discover how the enchanting characters of Abbots Bromley resonate through the ages, spanning five centuries, weaving a rich tapestry that connects us to a vibrant history and culture. As a frequent visitor to English heritage events, I have never felt more involved, as we will explore.

Merrie England

In my September photo-essay (Steampunk), I delved into the intriguing culture of the Victorian era, and I’ll start from there as we journey back to the origins of the Horn Dance. Victorians were captivated by the charm of ancient folk traditions, seeking to revive, document, and romanticise the enchanting notion of what they called “Merrie England.”

The Horn Dance features a vibrant cast of time-travel characters who bring the performance to life. There are six dancers adorned with antlers (11th century), a jester known as the Fool (12th century), a lively Hobby Horse (14th century), a sharp-eyed Bowman, and an enchanting Maid Marian (15th century). The performance is reminiscent of mumming theatricality documented in the 18th and Victorian 19th century.

This captivating blend of Horn Dance characters brings history to life and is intricately woven into the fabric of Abbots Bromley’s local identity. Dance participants spread playful joy and blessings, linking spectators to their ancestors and the land. The dance with antlers remains the core. They represent rituals without Christian significance, yet are safeguarded on display in the parish church, a testament to the rural community’s pride in preserving its cultural heritage.

My Experience

Abbots Bromley awaited me, a journey of over three hours from home, so I decided to make the most of it by arriving the night before. I planned to witness the enchanting early ceremony at St. Nicholas Church. The morning started on a delightful note with crispy bacon sandwiches and steaming coffee at the Church House. As the clock struck 7:30 AM, I made my way to the church, its doors flung wide open, beckoning visitors inside. Under the soft glow of the morning window light, I watched the ancient antlers respectfully lowered from their lofty place high on the wall, ready to partake in a celebration steeped in tradition.

After an 8 am service led by Reverend Davis, the lively procession burst into motion, heading towards the village green. The fool’s outrageous antics and the upbeat rhythm of the music injected a delightful sense of humour and energy into the air. Meanwhile, the stately strides of the antler-bearing dancers exuded the weighty tradition of ancient rites steeped in hunting, fertility, and the changing of the seasons. After captivating the crowd with a performance in front of the medieval Butter Cross, framed by elegant Georgian houses and charming half-timbered cottages, we picked up the pace, with a lively triangle keeping time.

Two accordions played a lively blend of English folk tunes, raising everyone’s spirits and charging the atmosphere with excitement. Bathed in warm September sunshine under a brilliant blue sky—a rare treat for the UK—we felt the festival’s joyful energy. As we strolled down Goose Lane, the locals welcomed us with various hot and cold snacks for the occasion. I initially thought these delightful bites were solely for the dancers and musicians, but to my surprise, they were meant for everyone!

We indulged in freshly baked sausage rolls, crispy hash browns, savoury pastries, and refreshing drinks that perfectly complemented the festive atmosphere. The invitation to join in the fun made the experience even more special. Spectators weren’t just bystanders; we were encouraged to participate, trying our hand at the Horn Dance steps while bearing the impressive antlers. This was more than just an event; it was a celebration of community and tradition, and we were all a part of it!

Our road took us to Yeatsall Farm on Yeatsall Lane, where I was eager to snap photos of the captivating accordion and triangle players. As I crouched low for an angle to show their stature, an unexpected event unfolded—the Horn Dancers spontaneously encircled me, grinning mischievously and declaring, “You can’t get out now!” It was a whirlwind moment of laughter, perfect for close-up photography. If only I had remembered to bring a wider lens!

While I was delighted to be captured by the dancers, it delayed my plan to leave early for the following location. The dancers and musicians are driven to Admaston Village and Blithfield Hall, and I was on foot! I would be behind the performances, so I walked back towards Abbots Bromley’s village centre. I found the best double beef burger I’ve ever tasted, washed down with a cold beer. The Goats Head pub is not to be missed!

At 1 pm, it was time to walk to Little Dunstall Farm, the next location for the Horn Dance procession. Arriving early was a stroke of luck—this place was absolutely magical! Delicious afternoon tea wafted through the air beside the charming timber-framed and brick farmhouse, creating a quintessentially English village atmosphere. Villagers filled the scene with vibrant melodies, strumming instruments and singing traditional English folk tunes that resonated in the picturesque surroundings. Spectators lounged in deckchairs on the lush lawn, soaking in the delightful ambience. It truly felt like a scene straight out of “Merrie England!”

The Horn Dance arrived by minibus at 2 p.m. as the main event. Once dancing and audience participation had concluded, performers walked into Abbots Bromley village to perform their artistry before the pubs and surrounding houses. They would return the antlers to St Nicholas Church at 8 p.m. to be stored for another year. I did not make this part of the journey, needing to journey home for a holiday starting the following day, September 9th. I’m thrilled that I’ll return next year to complete the experience!

Conclusion

Traditions contain lessons from the past. The spirit of Abbots Bromley Horn Dance is both playful and profound. It’s a communal celebration that brings together villagers and visitors in a shared experience of music, movement, and merriment. It’s a performance and a living village ritual, where participants and onlookers feel part of something larger— a thread connecting past, present, and future. Horn Dance is a beautiful way to honour centuries of English heritage.

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Discover Seaford’s blazing parade led by Lord Monteagle’s effigy in my November photo essay. Dive into its direct ties to the 1605 Gunpowder Plot, where Monteagle’s warning exposed Guy Fawkes’ explosive scheme, earning him Seaford lands as a reward. Perfect for history buffs seeking Bonfire Night’s roots! #SeafordBonfire

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Disraeli noted, “Nations have characters, as well as individuals.” The Victorians were acutely aware that their age of rapid innovation threatened traditional customs and heritage, making their reflections all the more relevant today.

Join me on this journey as we uncover the captivating interplay between Steampunk and the rich tapestry of heritage.

Steam Engines

Steampunk honours the later stages of the Industrial Revolution, a period of disruptive technological change the likes of which the world had never seen. Innovations in valve gears, cylinder design, and wheel arrangements increased train transport speeds and load capacities. These developments boosted the expansion of railways, industrial output, and ocean steamboat routes. Steam was the backbone of Victorian industry.

My cherished 1960s childhood memory is standing on a stone railway bridge near our Derbyshire home, watching steam trains glide beneath. Immersed in their hissing, puffing and smoke, I felt a sense of life and magic surrounding these mighty engineering marvels. Each train possessed its unique character with the baroque artistry of true handmade craftsmen.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder,

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder. — W.H. Auden

This excerpt from “The Night Mail” by W.H. Auden (1936) captures the steam train’s mechanical energy.

Industrial Revolution

The Victorian era was a fascinating period brimming with creativity and innovation. During this time, the population of Britain surged, fuelled by newfound wealth and profound social transformations. British literature, architecture, engineering, and institutions gained international acclaim, leaving a lasting imprint around the globe. Manufacturing soared, contributing a remarkable 30% to the UK’s GDP—an astonishing figure compared to just 8% in 2024—thanks to booming industries like textiles, iron, coal, and steam technology.

The era’s iconic steam trains and steamboats were powerful symbols of the extraordinary technological advancements that defined this dynamic age.

Steampunk

The Steampunk movement is closely linked to British history. The connection between Victorian elegant clothing and engineering with punk music is a vibrant tapestry woven from threads of creativity and rebellion. At the heart of Steampunk lies this fascinating union, where “steam” critiques the soullessness of modern mass production, while “punk” boldly counters societal norms and institutions.

Punk music burst onto the scene in the mid-1970s, igniting a cultural revolution as British bands like The Sex Pistols and The Clash championed a fierce, anti-establishment ethos. The spirit of resistance that fuels Victorian ingenuity and punk's raw energy continues to inspire and captivate fans, known as “Steamers.”

Steamers blend Victorian fashion (corsets, top hats, goggles), DIY crafting, and futuristic objects into steam-inspired designs — elegantly and creatively combined with punk and gothic styles. Steampunk is a lot of fun!

Whitby

Layering onto this narrative, Bram Stoker’s gothic tale of Dracula was written during the Victorian era. It was published in 1897, near the end of Queen Victoria’s reign (1837–1901). The novel reflects many themes and anxieties of the time, such as sexuality, science, and the fear of forces threatening the established order.

In a thrilling arrival, Dracula’s ship, Demeter, lands in England during a raging storm, violently crashing onto the windswept shores of Whitby. As the storm subsides, the ship is discovered eerily abandoned, its crew mysteriously dead, leaving behind a chilling enigma. Suddenly, from the shadows, Dracula—transformed into a massive wolf—leaps ashore, marking the beginning of a terrifying saga.

The allure of 13th-century Gothic Whitby Abbey and the shadowy St. Mary’s Churchyard on the East Cliff is tied to Dracula. The abbey and churchyard have an aura of haunting mystery, establishing them as pivotal cornerstones in Gothic literature. Their influence reverberates through the steampunk genre, steeping it in a darker, romanticised version of the Victorian era that captivates the imagination.

There is no better place to experience the Steampunk lifestyle than at a dedicated Whitby festival. The location’s atmospheric setting—its windswept cliffs, historic Whitby Abbey, North Yorkshire Moors (steam) Railway (NYMR), and cobbled streets— whispers the spirit of the Victorian era, inviting us to connect with the past.

My Experience

The Whitby Weekend is a highlight on the UK Steampunk calendar, occurring twice a year in February and July. This vibrant event draws hundreds of “Steamers” eager to immerse themselves in elaborate costume displays, captivating live music, and exuberant dancing. We had the pleasure of attending on the 25th of July 2025, and the experience was delightful.

We headed first to the Pavilion, the main venue for fashion and entertainment, inspired to see The Ravens — Morris Dancers without bells, handkerchiefs, or white shirts. Dressed in black Victorian attire, The Ravens provide an energetic steampunk-inspired take on traditional Border Morris, a unique style that originated in 17th-century England.

After the show, we made our way over to Whitby’s iconic whale bones, with the majestic silhouette of Whitby Abbey rising against the horizon. The atmosphere was alive with the presence of many Steamers, but one group, in particular, drew my attention. They were a captivating sight, adjusting their hunting gear and whimsical fantasy costumes. Banter and laughter bubbled among them as they worked to secure a lady into her elaborate, cylinder-powered fairy wings. Their transformation wasn’t instantaneous—it took a bit of time for everyone to get into character fully, but their joy and creativity were palpable.

Our third stop took us to spooky St. Mary’s Churchyard and the stunning Whitby Abbey, perched majestically on the East Cliff. We climbed the iconic 199 steps to the breathtaking hilltop sea and town views. While not part of the official programme, the ancient graveyard and Abbey are key elements in the Whitby Steampunk narrative and should not be missed. With detailed costumes and drama, this group of four (below) stand before the Abbey’s Gothic arches, creating a frame for the weekend’s story.

The finale’s unique location would always be steam—Whitby, the final stop on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway, features a charming Victorian station from 1845 that evokes the romance of steam trains. While it wasn’t part of the Steampunk festivities, I hoped to see some attendees for the 2 p.m. steam train. Although no costumed Steamers appeared, I enjoyed exploring the footplate of engine 5428 and experiencing the thrill of standing where the magic happens.

So, as evening arrived, I returned to the Pavilion, where steamers were gathering. There, I met Shaun, a seasoned Steamer and member of Gosport Steampunk, a historic maritime town where I previously lived. Who knew Gosport had a Steampunk scene!

Shaun's outfit was nothing short of a marvel, a dazzling fusion of Victorian elegance and punk tartan, carefully crafted and perfected over the years. Each iteration of his ensemble came with fresh details that showcased his boundless imagination. Shaun’s latest addition? Puffs of smoke from the flintlock and barrel of an intricate 17th-century-inspired blunderbuss—a testament to an innovative spirit.

Conclusion

Steampunk emerged from dissatisfaction with sterile technology and as an artistic response against industrialised products that lack individuality. Over the weekend, I spoke with many Steamers who craft their headgear, clothing, and props from scratch. They are true creatives who enjoy cosplay, individuality, and sharing their ideas with like-minded others. Meeting so many joyful people in Whitby’s Victorian-style setting is a privilege and a pleasure.

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Join me for an unforgettable experience at the Abbotts Bromley Horn Dance! This incredible event features ancient carbon-dated antlers, tracing back to around 1065 CE, and is rooted in a rich tradition that connects us to the Anglo-Saxon era and beyond. Picture this: dancers clad in colourful medieval peasant attire, skilfully manoeuvring as they proudly carry the weight of the antlers, all while traditional music fills the air. It will be a memorable journey as we follow the dance along a scenic 10-mile route through the charming village and picturesque farmlands. You won’t want to miss this extraordinary celebration of history and culture.

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Introduction

This month's photo-essay takes you to the heart of Penzance's enchanting Golowan festival. Imagine a magical night alive with the warm glow of flames as the community gathers for a magical torch-lit procession led by ancient characters. The 2025 festival, themed “On the Crest of a Wave,” beautifully celebrated Penzance’s rich maritime heritage.

History

The following quotation is an extract from ‘Antiquities of Cornwall’, a book by William Borlase published in 1754. It highlighted the cultural importance of midsummer fire festivals featuring bonfires, torchlit processions, and communal celebrations.

“In Cornwall, the festival Fires, called Bonfires, are kindled on the Eve of St. John the Baptist and St. Peter’s Day; and Midsummer is thence, in the Cornish tongue, called ‘Goluan,’ which signifies both light and rejoicing. At these Fires the Cornish attend with lighted torches, tarr’d and pitch’d at the end, and make perambulations round their Fires, and go from village to village carrying their torches before them.” — William Borlase

During the medieval period, pagan folklore practices became intertwined with Christian feast days. However, the origins of Cornish lore can be traced back to Neolithic times, a period marked by the domestication of animals, land cultivation, and harvesting. The Golowan Festival is thought to have its roots in these ancient midsummer celebrations linked to Beltane. In these traditions, bonfires were significant, symbolising purification, fertility, and the sun’s strength. You can read my photo essay on Glastonbury Beltane here

Golowan’s modern torch-lit procession features hundreds of residents who carry torches and lanterns to brighten the streets. Key figures in the procession include the Master of Ceremonies, the talented Golowan Band, Penglaz the ‘Obby ‘Oss, and the Trickster character. The presence of Penglaz adds a mystical element, reflecting connections to ancient ritual figures similar to the hobby horse found in Combe Martin. You can read my photo-essay on Coombe Martin’s Hunting of the Earl of Rhone here

My Experience

I settled into an attic room at my Airbnb. As I arrived in the evening, the host casually mentioned that seagulls were nesting outside my skylight. “They can be a bit noisy,” he warned with a knowing smile, “but hopefully they won’t keep you up.” I chuckled at the thought and shrugged it off, eager to explore Penzance. After unpacking my bags, I headed out to find something to eat, the excitement of the Golowan night ahead already building within me.

The 13th-century Turks Head Inn offered a good meal and ales, fuelling my anticipation as I stepped onto Chapel Street for the impending street party. I discovered over 30 members of the Golowan Band, and their strings, brass, woodwind, accordions, and drums created an unforgettable symphony in the Union Hotel. On this spot, England’s maritime triumph at the Battle of Trafalgar and Nelson’s passing were first announced in 1805!

I had hoped for the parade to gather before sunset so I could capture that magical twilight glow in my photographs. Unfortunately, darkness had enveloped the scene entirely by the time of the assembly. Then, with a lively traditional Cornish folk band setting the rhythm, the flickering flames danced against the backdrop of midsummer’s night, radiating joy and light throughout the festive revelry.

After ten thrilling minutes of navigating the crowd while walking backwards with my camera, I spotted Trickster and Penglaz emerging from the shadows of Chancery Lane. The moment they leapt into view, the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, and the already electric energy skyrocketed into hedonistic joy! While the low luminance of the torch lights created an incredible atmosphere, photographing the lively dance participants was a challenge!

Penglaz, which translates to “grey head” in Cornish, refers to a horse skull mounted on a pole, animated by an anonymous dancer who operates its jaws while concealed beneath a black cloth. This practice is part of the hobby horse tradition in Cornwall, which originates from at least the 16th century, as evidenced by references in the Cornish miracle play "Bewnans Meriasek" from 1504. Additionally, the Teaser character introduces a folkloric and mischievous aspect to the festivities, featuring a masked, energetic performer who connects the procession to traditional Cornish customs such as guise dancing. This rich tapestry of folklore imagery highlights the cultural significance of these age-old traditions.

After an electrifying 45 minutes, the parade swept into the bustling harbourside quay at the Dolphin Tavern. Torches blazed with vigour as enthusiastic bearers triumphantly placed their flames into a towering beacon-style bonfire, casting a warm glow and heat into the revelry. The lively band continued to fill the air with infectious 4/4 Cornish tunes, while the crowd erupted in spirited shouts of “An Eye! An Eye!” As the last notes of "Serpent Dance" echoed into the night, Trickster and Penglaz vanished into the shadows, leaving behind the thrumming energy of the event. With hearts racing and spirits high, participants scattered into the night, buzzing from the unforgettable performances.

As I arrived at my room around 11 PM, I was greeted by the raucous sounds of the local seagull reception committee. A lively pair of parents were catering to their hungry, chirping chick, filling the air with an energetic mix of peeps and squawks! Somewhere along the way, the clamouring faded to the restful noise of the sea, and I eventually found myself drifting into sleep. Only to be reawakened at dawn’s orange glow at 4:30 AM! The sun made its grand entrance, accompanied by reenergised, enthusiastic calls of the seagulls who were thrilled to welcome the new day. By 5 AM, I hit the road, my head reflecting on the thrilling adventure of my visit!

Conclusion

Celebrating its 35th anniversary since its revival in 1991, the ten-day Penzance Golowan festival is a vibrant spectacle that attracts tens of thousands each year. It seamlessly intertwines ancient Cornish customs with a modern flair.

The event’s torchlit procession winds down Chapel Street—a narrow, historic gem that echoes tales from the medieval era. This enchanting parade may be brief, but it’s bursting with electric energy and rich pagan imagery that captivates the senses. The atmosphere is alive with excitement, making it a must-see festival highlight.

These once prevalent Cornwall bonfire traditions were discontinued in the late 19th century due to health and safety concerns about fire hazards. Now revived, don’t miss out on this extraordinary celebration that truly brings the spirit of Cornwall to life!

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Get ready for Steampunk Whitby, which blends Victorian aesthetics with steam-powered tech and a punk attitude. It features corsets, goggles, and airships and explores adventure and rebellion. Think brass and gears. What’s not to like?

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

Folklore knowledge is passed down through word of mouth and actions from generation to generation, and customs are inevitably built upon. The chronological base of Coombe Martin’s ‘Hunting of the Earl of Rone’ festival is the Hobby Horse, the Fool and a fugitive living in the forest.

Hobby Horse

The hobby horse originates in pagan traditions, where animal disguises were commonly used in rituals focused on fertility and harvest celebrations. In these practices, men would wear the skins of sacrificial animals during performances. The hobby horse held particular sexual significance, symbolising a ritualised promise of fertility and renewal, embodying vitality and life force.

Fool

The concept of the fool originated in early medieval practices and evolved from a sacred trickster figure symbolising chaos and fertility. These early rituals were influenced by pagan traditions and likely the ancient Roman festival dedicated to Saturn, the god of agriculture and renewal. Saturnalia featured a “King of Saturnalia,” who resembled a jester or fool guiding the revelry and festivities.

Wild Man

Wuduwāsa is an Old English term that translates to “wild man of the woods,” originating from the Anglo-Saxon language. It refers to an uncivilised, human-like entity that resides in the forest, often at the fringes of civilisation. In medieval tales, heroic figures frequently confront and defeat characters resembling the wuduwāsa, highlighting the conflict between civilisation and the untamed natural world.

Earl of Rone

Our central character may have origins linked to a pagan figure. However, the narrative of the Earl of Rone begins in the early 17th century with the capture of Hugh O’Neill, known as the Earl of Tyrone. O’Neill was a prominent leader during the Nine Years’ War, a conflict fought against English rule in Ireland. During this war, conscripts from North Devon actively fought against him, and following O’Neill’s rebellion in 1603, their families commemorated England’s victory over Tyrone.

According to an unverified legend, after fleeing Ireland in 1607, O’Neill was shipwrecked near Combe Martin. He reportedly sought refuge in Lady’s Wood, surviving on ships’ biscuits until his capture by soldiers dispatched from Barnstaple. The residents of Combe Martin are said to have held an annual commemoration of his capture, which continued until 1837. A bylaw eventually abolished this event due to concerns over its licentiousness and excessive drinking. Notably, during the 1837 celebration, an incident occurred in which the Mayor’s son, reportedly intoxicated, fell from the steps of Lynton Cottage on High Street and tragically broke his neck.

Fusion

The Coombe Martin Ascensiontide festival features the pagan figures of the Hobby Horse and the Fool, alongside the historical figure Hugh O’Neill. The earliest known account of this festival was published in the mid-19th century. In 1863, Reverend George Tugwell described the tradition known as “The Hunting of the Earl of Rone” in his book “The North Devon Scenery.” This account portrays Hugh O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, as a grotesquely masked individual dressed in a padded smock, notably adorned with a string of ship’s biscuits around his neck.

Coombe Martin

Embarking on a journey to the enchanting village of Coombe Martin is no ordinary experience. It includes a driving joy along a 6-mile narrow, winding road descending into a breathtaking valley’s depths. This scenic route builds anticipation as you approach a hidden gem of metamorphic rock formations with faults and folds, where a close-knit community brimming with history awaits. Each year, the village comes alive with an annual festival that pulsates with vibrant folklore, strengthening the bonds among its residents in a dazzling celebration of tradition. It’s an adventure that promises to ignite your spirit and captivate you.

The Hunting of the Earl of Rone festival is celebrated over four days during the Spring Bank Holiday weekend, maintaining a festive atmosphere reminiscent of the earlier tradition. Local pubs play a significant role, serving as hubs of sustenance for participants. The Coombe Martin custom was revived in 1974, and the closing day closely mirrors Revd Tugwell’s depiction of the ‘Hunting of the Earl of Rone,’ with a variety of characters, including a hobby horse, a fool, grenadier soldiers, and the Earl himself, showcasing a series of mock executions and resurrections.

Despite a wet Spring Bank Holiday Monday downpour, the air didn’t dampen my anticipation as I walked from the village to Lady’s Wood. It was the 26th of May, and at 5:45 PM, the atmosphere came alive with pulsating drumbeats that echoed along Wood Lane. Out of the shadows emerged a procession of soldiers vibrantly dressed as grenadiers, their uniforms gleaming in the dim light. I trailed behind them into the woods’ heart, anticipating the Earl’s capture.

As we reached a clearing, the soldiers spread out into the foliage. Suddenly, a thunderous gunshot shattered the tranquillity, and chaos erupted! We all raced to the source of the sound, where the Earl was dramatically pulled from his hiding spot, instantly transforming into a captive figure to be frogmarched to Lynton Road, meeting the procession. The Earl wore a bold geometric red and black mask, a straw-padded smock, and a curious necklace of large sea biscuits tied to the legend of Hugh O’Neill. The spectacle escalated when he was hoisted onto a donkey—backwards, no less! Despite the Earl being portrayed by a young boy, the donkey bucked with a spirited defiance, sending soldiers forward to bring things under control!

The procession pulsed with the vibrant rhythm of pounding drums and the lively strains of accordions playing the Earl of Rone theme music. Dancers adorned in floral headdresses joyfully participated, embodying the spirit of celebration. When the music paused, the Earl was taken down from the donkey and stood before the soldiers’ firing squad, marking a decisive moment of sacrifice with a volley of gunfire. The drums rolled as the Earl fell to the ground, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Embracing the cycle of life and renewal, the Hobby Horse and Fool advanced, resuscitating him from the ground, heralding rebirth. Soldiers carefully placed the Earl back on the donkey, and the jubilant parade continued its journey. This act of dramatic death and renewal unfolded around ten times throughout the two-mile procession, with reverence shown as the music halted outside Lynton Cottage in memory of the Mayor’s son, honouring the past while celebrating the present.

During a significant event at the village green, the Earl improvised a brief running escape before being apprehended by soldiers, who rugby tackled him to the ground. Another cheer erupted, and the procession went to the Pack of Cards Inn, where they paused for an hour to enjoy beer and refreshments. After this intermission, the ensemble continued for the final danced procession towards the beach, synchronised with the 9 pm sunset. The beach segment erupted into a breathtaking Wickerman-style finale in pouring rain, delivering a thrilling and surreal spectacle for everyone present.

High-energy dancers moved in a mesmerising circular formation around the Earl in the dusk light. Their choreography built anticipation for the climactic moments ahead — A final firing squad execution, followed by the last resuscitation from the whimsical Hobby Horse and Fool. As the grand event peaked, soldiers heroically dragged an effigy of the Earl away from the Hobby Horse into the waves, symbolically sacrificing the Earl and letting the ebb tide take him away. The imagery of the Earl drifting beneath the surf was a powerful end to the ceremony, leaving onlookers awestruck.

Conclusion

The Hunting of the Earl of Rone performance draws its participants wholly from the village of Coombe Martin, plus a select group of passionate folklore enthusiasts who took part in its early reconstructions. It’s essential to approach the Earl of Rone’s custom not as a tourist attraction or a conventional folk festival, but as a deeply rooted celebration of the village’s cultural heritage by the people of the village. Those familiar with the eerie charm of The League of Gentlemen’s fictional Royston Vasey might find echoes of insular village life while observing the procession. This unique lens of viewing the event as an outsider adds a layer of intensity and profound connection to this extraordinary occasion, making it a truly memorable experience.

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Get ready for an unforgettable experience at Penzance’s torchlit procession, the dazzling centrepiece of Golowan! This vibrant midsummer celebration bursts with energy and is steeped in ancient Cornish traditions that date back centuries. Imagine the enchanting glow of firelight dancing through the night, accompanied by lively music that bridges the past with the present. Immerse yourself in the magic of Penglaz, the Obby horse skull, as it embodies the spirit of midsummer folklore. Feel the thrill as the "teaser" interacts with the crowd, and let the rhythmic beats of the Golowan band and the captivating dancers sweep you away. This is more than a celebration; it’s a spectacular journey through Penzance’s Celtic and Cornish heritage that you won’t want to miss!

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

Hail bounteous May that dost inspire

Mirth and youth and warm desire!

Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

— An extract from the poem ‘Song on May Morning’ by John Milton

In mythology, Beltane and Samhain (Halloween) are celebrated as nights of the spirits, moments when the veils between our world and the spiritual realm are at their thinnest. Beltane embodies a time when the boundaries between people and passions, restraint and release, dissolve, inviting embraced connection.

Mayday embodies the life-giving forces of nature, revealing the magic and wonder of the growing season. Druids and Pagans embrace Beltane’s fiery, passionate spirit, celebrating with barefoot dancing, floral garlands, and toasting with sweet mead to honour spring’s peak and the turning of seasons.

Mead

The honey-based drink has long been a cherished tradition among newlyweds in Celtic culture, designed to inspire fertility and symbolise the sweetness of love and bright new beginnings during a month-long celebration following weddings. Mead links to the term “honeymoon,” where “honey” embodies new love, while “moon” reflects the lunar cycle that guides the bride and groom towards creating new life.

Glastonbury

Glastonbury was calling and I had to be there. This festival pulses with the vibrant energy of the town’s reputation as a spiritual haven, intricately linked to ley lines and iconic landmarks like Glastonbury Tor and Chalice Well. Their Beltane festival bursts forth as a thrilling blend of ancient rituals and contemporary festivities, offering an extraordinary glimpse into Celtic traditions and the spirit of community. Get ready for an unforgettable experience filled with magic and celebration!

Sunrise

Before dawn on May 1st, I walked to the breathtaking top of Glastonbury Tor for the 5:00 a.m. Druid Ceremony. It included pleas for peace and blessings for the May Day sunrise that heralds the coming of summer. Just as Chief Druid Rollo sounded his horn, the sun burst over the horizon, and two fiery hot air balloons emerged, soaring majestically towards us. Meanwhile, spirited Morris dancers filled the scene with vibrant energy. What an exhilarating way to welcome the day!

Fire

It was a hot May Day in the UK, blessed with clear blue skies and building to a sizzling afternoon temperature of 27 degrees Celsius. The 7 am fire ceremony erupted into life at Chalice Well, a sanctuary for reflection and renewal. The morning light danced through the trees, casting a magical glow over the scene filled with drumming and Pagan songs.

Our narrator captivated everyone with tales of Beltane’s fire ceremony, describing a spiritual custom marking the sun’s growing strength and the rising sap of summer. She said that to leap over a sacred fire is an ancient tradition to invoke fertility for people and the land, while passing through its smoke will cleanse negative energies—a symbolic act of renewal.

Parade

The Glastonbury Beltane parade is a magnificent celebration. By 11 am, the streets brimmed with visitors, captivated by the town crier, enchanting bardic performances, Morris dancing, a choir, and the lively beat of dragon drummers. Beltane signifies a powerful release, a great breath to exhale following the long inhale of winter. At midday, the May Queen was blessed and led a maypole procession, with live music played at full volume, through the town.

Maypole

The maypole has red and white ribbons, symbolising man and woman, that are intertwined in dance as a symbol of love and union. Glastonbury’s maypole is taken to and erected at Bushy Combe hilltop for the marriage of the May Queen and King. The community barefoot ‘Dance the May’ to music while drinking from goblets of mead. Couples touch the maypole in unity pledges. Then, in the late evening, the maypole is taken to White Spring to replace last year’s, which is, in turn, ceremonially burnt with final offerings.

Conclusion

A revival is currently happening in England, where an increasing number of people are reconnecting with natural spaces and participating in ancient seasonal customs. Historically, the Romans claimed that the Druids first set foot in Britain, and what an enchanting chapter of our history! The modern Druid and Pagan community’s love, trust, and energy enhance the Beltane experience for everyone involved. Attending the festivities in Glastonbury presents a unique opportunity to experience the remarkable cultural spectacle and engage meaningfully with tradition.

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Experience the thrilling Hunting of the Earl of Rone, an Ascension Day tradition in Combe Martin! Banned in 1837 for its wild antics, this legendary reenactment returned in 1974. Watch as valiant grenadiers fire at the Earl, who dramatically falls, only to be revived by the whimsical Hobby-horse and mischievous Fool. They hoist him, facing backwards on his donkey, as the tale continues. It’s an exhilarating spectacle filled with rich tradition!

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

Folklore

Legend has it that the daughter of the Hallaton Manor owner and her maid were out for a stroll when a bull charged at them with reckless abandon. Just when it seemed like their fate was sealed, a hare darted across the bull’s path, diverting its charge and providing the ladies with a miraculous escape from certain doom.

In a heartfelt act of gratitude and in thanks to God, the manor’s owner gifted land to the parish church on the condition that the rector would provide two hare pies, two dozen penny loaves, and a quantity of ale for the village’s poor every Easter Monday. This cherished celebration unfolds annually atop Hare Pie Bank Hill in Hallaton.

Villagers from the neighbouring Medbourne join in the pie and ale scrambling frenzy. According to one lively tale, there was a year when Medbourne youths swiped the ale, leading to a raucous chase from the Hallaton lads. This spirited rivalry laid the foundation for the legendary Hallaton-Medbourne bottle kicking contest, with its first written account recorded as far back as 1890.

Bottle Kicking

Picture this: a small wooden barrel filled with 1 gallon of ale—known as a “Bottle”—serving as the centrepiece of a sport older than rugby and football! Bottle Kicking is a rough-and-tumble game reminiscent of rugby, involving fierce running mauls and wild brawls as teams battle to push the bottle towards goals marked by brooks about a mile apart.

Historically, the game took place in open fields, but today, that terrain is a challenging maze of fields separated by barbed wire and thorny hedges, creating strategic traps for the rival teams! Touchdowns are celebrated on the far bank of the brook, with the first team to score two rugby-style ‘tries’ emerging victorious!

The Day

As the clock struck 9 a.m. on a gloomy, rain-soaked Easter Monday in 2025, I met up with Tim Downie, of the FolkLands podcast, on the north side of Hallaton and made our way to the village green. No one was there until 10 a.m., when a casually dressed Medbourne brass band arrived, struck up marching music and as the Pied Piper drew in families to a street parade towards the Fox Inn.

After just a quick 10-minute jaunt, the band paused for refreshing pints of ale at the Fox, before leading the cheerful procession along North End, High Street and Eastgate to St. Michael’s Church. We joined the Warrener of hares, the bread lady, bottle carriers, and the Vicar for a light-hearted Easter Monday Bottle Kicking Church service.

By 1 p.m., everyone had reconvened at the Fox Inn, with hordes of visitors and a dashing bagpipe ensemble dressed in stunning kilts. At 1:45 p.m., the legendary Hare Pie and Bottles were ceremoniously paraded, with a moment of silent respect held outside the former Royal Oak pub—a local haunt for past generations of Bottle Kickers, now a private home. Its residents paid tribute with a minute of silence followed by three cheers for the cherished pub that once was!

Onward we marched, arriving at the church gates, where the Vicar awaited to bless the beloved Hare Pie. The yesteryear ritual of feeding the poor was transformed into a raucous celebration, as the pie was blessed, sliced, and tossed into the crowd of hundreds on Eastgate Road. The Bottles were dressed and paraded to the Hare Pie Bank hilltop, gearing up for more pie throwing and the exhilarating Bottle Kicking event to kick off. The anticipation was electric as the first bottle was hurled into the scrum!

Bottle kicking is nothing short of a spectacle. With two medical vehicles on standby, the ambulance was promptly called into action within five minutes, as the two village teams clashed fiercely for the coveted Bottle. The dispossessed team fought valiantly to impale their opponents on barbed wire and thorny hedges to halt their momentum. Ultimately, Hallaton seized control and scored a rugby-style try twice to claim a triumphant 2-0 victory.

From the heights of Hare Pie Bank, the fit and the wounded made their way to The Buttercross for a glorious finale. This iconic ironstone post-medieval cross stands proudly at about 3 meters, crowned with a ball finial. Several players climbed atop the monument, perched on the ball. They raised their voices in thanks and delivered three cheers for their valiant opposition before sipping ale from the uncorked wooden Bottle. It was the perfect conclusion to a splendid day!

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I joined the Druids for Beltaine. See the spectacular sunrise ceremony on Glastonbury Tor, jumping over fire, and maypole passions.

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This photo essay will examine how and why Saint George’s mythology and status grew to become England’s patron saint. I also attended Saint George’s Feast Day celebrations in Salisbury, where many dressed in red and white, medieval musicians played, knights reenacted, and Morris dancers performed before the English Giant.

Who was St. George

“Come listen now, good people all,

To a brave and grand tale,

Of St. George, the knight of England’s might,

With a spear in his strong hand. “

The words above begin a traditional English ballad— St. George and the Dragon—from the printed ‘broadside ballads’ of the 17th and 18th centuries. The words are rooted in folklore and passed down through oral tradition, emphasising bravery, faith, and triumph. Yet, considering St. George is the patron saint of England, it is remarkable how little is known about the man.

If, as some believe, he was born to a Greek Christian family, Georgios might reflect his given name, and I will use that name from here to distinguish the years before sainthood. Early Christian Byzantium (modern-day Istanbul) communities began venerating Georgios as a saint. Although the exact time or person who named him "Saint George" is unknown, his warrior fame spread to the Crusaders.

Martyrdom

Georgios became a Roman army soldier, officer and personal guard to the Emperor Diocletian. For the first 18 years of his reign, Diocletian largely ignored Christians, some of whom, like Georgios, served in his administration and army. His hardcore persecutor of Christians stance evolved, shaped by his priorities as a ruler and the pressures of his era. Things shifted dramatically around 303 AD, near the end of his reign, with what’s now called the "Great Persecution." Georgios objected to the destruction of his faith’s churches and scriptures, for which he was imprisoned, tortured and beheaded.

But I get ahead of myself. His mythological exploits are of courage and bravery in combat. In addition to an army background, Georgios was dedicated to his Greek family’s Christian faith and in myth and legend, he fought the dragon (used to represent the Devil in the Middle Ages) to save a princess from sacrifice in an undefined town of Silene, located in Libya by Western retellings. As a token of their gratitude, the town’s occupants are said to have converted to Christianity. This story was first written down by the Italian prelate Jacobus de Voragine in his 13th-century Legenda Aurea.

St George’s cult began to flourish around Lydda, where he is said to have been martyred and buried, in the sixth century. Saint George was gradually transformed from a Roman soldier into a medieval knight. He was even mythically reported to have fought alongside the Crusaders at the siege of Antioch in 1098, and his name was used as a battle cry. Saint George’s Cross, England’s part of the Union Jack flag, dates back to the year 1188 when crosses were first used by King Henry II of England (father of King Richard I) and King Philip II of France for their crusade symbols.

His introduction to England

Saint George’s stories were first introduced to Britain by King Richard I (Richard the Lionheart), who spent little time in England and prioritised crusading and war. Richard I’s crusade (1189–1192) took place in the Holy Land, which includes parts of modern-day Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, and surrounding areas. It was said that St. George appeared as a miraculous vision to Richard I during a campaign.

The promotion of St George to be England’s patron saint was mainly owing to the support of the monarchy. King Edward I of England (1272–1307) was highly attached to George. King Edward III established the Order of the Garter under his patronage around 1348, using the Red Cross of St George as its primary device, and instituted the order on St George’s Day. By 1351, it was recorded that St George was “the most invincible athlete of Christ, whose name and protection the English race invoke as that of their patron, in war especially”.

As Saint George became increasingly anglicised, the site of his mythological exploits was shifted to include Dragon Hill in Berkshire and Brinsop in Herefordshire for battles between the saint and the dragon. Inside Brinsop church is a twelfth-century carving showing the holy warrior on horseback about to thrust his lance into the mouth of his prostrated dragon enemy. St. George became increasingly popular in England through the Middle Ages, and it became an annual custom for the dragon-slaying exploit to be re-enacted on St. George’s Day.

George was immortalised in stories, notable amongst which is Shakespeare’s line in Henry V with “Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George”. In 1415, the year of England’s victory at Agincourt, Archbishop Chichele raised the celebration of St George to a “festum duplex” (double feast), underlining its singular importance in the country. In the following century, the Reformation—shifting power from the Catholic Church to the monarchy and nobility—changed England’s relationship with St George, exchanging his suffering as a Christian martyr for his heroic deeds as a paragon of chivalry.

Salisbury Celebration

Unless the 23rd falls on a weekend, Salisbury celebrates St George’s Day the following Sunday. This year, it was the 27th of April, on a stunning, warm, blue-sky day. The parade began at 10 a.m. from the Guildhall. You can’t help but immediately notice the 14-foot-tall English Giant, a wicker-framed replica effigy of a 500-year-old original displayed in Salisbury’s museum.

The city hosted a fantastic celebration with street food and a carnival atmosphere. It featured a children’s puppet show that highlighted the values of a knight, alongside tournament knights who exemplified honour, loyalty, courage and justice. A wandering dragon and medieval street performers engaged with the crowd, adding to the festive spirit. Patriotic English heritage at its finest.

Conclusion

Saint George appears primarily in Christian martyr narratives. His tale is of faith and warrior triumph over evil. The thematic echoes are exemplars of chivalric virtue, confronting spiritual trials, and embodying Christian knighthood ideals of purity and heroism.

The perceived values of Saint George were historically chosen to embody the ideals the English nation wants to project. He is a unifying figure tied to folklore and Christian religious influence. His adoption as England’s patron saint is less about his biography and more about what England wants to see in itself.

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Join the most prominent English folklore festivity, explicitly celebrating hares and a medieval brutal rustic Bottle-Kicking conflict played out once a year in the rolling Leicestershire countryside.

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Symbolism

Hot cross buns hold a special significance for Christians on Good Friday. Adorned with a cross, they symbolise the crucifixion of Jesus Christ and are traditionally consumed on this day to mark the end of Lent gratefully. In English traditions, folklore and Christianity often intertwine, as seen in the Good Friday ceremony at The Widow’s Son pub, locally known as "The Bun House."

The Widow’s Son

In 1848, a charming pub rose from the remnants of an old widow’s cottage, steeped in a poignant tale that began during the Napoleonic Wars. Legend has it that the widow, who once inhabited this humble abode, had a son bravely serving in the Royal Navy. Before he set sail, he penned a heartfelt letter to his mother, promising that he would return by Easter, and requested that she prepare a steaming hot cross bun to welcome him home.

Tragically, he never returned. Each Good Friday, the devoted widow baked a fresh hot cross bun in her lingering hope and sorrow, wishing her son's absence would be filled by his long-awaited return. After she passed, a remarkable discovery was made—an extensive collection of those very buns, carefully preserved and hanging in a net within the cottage walls, a testament to a mother’s enduring love and hope.

Navy Tradition

When the pub was built in place of the cottage, hanging a hot cross bun each Good Friday took root, symbolising connection and community. Its location near London’s docks and the widow’s son, a sailor, highlights a proud maritime heritage. Each year, the Royal Navy honours this tradition with the Bun Ceremony. The US Navy stepped in during World War II when the Royal Navy was deployed at sea, exemplifying camaraderie across nations.

Today, the Royal Navy Reserve (RNR) from London’s HMS President continues the ceremony honouring the past while inspiring future generations. Unfortunately, the financially struggling pub closed two years ago, resulting in the cancellation of the ceremonies in 2023 and 2024. However, the new owners have done a sensitive refurbishment and are committed to preserving the Good Friday tradition.

The Widow’s Son Ceremony transcends a mere ritual; it honours the touching story of the widow while paying a profound tribute to sailors lost at sea and their families’ heartache. I watched this year’s ceremony begin with the Navy Prayer for sailors lost at sea, delivered by an elderly civilian protagonist, which deeply connected with the room.

As RNR Christine was lifted onto the shoulders of her colleagues, she placed three hot cross buns (marked 2023, 2024, 2025) in the ceiling net alongside those from previous years. This act symbolised unity and remembrance for this year and the two missed years. It serves as a timely reminder of how fragile our traditions can be and how easily English heritage may be lost forever.

Summary

The Christian tradition of Good Friday hot cross buns flourished in 18th- and 19th-century England. Baked with care on Good Friday, these buns were thought to hold remarkable properties, including the gift of eternal freshness. The Widows’ Son hot cross bun ceremony is a beautiful fusion of Christian symbolism and local folklore, serving as a poignant tribute to those lost at sea.

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“Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;”

These are the opening lines from Gerard Manley Hopkins’s 1877 poem “Spring.” This joyous celebration of nature’s rebirth resonates with the equinox’s moment of equilibrium and life awakening.

Equinox Rites

The earliest celebrations of the vernal equinox date back to the Neolithic era. Over the millennia, Pagan springtime traditions became established, influenced by Anglo-Saxon culture between the 5th and 7th centuries CE, before being layered with Christian elements from the 7th century onward. While Easter Sunday dates vary, the equinox calculates its timing. At Easter, the Christian story celebrates the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Druid equinox celebrations in England are primarily reconstructions, drawing on this rich historical background. These gatherings symbolise a return to ancient roots, reflecting a spring story that spans thousands of years and evolves with each cultural shift. In keeping with Druidic perspectives, particularly those emphasising nature, cycles, and personal growth, ‘The Druid Order’ metaphorically describes a seed planted in your heart at birth that grows in personal evolution to embody all your life’s events and leaves at death. Like an acorn’s seed contains within it a mighty oak tree.

Tower Hill

On the 20th of March 2025, we celebrated the renewal of life in spring. In sun-warming rays, we generally begin to feel better within ourselves, and it was fitting to see blue skies on the warmest day of the year so far. I joined The Druid Order companions at The Ship pub on London’s Heart Street, dressing for their vernal equinox celebration. They put on ceremonial white robes, headdresses, and colourful tabards, with the Lady— the Earth Mother—and Maids adorned with flowers and bearing the Horn of Plenty, representing an emblem of the eternal. Around 30 Druids, following the leading Sword Bearer, then processed along Byward Street in meditation and silence.

The Druid Order holds its vernal equinox rites on Tower Hill, a place redolent of sadness, which overlooks the Tower of London. The folklore surrounding Tower Hill is deeply intertwined with its history as a public execution site from 1381 to 1780, where over 125 people met their deaths, often by beheading. Many executed there—nobles, rebels, and traitors alike—had their heads adorned on London Bridge as warnings. Notable ghostly figures include Sir Thomas More, beheaded in 1535 for refusing to recognise Henry VIII as head of the Church of England, and Simon Fraser, 11th Lord Lovat, the last man beheaded in England in 1747 for his role in the Jacobite Rising.

With its reputation for echoes of the dead and being one foot in the mythical world, Tower Hill is a unique setting for this resurrection story. Druids formed a unifying circle on the Terrace, where the Herald entered the centre to sound the call to the North, South, West and East. Then, under the equinox banner, the Chief Druid presented the Sword towards each of the four compass points, asking for Peace before leading a ceremony that included uplifting words, meditations and actions honouring the balance of light and darkness, the renewal of spring, and the interconnectedness of nature and humanity. In closing, Druids No.3, N0.5, No.7 and No.9 repeated the compass points asking for Peace worldwide.

Conclusion

Ancient Druids were the Celts’ priestly, political, and intellectual class, deeply tied to nature, spirituality, and life cycles. The idea of a seed holding latent potential poetically mirrors some modern Druid themes using the oak’s symbolism for personal growth, transformation, and renewal. To close this ceremony, the Presider said, “In Peace, these rites began; in Peace, we bring them to a close. May there be Peace amongst us until we meet again.” At this time of world instability, technocratic beliefs and political war-mongering, there is eternal wisdom in the Druid’s philosophical vernal message that we must ‘care for each other’.

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What Next

Good Friday holds a special occasion for one London pub, The Widow’s Son. Their Bun Ceremony transcends ritual; it embodies Christian faith, folklore and a heartfelt tribute.

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all writing and images.

My dad devoted much time to my sister and me during our childhood. One of my favourite memories is holding his hand as we entered the Derby County football stadium just before the club peaked in the early 1970s. The stadium had tiered standing areas, and I remember feeling secure within the supporter community as I was passed over the heads of others to get a better view. These cherished moments are ones I will never forget.

Derby County was founded in 1884, shortly after the English Football Association was established. The origins of football in England can be traced back to medieval times when the game resembled a chaotic brawl among townspeople. Some early versions of the game focused on ball possession until the end of the match, while others, more akin to modern football, aimed to advance a ball toward a goal through the opposing team’s territory.

Origins

The following is an excerpt from Charles Cotton’s poem “Burlesque upon the Great Frost” (1683), which depicts a winter mob football match between two towns.

Two towns, that long that war had raged

Being at football now engaged

For honour, as both sides pretend,

Left the brave trial to be ended

Till the next thaw, for they were frozen

On either part at least a dozen,

With a good handsome space between 'em

Like Rollerich stones, if you've seen 'em

And could no more run, kick, or trip ye

Than I can quaff off Aganippe

This photo essay shares my experiences at the Atherstone Ball Game on Shrove Tuesday 2025 and Ashbourne’s Royal Shrovetide Football match on Ash Wednesday. Immersed in a brotherhood that values each other’s well-being, I was reminded of the nostalgic community fellowship of my childhood.

Atherstone, 4th March 2025

The Atherstone ball game is a medieval event held annually on Shrove Tuesday in Warwickshire, England. Records of the game date back to 1199. A special locally crafted ball of hand-stitched leather filled with water for added weight is used during the game. It is one of the oldest surviving traditions of its kind in England. Over the centuries, the game has evolved. It was once played throughout the town but is now confined to a single street to minimise property damage.

The Atherstone Ball Game takes place on Long Street, where shops, bars, and restaurants are boarded up in preparation for the event’s intensity. The festivities start before 3 PM, creating a family-friendly atmosphere as children chase after sweets. Kids are also encouraged to touch the ball in the game’s early stages, fostering engagement with the next generation. However, the adults engage in a rough and violent brawl, featuring punches, gouging, and kicks as participants fiercely compete.

The ancient game has few rules. The main objectives are maintaining possession of the ball, staying on Long Street, and “not killing anyone.” The two thousand closely packed spectators apologise for stepping on your toes while shouting for their favourite player, excitedly admiring and cheering the gladiatorial blows. The player who holds the ball when the 5 PM horn sounds will be declared the winner, a sought-after local accolade.

Marcus Cooper won this 825th edition of the historic event.

Ashbourne, 5th March 2025

Royal Shrovetide Football has been played in Ashbourne, Derbyshire, since at least 1667. The game uses a hand-painted cowhide ball filled with cork shavings and gained royal patronage in 1922 when Princess Mary received a ball as a wedding gift. It starts from a plinth in Shawcroft car park, 1.5 miles from each goal, and takes place over two days, beginning at 2:00 PM after the National Anthem. Each day ends when a goal is scored after 6:00 PM or at 10:00 PM.

The field of play covers about three square miles, which includes the town, fields, marshes, river, and pond. Participants were divided into two large teams, each consisting of at least 200 players: the Up’Ards and the Down’Ards, named after the side of the Henmore River where they were born or live. Players form a ‘hug’—similar to a rugby scrum—and advance the ball through intense running mauls. The rules are minimal: “murder and manslaughter are prohibited,” and there are designated no-play areas, such as church grounds.

Success depends on fitness, strength, and strategy, with hedges and fences being used tactically. The ball can sometimes be hidden during the game, making it challenging for players and thousands of spectators to locate it. On Tuesday, the ball was lost for two hours before reappearing in the hands of a lone Down’Ards runner who managed to ‘escape’ the pack and scored a goal by tapping the ball three times against the millstone at Clifton Corn Mill. On Wednesday, I witnessed the ball thrown over a hedge into private gardens, hidden for an hour before reemerging in the marshes.

The Down’Ards won the 2025 edition of Royal Shrovetide Football 1-0, with Martyn Taylor scoring a Tuesday goal.

Conclusion

The Atherstone Ball Game dates back to the 12th century, while Ashbourne’s Royal Shrovetide Football originated in or before the 17th century. Both games are significant cultural events with pagan roots and hold devout importance for the local communities. They help foster a sense of unity through ancient traditions, combining sport with a festive atmosphere. Despite ongoing challenges related to modern safety concerns, these games endure due to the passion and commitment of the local people.

To read more about ancient ball games in England, I covered St. Ives’ one-thousand-year-old Hurling the Silver Ball.

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On the 20th of March 2025, I will join Druids in their full robes and artefacts to celebrate the Spring Equinox on haunted Tower Hill overlooking the atmospheric Tower of London.

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all images.

Outside of the summer crowds, St. Ives is a different world—a better world.

St. Ives

Renowned for its picturesque whitewashed cottages, vibrant bars, and delightful restaurants, this destination attracts 200,000-holiday visitors each summer and an additional 500,000 day-trippers. But every February, residents are alone to celebrate Feast Day and the Hurling of the Silver Ball—An event deeply rooted in Cornish culture—blending Christian symbolism with local legend.

Time Travel

Before I describe the fabulous day, here’s a little history. Christianity arrived in Cornwall during the mid-5th century, led by missionaries like St. Ia, the patron saint of St. Ives. Local legend states that the Celtic princess and missionary was blessed by St. Patrick and crossed to Cornwall from Ireland on an ivy boat.

St. Ives Feast Day marks the consecration of St. Ia Parish Church in 1434. Hurling the Silver Ball predates the Feast. It has been a St. Ives tradition for over a thousand years, with ancient roots that promote community bonding. The game originated between locals of St. Ives and nearby Lelant village. It uses a ball made from apple wood coated in silver.

Cornwall is a refuge of Celtic culture. Outside St. Ia church is a memorial cross whose design blends Christian symbolism with Celtic traditions, such as intricate knot-work and circular design. The circle symbolises eternity, unity, or the sun, reflecting pre-Christian influences.

Holding the Silver Ball is traditionally thought to bring good luck, health, and fertility. Such beliefs are often associated with Celtic and other pre-Christian traditions. St. Ives Vicar blessing the ball on a bed of ivy at St. Ia Well adds a layer of Christian spiritual significance to the game.

The Day

On a chilly morning, which was 5 degrees Celsius below normal for St. Ives in February, the 2025 Feast Day parade assembled at the Guildhall. The parade led the Mayor, who was carrying the silver ball on a bed of ivy, to St. Ia’s Well. Many participants wore ivy garlands, and children danced the St. Ives Guise while folk musicians in traditional dress played the earworm tune "Turkey Rhubarb" on repeat.

At the well, Reverend Nick Widows shared the legend of St. Ia, blessed the ball, and John Barber read a message to St. Ia in traditional Cornish, adding to the festive atmosphere. Dancing children and Turkey Rhubarb then led us to St. Ia Church.

St. Ia church gardens extend to the seawall, from where the Mayor launched the silver ball onto the beach to kick off a 90-minute sand and town centre melee, similar to traditional mob football. St. Ives children and teenagers have this day off school to participate in the hurling, preserving Cornish and St. Ives’s cultural identity.

Invited adults left for the Western Hotel to begin the Feast while teenagers continued to run amok through the town, wrestling over the silver ball. In the past, horse-mounted Western Hunt riders and their hounds would meet the Mayor for a toast in Royal Square at this time. “That last happened in 2016. Times change, and we have to adapt with them,” Mayor Wells told me.

I took my lunch refreshment at the Sloop Inn, a gathering place for locals since 1312. A voice from a barstool asked, “Why are the kids off school?” I replied, “It’s Feast Day.” The man wore a thick jumper, a winter scarf, and a heavy coat. “I used to take my kids when they were young, but I’ve never experienced it this cold,” he said. His name was Pete, and he had moved from London to St Ives twenty years ago to raise his children. After chatting about the Cornish lifestyle and customs, I went to the Guildhall.

Hurling scuffles continued until noon when the victorious Jasper returned the ball to Mayor Wells at the Guildhall in exchange for a silver coin. This coin serves as a good luck token and a keepsake until next year’s Feast Day, maintaining the continuity of the tradition. Not entirely done yet, the Mayor and guests showered pennies—lots of them—onto excited infants waiting below the Guildhall balcony.

Later

The St. Ia celebrations went on throughout the afternoon and evening in local pubs and restaurants, which served regional beers, delicious pasties, saffron cake, and other local delicacies. That night, I had the pleasure of meeting Tim Downie, an English actor, writer, and co-host of the excellent FolkLands podcast. If you’re interested in British folklore, I highly recommend it.

We joined the costumed Scaleybacks of Hakey Bay at The Castle Inn for Feast Night Guising. A lively pub crawl through St. Ives, accompanied by cheerful tunes played on fiddles, accordions, violins, guitars, flutes, and drums. It’s safe to say that the Guise tradition was alive and well that night, concluding with gusto music hall songs in the bar at the Western Hotel.

Conclusion

During the summer, this picturesque and charming fishing town attracts many visitors. Known for its exceptional light quality, surf, and unique atmosphere, St. Ives draws in artists, surfers, and holidaymakers alike. In contrast, winter unveils a different side of England, showcasing a vibrant cultural scene and a strong sense of community exemplified during Feast Day. This event, celebrated on the first Monday after February 3rd each year, is a wonderful blend of Celtic folklore, Cornish traditions, and Anglican Christianity.

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What’s Next

Ball games are a significant part of English traditions. On Shrove Tuesday (March 4th) and Ash Wednesday, we will travel back in time at the 2025 Royal Shrovetide Football match in Ashbourne, Derbyshire. This physical mob game features two teams, the “Up’ards” and the “Down’ards,” fighting it out in the streets, fields, and river. Its origins date back to at least 1667.

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Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all images.

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom” — Aristotle

During many visits to parts of Asia, I became fascinated by the Buddhist way of life. I now find myself curious about contemporary Druidism. While these two belief systems might seem like an unusual mental pairing — as they originate from different cultural, historical, and geographical backgrounds — they explore self-knowledge, revere nature and emphasise ethical living without dogmatic practices.

Stonehenge, the clock

Druidism is rooted in the Celtic cultures of Europe and has a long history in the British Isles, dating back to the Iron Age and possibly even into the Neolithic Age. Now, such sagacity from the past is some heritage! On December 21st, I found myself in the chalk lands of Wiltshire, surrounded by gently rolling hills, standing with Druids among one of the seven wonders of the ancient world: Stonehenge. The raising of stones and the creation of circular formations are distinctive marks of our species. Stonehenge serves as a massive clock that measures the four seasons.

A bunch of Neolithic farmers created the site. They dug a big circular ditch 360 feet (110 m) across and piled up the chalk earth on the outside to form a bank. Stonehenge went through different phases, and in around 3000 BC, farmers in contact with folk in the Preseli Hills in Pembrokeshire, Wales, transported roughly 150 tonnes of ‘bluestones’ 140 miles (225 kilometres) to Stonehenge. The larger sarsen stones were sourced 15 miles (25 kilometres) north of Stonehenge. The stones were set in two circles, one inside the other, all located inside the original ditch and bank.

Farmers of old needed to know the passage of time. They had to know when the days would begin to lengthen to plan for the upcoming seasons of crop sowing, the births of domesticated livestock, the ripening of crops, and the harvest. The Winter Solstice (as well as the Summer Solstice) is one of humankind’s oldest known seasonal festivals. This celebration of the return of light feels like a fitting follow-up to my previous post about the darker actions of the UK government against family farmers, who remain guardians and custodians of the countryside in my home country.

Solstice festival

The winter solstice at Stonehenge is not only an astronomical event marked by Neolithic farmers; it also holds deep symbolic significance for Druids. It represents renewal, rebirth, and the cyclical nature of life, connecting the wonder of the present with an ancient reverence for natural cycles. During the longest night of the year, I left home before 4 a.m. to witness and photograph the 8 a.m. Winter Solstice dawn rituals at Stonehenge. It drizzled rain, and temperatures barely reached 7°C (45°F)—a typical British winter's day.

As the sun rose, Druids performed invocations to express their gratitude for its life-giving energy and to seek blessings. The atmosphere was filled with music, singing, and celebration. Some people formed circles, chanting and dancing, while others offered libations or conducted meditations to honour the Earth and their ancestors. This marking of the end of the year's darkest period brings hope for the upcoming year. Standing under the massive circle of stones filled me with joy as the Stonehenge celebrations grew. There is so much to discover in our ancient roots.

The solstice marks the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun and begins the gradual lengthening of days and shortening of nights.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

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What next

I continue with 'Celebrating Englishness'. I’ll write a pictorial note on The New Year's Day sea dip held at Stokes Bay, Gosport. For over 40 years, many have worn fancy dress clothes for this event. It's all for a good cause: raising money for the Inshore Lifeboat. I plan to visit St. Ives Feast Day and Hurling the Silver Ball on the 10th of February for the next full article. This ancient tradition celebrates the consecration of the Parish Church of St Eia in 1434.

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all images.

The UK's Conservative and Labour parties have converged on "Uniparty" global interests, influenced by international non-governmental organisations and large corporations. On 4th July 2024, a baton pass took place from Rishi Sunak to Kier Starmer that continued social and economic engineering policies favoured in Davos — home of the World Economic Forum's (WEF) annual meeting attended by major corporation leaders, international organisations and national heads of state.

"Only a crisis—actual or perceived—produces real change. When that crisis occurs, the actions that are taken depend on the ideas that are lying around. That, I believe, is our basic function: to develop alternatives to existing policies, to keep them alive and available until the politically impossible becomes politically inevitable" —Milton Friedman.

Health Shock

Friedman proposed that political opportunities arise from the chaos of a crisis. This perspective aligns with the technocratic views of the World Economic Forum (WEF), which has many Western politicians as disciples. In 2020, Klaus Schwab, the founder and executive chair of the WEF, co-authored a book titled "COVID-19: The Great Reset." In this book, he described the chance to "reset the world" in the wake of the global health crisis.

During COVID-19 chaos, the UK Conservative Government, influenced by the World Health Organisation (WHO), enacted unprecedented 'emergency' policies that bypassed procurement rules, exploded debt and, trading favours and contracts, transferred enormous public wealth to private hands. It is reported that the UK Government spent over £80 billion on test and trace initiatives and medical products during the declared pandemic chaos.

Food Shock

Several WEF initiatives have encouraged national governments to reformulate their agricultural policies to align them with global reset trends. Shared policies globally are now affecting farmers, creating food-chain shocks that dismantle traditional food production systems. The last Conservative Government's approach to agriculture had implications for food production, farmer income, and rural life. UK farmers experienced many economic pressures that shocked the viability of family farms. They included less regulated cheap imports, the phasing out of food growing subsidies, rising input costs, and the need to adapt to new environmental schemes.

When Keir Starmer was asked in a 2023 interview to choose between Davos and Westminster, he famously chose Davos, saying that Westminster is "too constrained" and that going to Davos, you "actually engage with people that you can see working with in the future." Thirteen days before the Labour government's 30th October 2024 first budget, Kier Starmer and Rachel Reeves hosted Bill Gates and Larry Fink at 10 Downing Street. Both billionaires are WEF contributors and invest in agriculture-related industries and land. Bill Gates is America's largest private owner of farmland.

The high-profile visit demonstrates the UK Government's intention to engage with influential international figures on policy issues that may benefit multinational business interests. The budget released on 30th October included several policies that negatively impact farming, exacerbating food security concerns. Specifically, changes to inheritance tax rules for farmers, along with an increase in capital gains tax, could make family farms economically unviable. The policy change may force farm owners to sell their land to meet inheritance tax burdens.

Parliament Protest

Left alone, British farmers ensure that our nation's food systems can withstand shocks to the food chain, whether from economic, climatic, or geopolitical factors. We control the quality of British-farmed food, which meets high purity and nutrition standards unmatched by imported goods that travel long distances. Therefore, we should oppose the forced sale of family farmland:

• To anonymous international agribusinesses looking to alter the food chain for their profitability, to offset their carbon footprint, and to advance their global agenda.

• By Ed Miliband (Secretary of State for Energy Security and Net Zero), along with the renewable energy industry pushing for agricultural land use change to create large solar and wind farms.

Yesterday, approximately 500 farm tractors gathered in Whitehall, London, and drove to face the Houses of Parliament during the Prime Minister's questions session. It was a strong message to the British Government. Thousands of supporters joined farmers in advocating for the preservation of family farms and urging the government to reconsider its damaging policies.

Summary

Britain's family farms are a crucial indigenous heritage, serving as generational custodians of the countryside and playing a critical role in our nation's food security. However, recent Conservative and Labour Governments have pressured family farmers and implemented policy changes prioritising international environmental goals while recklessly risking food security.

Many also see the changes to inheritance tax, which will affect 70% of farms, as a land grab for solar farms, wind farms, and housing developments. To make matters worse, the Government intends to allocate a larger aid budget to agricultural projects abroad than they expect to collect from farmers through inheritance tax changes.

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What’s next?

I continue to work on the ‘Celebrating Englishness’ documentary photography project, visiting Stonehenge for the 21st December Winter Solstice. I look forward to sharing thoughts and images with you.

Martin Urch Photography owns the copyright to all images.