Sea Witchery: The Ebb and Flow of a Most Ancient Arte

Posted by sarahjaynechapman on

Someone many years ago, who expressed themselves by tongue of wisdom and fire, told me that if a person afflicted by illness and dark demeanor wished to release themselves from these maladies, they could do no better than immerse themselves beneath the Ocean waves. Submersion just as the dawn Sun peaked over the distant horizon was best, and one must remain beneath the cold dark waters for the passing of nine waves to be cured.

Healing waters from the nine, be it wave, spring, stream or Holy Well, permeates the ancient and enduring folklore of the British Isles, and many have gathered at sacred date and liminal time to draw healing power and sustenance from the waters of the living landscape.

It is also said that those suffering from mental ill health (from mild depression to overt psychosis) would be taken by family at the midnight hour to the edge of Loch Mo Naire in Strathnaver, Scotland. Under the cold Moon and stars they would be stripped naked, and after many grueling and frozen hours, they would be immersed in the icy waters of the Loch at first light. Loved ones and invited onlookers would throw coins into the water, by way of payment for the aid in the healing of these poor wretches. Pulled out sharply from these bitterly cold waters, and no doubt suffering from hypothermia, they would then be marched Sun-wise around the perimeter of the Loch, many miles in fact, and instructed not to turn their heads until the water was clear out of sight, and the morning Sun had fully risen.

And so I found myself, standing upon that desolate shore with the raging ocean stretching out in front of me, as far as my eye could see. Even now, I clearly remember just how it felt for the insistent wind to whip and pull my hair into a tangled mess, and how the salt air made my eyes sting as I gazed out onto the horizon, lost in deep emotion and memories. Strong reason and purpose had paved my way to this place, a moment that had been calling me for years and demanded careful planning over many thoughtful months. I had taken a preliminary look around the coastline to make sure that I was alone and would not be disturbed by others, knowing full well that the hour and location should dissuade the casual visitor. If anyone was to be present, then undoubtedly my best laid plans would surely fail.

From a moderately warm evening, the temperature plummeted as I neared the rocky shoreline and goosebumps arose upon my cooling skin. First went the sandals, kicked off into the darkness, and then my dress slipped away, falling onto the wet sands. A spontaneous string of obscenities escaped my lips, enough to startle the Saints, as I stepped into the chilling water (It was bloody cold!). Taking a few gasping moments to acclimatize (I wasn’t going to let a little thing like freezing cold water stop me, was I?), I stepped further into the frigid water, waves now falling hard against my legs, threatening to take them from beneath me well before my body would become accustomed to the shock of my new environment.

Violent shivering joined third degree goosebumps, which now covered my quivering frame from head to toe, as I waded forward and away from the shore, deeper still into cooler and stronger currents. Now the waves lapped against my stomach and breasts, splashing against my neck and face. Numbness dictated my next move and taking the deepest breath, I plunged myself beneath the dark waves.

Turbulent black waters enfolded me, embraced me, as I dove deeper into the gloom. My family often remarked that as a child, I swam as well as my Grandfather, who was renowned for his sea legs and his capacity to avoid drowning in difficult waters. Not often does one get the opportunity to challenge the boastings of our proud parents, so in this moment I was handing all over to my fate and to my genetic blood ties; an appointment with my Ancestors in fact.

Holding myself below the waves until the ninth had washed over me, I violently broke the surface of the water with a sharp breath, desperately filling my lungs, and uttering a deep sigh of relief and elation.

That was it.

All that I had ventured here for in the first place.

Against all of the rules, the clock had been re-set.

I swam further out into the frothy waves and after a while, whilst treading water, I let forth a wail. A wail that became a mournfully low sound of utter sorrow and sadness; the shattering tone of age-old guilt, and painful experience, escaping my mortal frame through my salt ravaged lips. To this day I really don’t know where that note came from; its resonance seems never-ending and still reverberates deeply. It was if the sound was torn out of me and cast across the Sea, rising in pitch and fed by a deep seated pain and burning anger, not mine, but something we all partake of as we cross these thresholds.

Not my voice and no longer my own emotions, more than I could possibly bear or contain, followed then by the crushing silence of the Bitter Sea. My whole world, all that I am, fell into utter silence. All ceased and my awareness, like the eternal flow of the tide, began to slowly draw back.

The tears flowed freely then, as the waves lulled me. I can remember how that silence broke, suddenly, and then the roar of the ocean came crashing back. The message had been taken upon and beneath the waves. My call was surely heard. Where my Rite ceased, my real work had now begun.

I’ve always had an affinity with Water, in all its forms and manifestations, but this experience is what really kicked off my love affair with the Sea, and I have been weaving folk/Sea lore, angling lore and superstitions picked up from the coastal regions throughout England and Scotland into my personal Witchery since.

In subsequent years I have returned to that coastline and have visited many others, wandering aimlessly along the beaches, weaving force & form while singing the old songs, and dancing wildly with the raging flames and flickering firelight upon the midnight shores.
Always lost in thought and deliciously entranced by the lapping of tide on shoreline, eyes fixed upon the shadow line where they entwine as one. No longer truly visible as separate states, but suspended and conjoined by the dark mist in-between, the place of dark dreaming, far memory and deepest vision of our future past and temporal becoming.

The Kent coast is indeed a wonderful place to find Cuttlefish bones, and I have vivid childhood memories of combing the beaches at Romney, filling my bucket with these treasures. Years later I would find myself using Cuttlefish bones for a different purpose entirely; drawing arcane sigils upon the sands beneath the Sun, Moon & Stars while forging, binding and breaking pacts with the enduring Spirits of Earth, Wave and Wind. Promises and wishes alike, cast like the wave skimming stones. Knotting, cutting and re-tying hempen cord and linen strips, often discovered bleached and Sun-dried upon the shoreline; gifts from the Sea.

There is a dizzying amount of Sea lore from the British Isles, and to cover it all in a single article would be a Fool’s errand, so here I wanted to just give a few snippets, some impressions of this volume filling subject.

The Sea Witches of the Scottish, Cornish and Sussex coast would literally ‘Sell the Wind’ to superstitious Sailors by means of a triune knotted rope. Purposefully untying the first knot would unleash a fine breeze, releasing the second knot would summon a high wind, and letting the third knot loose would invoke the fiercest of gales. Throughout history, Ancient Mariners have also been known to be able to ‘Whistle for the Wind’, a skill perhaps taught by the Sea Witches of antiquity. This form of magical practice relies upon direct action from the Seafarer, and constitutes a dynamic invocation to ‘The Prince of the Powers of Air’ to exert himself on their behalf.

What gales are sold on Lapland’s shore,
How whistle rash bids tempests roar,
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,
Of Erick’s cap and Elmo s light;
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form
Shoots like a meteor through the storm;
When the dark scud comes driving hard,
And lower’d is every topsail-yard,
And canvas, wove in earthly looms,
No more to brave the storm presumes!
‘Rokeby’ – (Sir Walter Scott)

The summoning of spiritual intervention while at Sea was regarded by most sailors as a risk laden and highly treacherous last resort, only ever to be used in times of dire need, when there was little or no wind at all, to fill the sails of their motionless vessels. It was held in firm belief by the Mariners, that any foolish captain who whistled without genuine need for Unseen assistance would call forth ill winds, often leading to swift horrific storms, that would quickly ravage their vessels, taking ship and crew to the Ocean bed in a violent and cataclysmic manner. Triangular fish bones, much the shape of ‘Thor’s Hammer’, were amongst a fisherman’s most prized possessions, being regarded as a good charm for safe traveling and to protect against thunder, lightning and squalls, affording such a measure of protection as he should ever he need to ‘Whistle the Wind’.

Invocations to the Saints, regional Spirits of the Sea and the winds, or even the Devil himself, were employed by the Sea Witches and the Ocean bound sailors. For good or ill, it was recorded that a Sea Witch from Trotternish called forth a gale so fierce, that it capsized a boat and drowned her intended victim.

“Gaoth tuath bho ifrinn fhuair,
a thionnd’as am muir ri aon uair,
A Chonnain, cuir ‘na deaghaidh,
‘na sradan tein’ on teinntean”

Uttered she: calling upon St. Conan to bring a “North wind from cold hell, that in one hour, drives the sea upwards from the bottom” and for him to “push it on in sparks of fire, as from the hearth”**

An angling superstition I particularly like (and I promise it’s not just for the Whisky) is the custom in Scotland of beginning new fishing nets (and repairing older ones) when the tide is rising, to bring good luck, bounty and abundance towards them. This work had to be completed without any interruptions, and once done Whisky would be drunk to assure even more good luck! I have incorporated this into my own personal esoteric practice, and so when beginning any new venture or rite beside the Sea, I wait for the tide to rise, carry out my work and heartily drink my Whisky; pouring some into the water as an offering on conclusion of the work.

Once my observances and rites have been carried out there is a form of divination I was told of by an old lady, who lived on the Sussex coast, to ‘check its outcome’. A bowl of sea water should be set in the sand, and if the light of the rising sun ripples and glimmers on the surface of the water it will take a while for your working to come to fulfillment. If the light is steady, then the change has already set in place, and you will see the labours of your work soon.

This practice is very reminiscent of the Easter Day custom held by the Marsh men of Lincolnshire. The ‘ Wading of the Sun’ was carried out to divine the weather for the coming season. As the Sun rises on Easter Day, a bucket of water was placed out to catch the earliest rays. If the Sun ‘waps and wades’, the season would be wet; but if steady, a fine Summer was surely around the corner.

The Art and practice of scrying has evolved and honed by genuine Witches and Magicians down the ages, often employing different regional methods that bear root similarities. Methods that I have used in my own practice have predominantly focused upon bodies of water; still lakes, dewponds or hand held dark bowls of liquid taken from specific Holy sources, the Ocean being one (an approach favored by the famous seer, Michael Nostradamus). Please remember though, as with water from Holy Wells and Sacred Springs, a portion of whatever you take should be given back in a respectful manner, to honour the Spirits that have assisted you in your work.

Throughout Old England, another object that has been commonly used for the purpose of scrying, which stems from the fishing communities that has for centuries, scraped a meager living from the sea, is the simple coloured glass fishing-float. Often known as ‘Witch Balls’ and used by Sea Witches in the same manner as the ‘crystal ball’. These green and blue spheres can often be viewed hung up in the windows of the small fishing cottages, in belief that they protect dwellings and owners from Witchcraft, the Evil Eye and other hostile occult influences.

For myself, I much prefer to employ fishing floats that I know have been used at Sea in the past, and you can come across these in antique stores along the coast in most parts of Britain. Ones found more recently online are generally replicas and have never even had a whiff of the sea breeze, let alone been submerged in the water.

A public house I once managed on the banks of the Thames, was converted from two fishermen’s cottages, and the three fishing floats that hung in the downstairs windows were found during the buildings conversion and renovation. Many a-night after the punters had left, and all was wrapped up, you would find me sitting alone with one of them; usually the deep sea green one, as it reminded me very much of one I had formally owned, and lost upon the way (as these things tend to do).

It is  mentioned above that you should always give back a portion of whatever water you take for your rites, but equally, you should also pay for anything you reap from the Sea too. It’s long been held by fishermen, that it was vital to offer payment to the Sea Gods and Spirits for the fish that their Oceans yielded during the fishing trips. Silver coins were inserted into the cork floats of the fishing nets, and if by chance any coins were to fall out it into the waters, then it was considered that the payment had been accepted and taken beneath the waves. If the coins remained it was said that the Gods had no need of money or payment and were appeased by the offer alone. Your payment or gift needn’t be coins, but some sort of exchange is necessary, and better if the item has a great meaning to you, as your sacrifice will surely be appreciated.

…And now after all that has been spoken of, I hear the call of the distant Sea once more, only greater than I ever have before… Its magnetic pull upon my body and soul is persistently fierce now, and the bitter Sea requires my presence… I yearn to smell the iodine in the Bladderwrack, feel the wet sand between my toes, taste salt upon my tongue… My primal Mother, the great leveler, calls and I must listen and respond… For she is Mother Moisture, willing vessel to the ice-cold burning Moonlight… She, whose tongue will tear at the land until it falls…

Great Queen of Primal Life that emerged from the dark, vast depths in the very beginning, hear the cries of your Daughter once more… I hear you and cannot resist your devastating power…


**See John Gregorson Campbell’s ‘The Gaelic Otherworld’ for more information about St.Conan and his link with the Devil.

Text – Sarah-Jayne Chapman & Matt Baldwin-Ives

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

The Secret Commonwealth

Posted by sarahjaynechapman on

“Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away
When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!”
~ Antigonish (Mearns, 1899)

“By late noon, as the shadows lengthened and then withdrew quickly across the blue hearth stone, the noises commenced again at this remote and surely cursed relic of an abode. As on previous occasions, it starts with the clicking and then chirping. An incessant and anxiety inducing sound, unlike anything my inner aural library recognised or indeed comprehended…” - April 28th

To the reckoning of most, we are all ultimately alone in this world; but the Witch knows different. We are never truly alone. We are constantly surrounded by our spirits or gods, bugged by our ‘Muses’ and the extremely lucky ones can find a part of their missing soul hidden within another; but even if not, we all have our Otherselves. Witch or no.

Throughout the British Isles, especially in Ireland and Scotland, there is much talk of the Faerie Co-Walker, the Otherself; which has been known throughout the years, and presently, under many names. Doubles, Fetches, or Wraiths are believed to be the ‘attending spirit’ of the living person, and oft times considered a guardian spirit – Usually ancestral.

“Now as the light and warmth quickly diminish from this valley, I perceive the barely audible but pure whistle-like tone they emit on approach to our world. Of course, as time and age take me, I am now beginning to wonder just what distance actually separates us. Surely not enough. In years past, I was informed in a most serious manner, by the people who taught me the ancient art, that these beings or creatures had been (and perhaps still were) the procurers of potent ointments and salves to the Witches of antiquity. My mentor assured me that by carrying church blessed water and the sharpest cold iron I could find, they may just leave me be; due to their inherent fear and contempt for such substances…” - April 28th

The knowledge of these creatures, these Co-Walkers, has been around for centuries. The Greeks had their agathodaemones and kakodaemones which attached to men, swaying their decisions to one side or the other. Socrates would take counsel and guidance from his daemon. The Romans had their genii. And in Northern tradition they had their fylgja (someone that accompanies). It was believed that everyone inherited an hereditary guardian spirit at birth, which held their ancestral wyrd in their grasp, their ancestral inheritance and their luck.

These Co-Walkers, or Fetches, are capable of traveling abroad from the body of whomever they are attending. There is a massive amount of folklore and Witchlore pertaining to this, and most already know of the Witchs’ Familiar, sent forth from their blood and bone counterpart to do their bidding, sometimes in ‘true form’, sometimes that of an animal.

“Feather light and mutable are their forms, ever shifting and changeable, not unlike the cool morning mists that rise above the nearby fens and marshes. Yes, icy cold, like frozen breath in the darkness of the deepest Winter’s night. These vaporous Chameleons have a keen thirst for fine liquor, accompanied by a ravenous hunger for the farmer’s grain and corn. Only the essence mind you, for they quickly discard the husks and gross matter, finding this wholly unpalatable…” - April 28th

But it isn’t all sweetness and light and happy families.

The word ‘Fetch’ may derive from fæcce in Old English, which is glossed for mære; a spirit associated with death and nightmares. It is believed to see one’s Fetch is an omen of impending death, for the body has ‘given up its ghost’, and this is very true, my friends. There will be death. A death to the way you see the world, a death to your way of thinking, a death to all you once believed to be true, and yes, sometimes actual, physical death. For something which has been seen, cannot be un-seen. Once you have stared into the Unseen, and the Unseen has stared back into you, you are forever changed. Not quite the person you once were.

Striving for full awareness of your Faerie Co-Walker, is a dangerous path to walk. I’m not talking here about the dainty, gossamer-winged creatures of Victorian fancy. I am talking about the primal, ancient beings that would steal your baby from it’s crib, lure you to your doom in the fog, forests or wetlands, the powerful subterranean-dwellers who live according to their own laws, that can (and will) rip your face off. I jest you not. These beings should be approached with the utmost care, diligence and respect; a healthy dose of fear would not go amiss either. As a misstep could cost you your sanity, or your life.

“My patrons, both present and past (and undoubtedly, future) met with them at the midnight hour. Out on the dark lonely highways, deep in the hollows, the caves and at the cursed and unholy crossroads; the lonely thresholds that were once home to the gallows and the deep buried carcasses of vagrants, vagabonds, harlots and murderers. My teachers thought more of these places than God’s own churches; and when winds and stars were right, would exchange tokens, make pacts and renew ancient covenants with these strange and fearful folk…” - April 29th

As Witches we take calculated risks, nothing should be approached lightly or on a whim, especially when dealing with these beings. Think of the stories you have heard. Think of all the age old charms to protect against Faeries and the like; their origins are not based in fantasy, but on a very serious need to be cautious. Take heed and protect yourself from these hungry ghosts, the shadows and reflections of our long lost past

Some will never attain full awareness of their Co-Walker, most will never want to, and can be content with a contact of sorts with this Otherself. “If invited and earnestly required, these companions make themselves known and familiar to men”*. This contact can take years to build, but can be increased at certain times, in certain places, especially at ancient sites of cultural heritage. Out beneath the turbulent skies, on wind-whipped moors, surrounded by the unparalleled natural beauty and danger of the wetlands, amongst the haunted hills and vales, deep within the dark forests carpeted with bluebells, or upon the ancient mounds of our Ancestors – The places the dead lie (human, and animal) can become an interaction point between our realm and theirs.

“From my own observation, research and most importantly direct contact, I have to conclude that the nature of these beings reside somewhere between Angel and Flesh-bound Man. I have witnessed them on successive nights moving to and from their dark and hollow hills, while the land seethes and spits the cold fire that lights their way. In horror, I have quietly followed them down from the hills as they descend into our villages and towns to mingle, mimic, manipulate, and on occasion murder the unsuspecting towns folk. They covertly steal the trinkets we surround ourselves with, and if the truth be heard, would steal the first breath from the newborns lips (if the proper wards and sigils were not in place). I have been forced to consider that far beyond their chaotic whistle and chatter, they are as one. A collective, united in serving a single unknown and unseen power. Their faith, politics, learning and motivations are way beyond our reason and understanding. Some nights I hear music and merrymaking from beneath the hills, and have been told that the lanterns they dance beneath bear no wick or tallow, having shone since the land was young…” - April 29th

These creatures are cunning, and ready to catch you out. I’m sure you have all heard of ‘Faerie Trickery’, but their playfulness is not unlike our malice, their games can be cruel, their presence painful, their sport can be what our nightmares are made of. So be prepared on your journeys to meet with them; if you still wish to make the contact that is. They will demand a lot from you, sometimes more than you are prepared to give (and they will take by force what you do not give willingly), and in return you will see very little at first, maybe ever. Their thoughts on exchange don’t always meet our own, and in their minds they may have already bestowed great bounty upon you just by revealing their presence.

Do not be fooled that you ever have the upper hand with these beings, no matter how many times you convene, for they can surely cut you down a peg or two. And cut you down they will. Humility will be one of your greatest allies against this fierce race, and can afford you a measure of protection, however slight that may be. Older than the ancient hills they abide within and beneath, they have seen many ages come and go. Yet, they remain. Steadfast and attached to the Land. And part of it. Waiting and ready. Ready for what?

“Tired am I, of the summoning. The sonorous crooning of old songs to the snapping of ash wand, and forceful tearing of bud and stem; just to be battered and thrown around like an abused rag doll when they rush in from the four corners of the world. Their spitting and threatening no longer brings the overwhelming rush of exhilaration I once felt. I carry the unseen scars of their weapons; the century seasoned wooden sword, the hammers of bone from creatures long past, and their tiny barbed stone arrows, which are forcefully unleashed upon us from the darkness. Weapons that inflict illness and melancholy upon their clueless victims, sometimes death to the weaker and more vulnerable, and no one is the wiser (apart from those who are truly wise and dearly wish they were not, as wisdom seldom brings a peaceful mind)…

But upon this very night, I solemnly prepare myself to meet with them once again (perhaps for the last time), to uphold our part of the bargain and join with them in convocation within this desolate, haunted ruin. This is the legacy my patrons have entrusted to me, to tremble and weep once more, within the ice cold darkness that will soon descend upon this place. To further let go, and lose a part of my humanity, a fragment of warmth from my immortal soul, perhaps to fuel their obscene lanterns, and in return for what?” - April 30th

Text – Sarah-Jayne Chapman & Matt Baldwin-Ives

‘The Co-Walker’ © Ian Thurlby & Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

All other images © Matt Baldwin-Ives

Diary Extracts - with kind permission from the owner

* Robert Kirk – The Secret Commonwealth: of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies (1691)

Ancient Yew and Humps of the Devil…

Posted by sarahjaynechapman on

“A thousand charms now open on the view,
O’er which enchanted roves the wanderer’s eye
With ever-fresh delight. In stainless, blue
Immensity above extends the sky : —
Below, in richest harmony, each dye
Of varied green is blended to adorn
This solitary vale, that seems to lie
Lovely as Eden on Creation’s morn,
Ere nature knew decay — ere pain and grief were born”

Some pretty long-standing memories have been forged upon the South Downs of England. Some meaningful, some not, some spiritual, some filled with laughter, others with tears, some with sheer terror, others with joy, and one particular night’s happenings (when but a delicate 16 year old) will forever be engraved in my mind, and burned onto my retinas. It is a place very close to my heart. A place where I feel instantly at home.

From it’s iconic, and dramatic chalky white cliffs on the East Sussex coast, to the beautiful and evocative western Weald of Hampshire and West Sussex. I must say I think I had, possibly, one of the best pints of real ale at the ‘The Shepherd & Dog’, just outside the village of Fulking (not far from the Devil’s Dyke), that I have ever had in my life. That may have something to do with the fatigue and weariness from trekking across the Downs from Sun rise to Sun set. There is nothing like a great pint or two, over some pub grub and deep belly laughs, to really put the spring back in your step after a long, exhausting, but exhilarating day.

The historic village of Slindon on the Southern slopes of the South Downs, the towns of Arundel, Lewes, Winchester, and Chichester, the stretch of the Seven Sisters of the Eastern coast, the impressive Blackdown, and the Chanctonbury Hill & dew pond; are all places that have a firm hold on my heart and soul. Local legend has it that the Devil himself created the Chanctonbury Ring, and that one may summon him by running around the clump of trees seven times anti-clockwise; which links in with the place I’m going to be talking about today.

North-west of Chichester there is an ancient, magnificently dark and somber, Yew forest covering two hundred acres within a narrow coombe. The bark of the oldest trees takes on a molten-like look. Very anthropomorphic. The forms of the faces, arms and hands, parts and pieces of those who have been laid to rest beneath the shelter of their poisonous branches, can be seen in their knarled, twisting trunks. Newer trees wrap around the dead Yew inside; writhing and entangling around the original, until they are no longer distinguished as different trees, but one. Growing and dying, and living again. Together. Over and Over.

This place is hushed. An eerie silence and dimness enfold you as you walk between these ancient trees. Even on a bright sunny day, the thick canopy blocks out the Sun; dappled light hits the damp floor, died red by fallen berries. On a hot day the vapours rise from the trees, and an altered state is imminent. The toxins within the Yew are released in the heat, and if you sit meditating in this grove on such a day they can bring forth some pretty in-depth trance states; due to the mild narcotic and hallucinogenic effects these vapours produce. I take moment here to warn of the extent of the poison of this tree. Even meditating on hot days, at length, can induce an overdose. So, it’s always handy to have someone with experience to watch over you, just in case, but with care it’s a very useful and powerful place for a seer to meditate.

It’s easy to get lost within the Kingley Vale forest, even without the hallucinogenic effects. The trees arn’t where you remember them to be, and paths don’t take you where you thought they would. This site has been used for Witchcraft for many a moon, and somewhere within these woods stands a single sacrificial Oak.

“Come, Meditation! Stray awhile with me,
The scene will suit us well, for we may muse
On themes we long have cherish’d secretly,
Within yon grove of venerable yews;
Whose twilight gloom and silence may infuse
Into our dream, perchance, that pensive joy
Which philosophic Melancholy woos
Amid such scenes, whose beauties never cloy ;
But yield to Taste and Virtue bliss without alloy”


Deep beneath their sacred canopy, the atmosphere thick and grim, you can truly understand why the Yew is used in workings and ritual involving the Ancestors, communing with the spirits of the Dead, ceremonies of remembrance, Necromancy, and the Otherworld. The Yew is the Gatekeeper to the Shadow Lands. She is an Ancient Matriarch which holds many stories beneath her bark. Sitting amongst Her serpentine roots, with ears to listen, she might tell you a few. Of the inspiration of death. Of the beauty in decay. Of the power to renew and transform through total surrender. Beautifully haunting tales will bleed forth from Her, tales that will make your heart ache so bad you fear it might break. Physically break. Tales that will make your soul sing. Tales that will linger with you forever. You never return from a journey with the Yew in quite the same way as you were before you left.

According to 9th Century manuscripts, a group of Vikings invaded the countryside around what is now Chichester; however the Vikings weren’t expecting a revolt by the Anglo-Saxons. They turned on their pursuers, and a huge battle commenced, in which hundreds were killed. The wood is believed to be the location of this battle; onto the ground where the slain fell, a grove of sixty trees was planted as a memorial. The ghosts of these fallen warriors are said to wander beneath their boughs at night. They arn’t the only things that wander once the Sun sinks below the horizon, as legend has it the trees also come alive and walk the coombe. This sets cold shivers down the spine when you are amongst these trees at night. Truly lost. In the pitch blackness you look for trees you had seen earlier on in the day, that have seemed to have disappeared, or are further down the path than you expected. A very haunted and powerful place to be sure, almost threatening at times.

“Fierce was the conflict, as old legends say,
And fearfully re-echoed through the dell,
Mid the wild uproar of the battle-fray,
The Briton’s shout, the Sea-Kings’ fiendish yell, —
And of the mighty Northmen many fell,
Whose bold hearts’ blood distain’d the verdant ground ;
And few return’d the daring deeds to tell
Of Cissa’s gallant sons, who that day, crown’d
With glory’s wreaths, made hill and dale with joy resound”


The special chalk grasslands of Kingley Vale have developed over thousands of years and support a wide variety of flora and fauna. The grassland is grazed upon by fallow and roe deer, wild rabbits and sheep (in the Winter) to prevent the coarse grasses and trees from stifling the growth of wildflowers. Wildflowers such as rock rose, wild thyme and marjoram, and the rare orchids which litter these meadows, including the common spotted, frog, bee and fly orchids. The Vale is also home to blackthorn, hawthorn, ash, elder, spindle, willow, birch, gorse and juniper. It is a wonderful place that has stolen the heart of many a poet, including Tennyson and Crocker.

There are a number of ancient remains in the area; earthworks, settlements, cross dykes, scattered long barrows and a couple of Iron Age hill forts. On a ridgeway crossed by an ancient trackway above the forest and the grasslands, stand four large Bronze Age barrows called ‘The Devil’s Humps’ or ‘The King’s Graves’ on the crest of Bow Hill. These kings were leaders of the Viking invasion wiped out by the Anglo-Saxon men of Chichester. It is said that the Vikings, or at least their leaders, lie in these barrows. The Yews of the forest are believed to be the descendants of the trees planted to mark the battlefield.

This is not really a place you want to be alone at night. I speak from personal experience, and I even had a friend just within earshot. I came to Kingley Vale emboldened by stories, and entertained fancy ideas of walking/running around the mounds six or seven times, to test the claims of the Devil coming to meet you. As the darkness cloaked the land, I began my journey around the burrows. I made it around a grand total of four times (nothing jumped out after the third, as some local legends claim), but the atmosphere changed on my forth trip. Not only did the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but my whole body. The air thick. The night seemed to close in. The sky within reaching distance. Whispers were heard on the breeze. Shadows. Movement. Chills. Fear. I was not alone. The dead do indeed walk.

I have never again sat upon those burrows alone, and I cannot fully describe what happened in the hours that came next… Maybe I should try… But that, my friends, is a story for another time…

Text – Sarah-Jayne Chapman

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

* The Devil’s Humps: photograph by Brannon Masters with digital manipulations by Matt Baldwin-Ives.

** Poems excerpts from ‘Kingley Vale’ by Charles Crocker

COMPLETE KINGLEY VALE GALLERY: http://inthechimehours.com/the-gallery/kingley-vale-gallery/

The Witches’ Sabbat

Posted by sarahjaynechapman on

A dark lady, from a darker place, in the darkest time, comes forth to perform shadowy deeds. Her pathway is most crooked and madly beckons both Angel and fool, but promises little hope of any safe return for either. Glowing eyes fall upon her, fast darting from the shadow, reflecting back the blackest of desires which burn unceasingly within her foul heart. For she, at this moment, has arrived to dance once more with her Sisters, and keep the age old appointment with her patron. An arrangement firmly made by her Ancestors, long before her mortal birth.

Underneath the pale light of the waning crescent moon and before an ample fire, she undresses slowly, slipping the hooded robe from her body; her milk white skin set aglow by the raging flames. She stands naked and proud before them; her unruly, raven hair hangs in waves down her back, a string of dark lustrous beads at her neck. The two girls watch, frozen in anticipation and silent awe at this spectacle.

Lifting a weathered earthenware pot of goose fat, pungent with the aroma of well steeped Witching Herbs, she slavers it onto her bare skin; a porcelain covering beneath which Eden’s cursed snake lies. Upon her wrists. Behind her ears. Beneath her breasts, and then south of Heaven to where God’s Light refuses to journey; the anointing takes place. As her head begins to shudder and spin, she quickly and with urgency, beckons the two girls forth.

Roughly disrobing and circling the fearful girls, she inspects with the Predator’s eye. And with the touch of the Nursemaid she anoints them with the eye-watering acrid stench of atropines amidst the rancid aroma of aging avian grease. She purposefully refrains from applying her own liberal amounts of the Flying Salve to their unaccustomed frames. She doesn’t wish them to fly too high this night; it is their first time after all. She is also keen to avoid the ceasing of the heart, an occupational hazard in such potent streams of their ancient craft.

Eyes widen, pupils dilating with confused exhilaration, these Sisters become uncomfortably numb and nauseous. Their dark world sharply blackening to the hidden Piper’s unfolding chaotic tune. Vision blurs, skin burns and throats dry. Their united cries become a rasping, hollow accompaniment to the increasing rush of noise within their head. Head swimming, the Lady plants the Serpent’s kiss firmly upon their arid and cracked lips, and then strikes hard with the palm of her hand upon the small of their fragile backs. And for that moment alone their world ceases it’s motion, grinding to a fearful halt, as stars in the night sky above them, begin to wink out. One after another the heavens lanterns are extinguished by the ghastly obsidian darkness.

Pungent plumes of grey smoke, a breath of scorched Moon-blood and resinous incense, rises from the Cauldron. And in that timeless and spaceless place, the Sisters seamlessly follow, rising into the darkness, carried by ill winds and Spirits that have watched and waited for the appointed time.

Now the dance begins: A larger, brighter, hotter burning fire. Heads alight, and blood warming again beneath their skin; the sound of it coursing again through their veins, filling their ears with the deafening, pulsing rush. Dulled senses now reawaken. The heavy smells of ash, blood, sweat and the sweetest of fragrant herbs assault their nostrils. As lightening lacerates the turbulent seething skies and the roar of distant thunder approaches, the Sisters sway and undulate to the fearful noise; as if softly caressed by the velvet darkness that surrounds their naked forms.

From out of the shadows and into the corner of their vision, the ‘Mares of the Night’ step forth; patiently waiting to experience the young flesh, which dances so tantalizingly before them. They also know to leave the ‘Witch with the Raven Hair’ well alone, for her hand is marked and reserved for another, their Master, the Lord of the Dance himself. As the pulse quickens and the dance picks up to a reckless pace, they draw in closer and then closer still. Dancing in wild, eerie patterns alongside the Sisters. The now wanton women welcome them until they are all but Shadows, whirling within and without the torn and twisted branches of the lightning-blasted tree. At dizzying speed, their heads, hearts and souls are fully released, and their hot, supple skin falls into the frenzied grasping hands of the Night Mares.

Lips clash, tongues entangle, corporeal and ethereal now merge as one. Rules and restraint are no longer valid here, for they have become unto Shadow, in which the unholy truth of their convocation lies concealed. For they are now bound by a dark oath taken; a promise which has been sealed beyond place and time. A promise which ushers forth memories that flitter between dream and waking mind, when they are once again set aflame by the toxin-led, lust-inspired arousal, that leads most to madness and some to death.

Howling now, with heads thrown back in fear and joy, deep ecstasy takes them and they call out into the utter blackness. To the space between the stars. Not in words, for words now surely fail them, but in guttural wild tones carried upon the dark winds by their desperate hunger for the source of this unholy communion.

The Witch with the Raven Hair stands still, motionless, surveying the chaos with her Hunter’s gaze. Her soft but sharp tongue speaks the ancient names into the void, singing forbidden psalms above the raging flames, until his scent overcomes her.

Wildfire, Man-blood, musk and the stench of damp disturbed earth; memories of the deep forest floor, of an Autumn, many moons ago, at the midnight crossroads.

He has come…

Regal, broad, tall and dark, the be-horned living embodiment of the Bringer of Black Light, now stands naked and proud beside the fire. He has called her name, she bears his mark and for her, there is no turning back. He reaches out for his Divine Whore and whirls her, deeper still, into the Devil’s dance. The inhuman waltz, both twisted and insane, bearing a choreography that melts the very fabric of time and space, as it challenges all rules and laws of creation and order. He has the lips of the Devil himself, and profane are the desires that dwell within his heart, desires which match her own. Deeply he kisses his raven-haired Witch; and she plummets sharply, and most mercilessly, into the white-eyed trance-state he demands of her.

“Remember” he softly whispers in her ear. She looks over at her two girls upon the ground. They lay like broken dolls, stringless puppets, muttering incoherently to themselves, annihilated by sheer exhaustion and bliss.

It is time…

The Serpent chalice is brought forth, and held aloft, she knows only too well what secrets that thick, dark red liquid holds. This vessel is brim-filled with a virtue that all laws oppose. The taste of iron coats her tongue, and with re-envenomed lips, they share that second, sacred, world-stopping kiss. Their mouths drink of each other. Purified in their filth, blessed in their corruption, they savor deeply. A wordless and formless communion takes place, and in the deepest depths of their shared solitude, they become as one. Passionate flesh abounds, in a yearning beyond comprehension, where their conjoined souls spiral down to the utmost depths, to the place where light is but a fading memory.

Once more, the ancient future is reclaimed; deep secrets are whispered and clear knowledge gained from the Spirits that whisper from the ice cold, pitch black, ebony depths of the secret hidden Earth.

And as the Good Lord’s Sun rises that very next morning, there is no trace of the Sisters and their consorts. No evidence of the Lady and Master, nor of their unholy union. Save perhaps from the pair of blood-stained hand prints on the trunk of the bone-white, long-dead, lightning-struck tree.

And of the Sisters three?

One dies while two thrive, the way it must always be…

Text – Sarah-Jayne Chapman & Matt Baldwin-Ives

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

* Witches’ Sabbat: photograph by Tracey Stephens’ with digital manipulations by Matt Baldwin-Ives.

Roads of the Dead…

Posted by sarahjaynechapman on

What occurs in this world, can echo into the Unseen. There are places that are more susceptible to your efforts, places where the Veil is thinnest; where your echos make louder and more powerful ripples in the Unseen places beyond the border. Places such as crossroads, ancient stone, hills & burial mounds, groupings of certain trees, natural gateways in the Land,  rings of certain plants, cemeteries and of course old roads, to name but a few.

Throughout England, in times of old, roads weren’t always the mundane features they are today. Of course, there were the roads used for travel and business, but there were also special routes and tracks that had spiritual, symbolic, magical & ceremonial attributes and uses. Some of these roads still exist, but their true purpose has been buried by time, their meaning forgotten, their function changed.

Among these special roads were the ‘Roads of the Dead’ – Ghost roads, corpse roads, Lych ways, bier, burial/funeral or coffin roads – Usually these roads were synonymous with a church path or churchway, but that was not always the case.

The basic facts of the corpse road are straight forward enough: Sometime in the Tenth Century, with the expansion of church building, burial rights became an issue. The minister officials were threatened by the outlaying settlements, and feared for their authority and revenue. As such they decided to institute ‘corpse ways’ that would lead from distant locations to the Mother Church. This Mother Church alone, at the heart of the parish, held the burial rights. Parishioners would have to transport corpses, either in a coffin or bier (a wooden stretcher on which lay a stiff canvas bag into which the corpse was sown) along these roads, sometimes a very long distance and across difficult terrain.

The way to the church was often-times littered with obstacles, which were to confuse the spirits of the dead, to prevent them from returning home to haunt their loved ones. Traveling across water is the most well-known today, but the practice of carrying coffins around trees, a number of times in specific directions, was also common. The shoes of the deceased also had to point in the direction the mourners were travelling, as to have the boots of the dead facing their old home would let them remember their way back.

Roughly hewn coffin stones, or ‘preaching crosses’ would be laid along the Roads of the Dead, in order for the company to take rest, feed packhorses and utter prayers and sing hymns over the body of the deceased. These wayside crosses were said the ‘guard and guide the way to the church’. After much labour, the travelers would finally reach the mother church and cross the tenemos through a special gate, the ‘Lych Gate’. These gates would give the mourners a chance to pause, and rest beneath it’s shelter, as they would no doubt arrive early. The long, rough travel did not allow for exact timing.

The Lych-Gate was rather a special place for the village seer, or wise-woman or man, as it was the place they would ‘church-watch’. Church-watching was a vigil held in between the hours of 11pm and 1am, where they would, on St. Mark’s Eve, Halloween, of the eves of New Year, Midsummer or Christmas, sit at the Lych-Gate and drift into trance-like state. This was to foretell who in the village would die in the next twelve months, the seer would see the ‘wraiths’ (the double of the doomed living) or hear whispers.

Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth it’s sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream – Shakespeare

It’s not hard to see why these ‘Roads of the Dead’ have such Otherworldly associations, especially when following the mile and half long road from Noke to Islip in Oxfordshire. The corpse road is found on part of a larger track, known as the Oxfordshire Way, which passes from the Cotswold’s to the Chiltern Hills. This old road makes for a rather interesting (and beautiful) walk over Otmoor, which has been described as a place that is “under a spell of ancient magic”.

After spending some time wandering around the very pretty village of Noke, taking in the 13th century church of St. Giles’ and woodlands, climbing a stile at the edge of the village begins the walk of the corpse road. Travelling along this path, as the tunnel of trees close in around you, it’s very easy to lose yourself (even if your walking partner insists on whistling one of the most annoying tunes you have ever heard, and you threaten to crack him over the head with the ‘walking staff’ he carries). At the tunnel’s end there stands another stile, from which the corpse road can be seen crossing the broad ‘fenlike’ open land, towards the tower of the Church of St. Nicholas the Confessor, which has stood on the same spot since 1065. The sight is enough to put paid to the most idle of whistling, annoying or no.

Sitting there on the wayside, bathed in the golden glow of the setting Autumn Sun, voices mingle into one as a dirge is sung; the shadows shift. The air grows calm, and your hairs stand on end. The atmosphere palpable. Your head will flare, and your heart race. The dead whisper, as they flit past. Sometimes they may even carry your messages. Sometimes not. Sometimes other Spirits will come to play…

And you come to realize that these ‘Roads of the Dead’ aren’t only used by the dead…

But that’s another story…

On this night, on this night,
Every night and all,
Hearth and house and candle-light,
Let Him receive your soul.

When from here away you pass
Every night and all,
To Whinny-muir you come at last;
Let Him receive your soul.

From Whinny-muir then you may pass,
Every night and all,
To Brig o’ Dread you come at last;
Let Him receive your soul.

On this night, on this night,
Every night and all,
Hearth and house and candle-light,
Let Him receive your soul.

     -Re-written excerpt of the traditional English Lyke-Wake Dirge

Text – Sarah-Jayne Chapman

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)