Tag Archives: trance

Ancient Yew and Humps of the Devil…

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer 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 Farrer

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 Sarah-Jayne Farrer 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 Heaven’s 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 Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

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

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

Of Dreams and Memories – The Bone White Tree

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

It is dark. The Moon, but a silver sliver, hangs suspended in the night sky. Silent. Luminous. The ground is hard underfoot. The day has been cold, but the night is chilling to the bone. The Land is now cloaked in ebony silk. Enfolding. Embracing. The Bone White Tree stands majestic, at the centre of the meadow. It seems to be made of moon-stuff. Glowing. Shimmering. Beckoning those who would be willing to spend a night ‘neath Her haunted boughs. Whispering. Enchanting.  Promising entrance, and clear guidance upon the inner roads that lead back to the source of all things.

The two who dare draw close. The two who are one. One with each other, and one with the tree.  The tree, one of the three. The three trees of resurrection. The Guardian at the gate of life and death.

The fire is built, by way of old custom. They pace around the tree.  Around the fire, against the Sun, grinding force and form with woven will, again and again. Once to lay the flour. Once to pour the water.  The fire rages.  Over and over. And they find their way back to the tree. Beneath the shelter of alabaster branches, reaching to the sky littered with stars, it begins.

She knocks hard upon the ancient trunk, announcing their presence and intentions. Tonight they need no riding pole. The Bone Mother will take them both where they need to go.

“O Bone Mother, Guardian at the Gate,
Grant us safe passage through,
Across the dark raging waters, to beneath.
Whisper now your secrets.”

They circle the tree slowly, purposefully; Soul to soul, Hand clasped in hand, the Witches’ grip which means all to some and nothing to most. Their rhythmic footfalls echo the silent beat, an unceasing and deafening rhythm that has arisen from the Deep Earth since the dawn of time. Fast rising through the tree now, surging and searing through them both. The world trembles, heads alight, shivers run down the spine. A deep sigh escapes her lips, and she clutches more tightly his firm hand, her anchor for the storm rocked vessel, her trembling body, mind and soul.

One foot in, one foot out, a relentless and merciless pace. The true path of the Witch, beyond all shallow literature and idle speculation, as old as time and twice as cruel. She knows he feels it too, she can see it in his gaze, and his obsidian dark eyes that are now filled with intense vision, as are her own.

The secrets of The Bone Mother come in vision. Secrets that She is willing to share, to those who are willing and able to listen with open hearts and minds.

Images flicker and flit before them, like the tongues of the Spirits within the wildfire. Maddening. Entrancing. Informing.

Soon enough they will pass, and the price will be paid. A sacrifice is offered, something of immense value and deep meaning. Wholesome Bread is shared, the loving cup held aloft and drained to the bitter dregs.

And silently, in the darkness beneath a fading moon, they commune, and give thanks, and are one.

They always have been, and always will be.

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

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