Wednesday, 22 January 2020


This building is more than just stone. It is my first home, my pride and joy, my sanctuary, the path back to my Craft, and the journey back to sanity.

In the years running up to 2018 I was deeply depressed. Much of this down to a situation I haven’t yet fully escaped, but basically we were frustrated, unhappy, and lacking in direction.
We lived in a beautiful house in a beautiful place, but it wasn’t right.

After much soul-searching on where we should be, I found this amazing house. In late 2018 we moved in. .

Freezing cold in the winter, full of spiders in the autumn, but such an honour to live in so magical a place, and in some small way to be a part of its history.

I know the heartbeat of this place, this cemetery that is very much alive. I know every tree, every flower, every shrubb. I love how the moon bathes me in her light as I lay in my bed. I love our wooden floors and metre-thick walls. I love our living room; once the old storeroom for spades and headstones.

I love looking out the kitchen window as I wash up; weaving magic as I focus my thoughts. I love the rabbits at sunrise in the summer; I welcome the Starlings as they return to their nest in the eaves above the kitchen.

I love our collection of higgledy-piggledy staircases - no less than four - and I love the way this old stone house embraces us; breathing life back into us, while the bodies of those that have gone before surround us.
I love that this amazing place has held us in its womb, and given us space and time to recognise each other again. That my husband can see his wild, witchy woman once more.

Who would have thought this ancient, crumbling building would have given us so much; would have given me so much?

For the first time in my life I feel I am finally home.

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