Just a small PSA announcement, if your idea of a shocking plot twist or jump scare is 'character using a wheelchair is suddenly and miraculously able to walk/never really needed it', kill that idea, kill it now.
Occasionally you come across a church door protected by an old saint or an old king. Sometimes an old saint-king. Their names have been lost, but not their apotropaic potency. They wait on the prayers of those who fear unhallowed ground. They wait on the coming of monsters.
The Neolithic and Iron Age villages of Barrowcross are ghost wells. Places where the past refuses to be banished. Places where lost tongues are lent to the winds of the moor. The vanished dead come to talk to the now.
Twitter is your pub. You set the door policy. It’s OK to block people you consider hateful. It’s OK to soft-block those whose timelines are so full of edgelordism/shit-posting you’d never want to sit next to them on a bus, let alone at a pub table. Be bold, curate for kindness.
I have received this amazing new editions of
@neilphilipmyth
’s generationally formative ‘English Folktales’ and it has made me a little teary. It is a beautiful production with a stunningly connective foreword by
@neilhimself
.
Just blocked one of the biggest folk horror accounts on Twitter. If you knowingly follow far-right accounts calling for racial genocide, you’re a pisspuffin - whatever mental loops you indulge in to convince yourself otherwise. Twitter is your pub and I don’t drink with fascists.
Leaving Twitter for a bit. As a victim of domestic abuse for years, accusations of gas-lighting others are traumatic to me especially when those who make them offer nothing to back them up and try to actually gas-light . We are all made of bruises right now, don't kick others.
The corpse road from Hallistone to High Hayward is one of the longest wraith ways in England. It has several coffin stones – on which coffins could be rested by processional parishioners - still remaining. To no-one's surprise, each stone has a ghost story associated with it.
C.L. Nolan called them ‘feral churches’ that had gone to ‘green prayers’. You know when you stumble across one. Feel the congregation of wild spirits on entering, hear hymns in old tongues thick with thorn and prickle. Their neglected bells ring when the land itself growls.
In case Twitter implodes under Elon Musk or Hookland needs to find a new home because of him, I will be creating a list of people who want to informed when it moves/when the inevitable newsletter is launched. I’ll provide more details tomorrow for those who are interested.
I’m afraid Hookland is about to become a little erratic due to medical malarkey. Please forgive a reduced service while. I’m desperately contending with trying to stop it and myself coming to an abrupter end than I’d like. No sympathy needed, but a little forbearance might be.
I don’t say it often enough, but thank you to those who engage with this strange act of re-enchantment I do with Hookland. I know some of it is profoundly weird. I know some of it seems ridiculously eclectic. Thank you for sticking with it and giving me a space to write a world.
England must never lose those little museums that hide away in villages and fervently pray for rain to push visitors through their doors. Peculiar little museums dedicated to solely to witch-pins, haunted dolls or ships in impossible bottles. – Sir John Betjeman, BBC Two, 1976
I am glad I live in a county where some people still hang up mistletoe at Christmas as a ward against malign magics and any stray spirits of last night's returning dead rather than as an excuse for an unwanted, unsatisfactory kiss. –
#EmilyBanting
, 1981
The gentle hills of England claim their share of mystery. Hold faery paths, hollow treasures. Tunnels to St. Martin’s Land. We walk them not only in beauty, but in enchantment. They make our breath ragged and our souls sing.
#Folklore
is fierce. Folklore is feral. It refuses to stay trapped in books. It roams. Leaps from pub to pub to playground. It paints itself on the walls of canal bridges and underpasses. You are as likely to see the lore of the fox brides on a fence as you are in a classroom.
As a dyslexic, can I make a polite appeal to those of you who feel the need to publicly correct spelling mistakes on Twitter. Out of kindness and manners, please don’t. There are several talented writers I know who won’t do social media due to this sort of public shaming.
Hello. A little bit of admin. Firstly, I am actively exploring leaving Twitter. If I do, Hookland will be continuing on other platforms. Secondly, I'm having some surgery tomorrow so will not be engaging with you all for a couple of days. There will be a caretaker in my absence.
I am a witch. I’m not a Halloween costume of fishnet stockings and a pointy hat paraded as part of a once-per-year sexual fetish. I’m not a cardboard mask mocking age. I’m not euphemism for difficult woman. I’m the unsheathed blade of magic itself. -
#EmilyBanting
#WitchWednesday
There is a deep English folkloric tradition of
#ChristmasEve
dreams being especially full of magic. A deep tradition of speaking animals and things that happen or visit in this in-betweenness. May your dreams tonight be enchanted. May all visitors be blessing. Love from Hookland.
Twitter is your pub. You are the landlord. Adopt a door policy that makes your timeline a place you are happy to be. Also, don’t try to sneak into Hookland if you are an ethnostate numpty. We don’t serve racist pisspuffins here.
I am afraid to say that - and I will consult with the Great Council of Hookland before taking final action - but I will be running down the manifestation of Hookland on Twitter. The county will continue to be found in places where the stench of brimstone is less overpowering.
This is Hookland where homophobia, racism and misogyny get nothing but curses. This is Hookland where anyone praising an orange-hued grifter gets laughed at and all those gaslighting the working class are despised. If you have issues with that, your unfollow would be a delight.
Look my lovelies, Hookland isn't going to conform to the tropes you know. It isn't going to be built only on what you've read/watched. It's going to be its own odd thing because I'm an odd thing. I'll wander my way, manifest as a fully-grown Changeling. Sorry to disappoint.
In Hookland they call the first dense and chilling twilight mist of autumn 'the Ghost-bringer'. If it comes in September, it is meant to be a harbinger of break-bone winter. I don't really feel the year is ending till one has chased me along the lane. –
#KatherineGiddings
It is a special day and even more special evening in Hookland. For today is St. John's Eve and this means feast fires and bone fires, St. John's wort and malkins. Of course it also means the Bone Horse will need roasted ale and cake. Art
@MariaStrutz
#StJohnsEve
#WyrdWednesday
The Goodnights from Hookland come to an end tonight. There won’t be anything special for Halloween per se as Hookland is weirdness, witchcraft and English enchantment 365. Strange is always in season in the county.
War leaves long echoes in the landscape. A concrete cicatrix of undischarged memory. Bunkers on endless watch for long dead enemies. Sound mirrors still listening for the rumours of bombers that never come. Peace forever ghosted by an infrastructure of violence.
Twitter is your pub. I soft block more people to prevent them from following Hookland than I allow per day by a high ratio. Racists; misogynists; homophobes; Covid-deniers and flag masturbators are not welcome here. If my door policy makes you fee uncomfortable, please unfollow.
We do not talk enough of comfortable hauntings. Those enfoldings by gentle spirits that come to church for evensong. The cosy communion between the living and souls clearly free of any torment. –
#CJosiffe
, 1982
#WindowsWednesday
The first rule of Faery - do not fuck with the Faeries. Not the Summer Court, not the Winter Court, not even the Wandering Sprites. Just no. - This has been a Hookland Public Service Announcement from Hookland.
The longer I spend in Hookland, the more I understand
#autumn
isn't a date, it's a state of mind. An anticipation of mangelwurzel lanterns, illicit fireworks. Joys of a conker carpet, sweet smell of apple rot and tang of bonefire wraiths. Spirits growing new teeth. –
#MattAdams
Increasingly, when someone follows Hookland I make this simple query: 'Forgive my curiosity, but why the interest in a lost English county?' Because I am curious, because the social in social media matters and I'm happy turn away a 100-plus a week that can't bothered to reply.
For the record, there is no authentic telling of King Arthur. The quest for Arthurian authenticity is a toxic spiral. Arthur is and always has been projection onto an echo which is as much Bronze Age as Romance soap opera template. Your own imagined Arthur is the truest and best.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, where will the Bone Horse stop? Roast your ale, make sure your torch is alight, the Grisgest roams tonight.
#wintersolstice2019
#SoLSTICE
The call of England is not trumpets, not drums dragging men to war - that's the lie of Kings. No, England's true calls are sigh of long grass on the common, the gentle wind-whipping at wood edge. It is song of mistle thrush on high branch, the low whispers of sprites. -
#CLNolan
On this day and in this night, the White Bone Horse of Summer is awake. With a clip and a clop he shall travel the lanes and cobbles to be here for St. John’s Eve.
#SummerSolstice
I'm not poetical. I'm too stroke-damaged by strokes to consider myself clever. I'm not cool nor fashionable. My neurodivergence and dyslexia give me an odd relationship to language. None of these things stop me
#writing
. Don't let anyone tell you that they will stop you either.
I've come to realise that some places are resentful. Releasing towards you all their bitterness at neglect or anger at intrusion. I've also learnt there are stretches of road – lined with wind-bullied bushes and trees – that radiate malignity for being driven along. –
#MattAdams
Inside feral churches abandoned to green communion, decoration is by cobweb, prayers are accompanied by dust incense. Stone receptacles hold odd offerings which you can never be sure if they're meant for some obscured saint or have been left as part of a bargain with older gods.
In most places, the Bone Horse patrols the streets twice per year. Firstly it comes as Withey – the white horse of summer. Later when the darkness has lengthened, the cold grown brutal teeth, it comes as the grey horse Grisgest. It's almost time for the Grisgest to dance again.
Ever wondered what happens to the hour they steal from you whilst you sleep? What lives in that time between tick and tock? Not all vampires feast on blood.
#ClocksGoForward
It's with sad heart at the monotony of having to say this again, but Hookland was partly founded to make it harder for ethno-state numpties to squat the common ground of folklore. There’s nothing here for blood and soil pisspuffins but harsh curses.
#FolkloreAgainstFascism
Hooklanders call them feral churches - places without regular congregation, places returned to older ways, green prayers. Most guidebooks call them abandoned, deconsecrated or empty. Yet they never feel any of those, rather filled with spirits and the holiness of wild things.
The year is dying. Some trees wear red robes to its funeral, others choose gold. In all the season's acts of solar alchemy, where stored sun is discharged as transformed colour, none weep for the passing. For death is part of the eternal turn and it is beautiful. –
#EmilyBanting
It is a special day and even more special evening in Hookland. For today is St. John's Eve and this means feast fires and bone fires, St. John's wort and malkins. Of course it also means the Bone Horse will need roasted ale and cake. Art
@MariaStrutz
#StJohnsEve
#WyrdWednesday
I don't think we were odd as children in giving the trees in the wood names. We called one 'The Watching Tree' and imagined it as sentinel, passing on all it observed to other trees. I'm not so sure we wrong about it. – Joanna Vickers, 1982
#VOH
One of the reasons I turn away more than 150 follows to Hookland per week is because if you can’t have the manners to answer the question: ‘Why the interest in a lost English county?’ I don’t think the social in social media is going to work out for either of us.
As promised, details of how to keep updated on any important Hookland news such as migration from Twitter if Musk's ownership leads to pisspuffinry. Also details of how to subscribe to the forthcoming Hookland newsletter.
The witch is friend to the small gods of neglected places. She knows the limits of their domains – this corner of wood, this edge of field – and still she sings to them. Her songs are part of the long memory of the land. We catch their echo. = Emily Banting, 1981
#WitchWednesday
Witch is a word for the woman who can harvest the hedge. Witch is a word for the woman who can harvest messages from the bones of the dead. Witch is a word for a woman who will do what needs to be done while all others are broken by grief. - Faith Dunmort
#WitchWednesday
There are some properties so ghost-soaked that no developer will touch them. Places so tightly gripped by phantoms that no-one among the living will try to claim them. Buildings left as sacrifice to the gods of rot and broken things.
For here is a truth that we tend to forget, our beautiful and ornate door-knockers come from a history of threshold guardianship, of warding against malign magic, troublesome spirits. Our metal lions growl against an unseen world for us. - George Kindred, Haunted Hookland, 1970
Hookland has been from day one,
#FolkloreAgainstFacism
and it remains so. Folklore and the ghost soil might be universally spread, but fortunately the insane whims of Trump are not. Facism is not a right and left thing, it is a right and wrong thing. Shift if you feel otherwise.
The shop windows of Hookland are a strange territory. Sometimes they seem less about selling, more about ritual appeasement or the subtle honouring of gods that have lost their names. -
#MattAdams
#Caturday
Hookland has taught me a huge part of the English landscape exists in the space between the map and your eyes. So much of England is imagined it can only be experienced in the wondering of what stories live in that far copse? What lies over or under the seen edge? –
#MattAdams
When I say you own Hookland, it is there for you to use if you need or want it, I am entirely serious. It is because you all own it that wonderful things like this can manifest.
For I am of the England of weird walls and strange doors. Places of stone veiling, enchanted entrances. Places you cannot pass without wondering what lies beyond? A cursed garden? Border with Faery? A Wood Sprite's tree where favours are swapped for blood libations? –
#CLNolan
The witch's tree is not hazel, blackthorn or ash. It is any damn tree she chooses to hold a conversation with. She hears it mutter in winter sleeping, is there to say its bare bones look beautiful as it pulls on spring's green robes. –
#EmilyBanting
#WitchWednesday
#GothicSpring
You may call them corpse roads, coffin paths. You may call them lych lines, wraith ways. What you can't not call those old processional paths of burial is empty. Not a single one of them is without folklore and phantom, not one isn't ghost-soaked. – Dr. M. Benn
#FolkloreThursday
Far right pisspuffins and ethnostate numpties/failed Kings of the North have been out attacking Hookland this morning. Sigh. They really do hate that the county doesn’t reflect their vile views. It never will. Despite their nastiness, DMs remain open and I won’t lock Hookland.
This is my flagless England of hollow hills and a tunnelled underneath to a thousand places. This is my England of Wraith Ways twists, phantom fields where spear against shield still echo. This is my England - strange and dreaming of when its wild gods wake. -
#CLNolan
Tide-tumbled and wave-washed glass is known as 'faery glass' as it is believed that the most diminutive of sprites like to use it as panes within their homes.
#FolkloreThursday
Nine years of Hookland on Twitter. 11 years of publishing Hookland elsewhere. At least one more of the county to come. Thank you to everyone has used it, been enchanted by it or wandered its ghost soil.
The Goodnights from Hookland are coming to a close in the next few days. Thank you to all those who have said nice things about them. Thank you to all those who took the time to politely DM me to tell me they were bored with them. Positive, private feedback is always appreciated.
To clarify, Hookland is suspended due to computer issues. I am remain as fine as my crumpled body can be, certainly better than the utterly dead computer.
Folklore has it that if you put your eye to the hole in Hag's Stone, you can see a world beyond this one. When I do it, I see the past. Then again as an archaeologist, I do regard standing stones as publicly accessible time machines. – Dr. K. Brophy
#StandingStoneSunday
Let us ditch this nonsense of 'insignificant' standing stones. All stones matter for all stones store stories. They are Neolithic batteries – receiving and discharging the projected power of both meaning and mystery. – Dr. K. Brophy
#StandingStoneSunday
Mr. Oberon, the graveyard cat of St. Mary's Mawgate is alleged to be 82-years-old. Most in the village say this is nonsense, he's merely a descendant of the original Mr. Oberon. Others, mainly those who drink at the Green Pyramids, say there's nothing stranger than truth.
So I will leave you With something profoundly beautiful and magical - a Hookland flag depicting the bear and ghost bear of Hookland. This came in the post from
@MariaStrutz
today and it has made me cry. Goods tears are rare these days and my gratitude is deep.
Some dare to fashion field guards in the form of Wicker Queens. Not all feel comfortable with this. Manifesting malign spirits may be effective apotropaic practice, but there are claims of unwanted ramifications – the strange twisting of crops, a bleeding of omens into dreams.
I’m sorry you’re having to read this again, but Hookland has always been
#FolkloreAgainstFacism
. Folklore and the ghost soil might be universally spread, but those who seek to weaponise it for hatred are not welcome here and never will be. If you’re an ethno-state numpty, jog on.
If your timeline is full of tepid, unoriginal, vaguely New Age inspirational quotes of the sort that would make a greeting card company cringe, I won’t be following you and I won’t accept the follow. The world needs a lot less hollow, pisspuffin words right now.
If I have banned you from following Hookland on four accounts already, maybe take the hint I don’t want a follow. Also, the county remains
#FolkloreAgainstFascism
at its core. There is nothing but curses and derision for ethnostate numpties here.
The ghosts are thick tonight. They crowd the fire, jostle for the best spot. They gossip with passion. In their swapping of stories we catch discarnate words and phrases: ‘Old Bethel’; ‘charm-smith’; ‘the hastening book’; ‘toad-ploughed’; ‘Goodnight Tom Elderwood, goodnight.’
Hookland is closed due to medical malarkey. All prayers, magics and vague positive thoughts gratefully accepted at 2:30pm. Caretakers have keys to decorate the Christmas tree and say goodnight. Don't attempt to talk to the ghosts on Brighthaven Pier till it re-opens.
Snowdrops peel their white bells for St. Bride and we respond with pagan prayers made in ribbon, cloth doll and candle. Beyond names, the calendar of the land calls to us in signs of long hostaged hope. –
#EmilyBanting
, 1982
#Imbolc