Article from the Bath Chronicle, 21st June 2013:

Tragedy struck the peaceful neighbourhood of Belmont in central Bath yesterday, as an elderly woman was discovered lifeless in her bed and breakfast establishment. The police investigation has taken an unimaginable turn, revealing the shocking presence of the preserved bodies of four men reported missing decades ago. The authorities are now diligently working to unravel the mysteries surrounding this grim discovery.

The deceased woman, identified as Mrs. Evelyn Thompson, 86, was found in her bed early yesterday morning by a concerned guest who had failed to receive breakfast.

Mrs. Thompson, a long-time resident of Belmont, had been running the bed and breakfast for several years and was well-regarded within the community.

What initially appeared to be a tragic incident took an even darker turn as the police inspected the property.

While searching the premises, officers made the horrifying discovery of four preserved bodies, each belonging to a young man reported missing between 1976 and 1983, in various rooms throughout the property. It is understood that each body was discovered propped up in bed, dressed in pyjamas.

The identities of the deceased have yet to be officially disclosed but it is believed that all four men were traveling salesmen in their mid to late twenties at the time of their disappearance. The authorities are currently in the process of notifying their families, who have endured decades of uncertainty and unanswered questions.

Preliminary investigations into the preserved bodies suggest that taxidermy was used to preserve them. The process, typically associated with the preservation of animals, involves treating the bodies with chemicals to maintain their lifelike appearance. The condition of the bodies, despite the passage of time, has stunned both Police and forensic experts.

In a surprising twist, Mrs. Thompson's past as a military nurse during the 1950s, serving in the Korean War, has come to light. While there is no apparent connection between her military service and the preserved bodies, the police are considering all possible leads and are looking into her background for any relevant information.

Detective Inspector Sarah Patterson, leading the investigation, stated, "This is an extremely complex and unusual case. We are meticulously examining every detail to determine the cause of Mrs. Thompson's death and the circumstances surrounding the preserved bodies. Our priority is to provide closure to the families of the deceased, who have endured decades of uncertainty and heartache."

The police have cordoned off the bed and breakfast, transforming it into a forensic investigation site. Residents in the quiet neighborhood of Belmont remain in shock as the news of the macabre discovery spreads throughout the community. Many are struggling to come to terms with the unimaginable events that have unfolded right in their midst.

As the investigation proceeds, the police are urging anyone with information related to the case or who may have stayed at Mrs. Thompson's bed and breakfast during the 1970s and 1980s to come forward and assist with the inquiry. The Bath Chronicle will continue to provide updates as more information becomes available in this disturbing and tragic incident that has shaken the tranquility of Belmont and the wider Bath community.

In the black heart of Wiltshire, on a serpentine stretch of road known as Rowden Hill, madness and mortality intertwine in the cool April night air. Here, under the blighted shadow of Eddie Cochran’s tragedy, the music of the road takes a spectral turn. Our tale dances with the ghostly silhouette of an American rock 'n' roll god, forever in transit to Heathrow after a resounding Bristol gig, forever tethered to the fateful location of his premature swan song.

Eddie Cochran, our transatlantic rock 'n' roll brother, drew his last breath here twenty years ago. Fresh from setting the Colston Hall alight with his last ever passionate performance, his life snuffed out on this very stretch of asphalt, while safeguarding his sweetheart Sharon Sheeley from the gnashing teeth of their impending car wreck.

Now, his spirit has taken up residence on that highway, it seems. The latest account comes from one Mick Harris, a factory cog from Devizes. This man of routine and rubber was spinning a dance with fatigue behind the wheel, the midnight hour gnawing at his resolve, when he found himself careening towards the same chilling fate as Cochran.

Enter stage right: the spectral figure of Cochran himself, pompadour eternal and eyes alight with the fierce flame of survival. With a desperate gesture, Cochran’s ghost yanked Harris back from his vehicular plunge into the abyss, the phantom troubadour's warning still hanging in the air as Harris swerved his Ford Cortina back on track.

Now, as anyone with me at Watchfield in ‘75 knows,  I'm no stranger to mind-bending phenomena, but the outpouring of tales since this story broke in the WGH back in April has made even my seasoned psyche pause. Ghostly hitchhikers, spectral warnings, phantom figures - all bearing the unmistakable visage of Cochran, appearing at the crucial crossroads between life and the Final Curtain, around the mournful anniversary of his departure.

Is it a communal hallucination, our minds amplifying a lonely roadside ghost story? Or is it proof that the heroes of rock 'n' roll never truly leave the stage? In Cochran's case, it appears he's committed to an eternal encore, saving those who dare to dance too close to the edge of the A4's deadly stage.

Harris, a self-confessed disciple of Cochran's rock 'n' roll sermon, has found his faith deepened by his ghostly encounter. "His music always resonated with me," he admits. "But this... It’s like Eddie's out there, still doing his thing, still saving souls. Amidst the chaos, it brings an odd kind of comfort."

Welcome to Wiltshire, fellow voyagers, where the spirit of rock 'n' roll doesn't bow to the mortal curtain call. Where Eddie Cochran’s legend strums through the ether, striking chords in the souls he saves. The melody of life, death, and music echoes along the spectral highways of this blessed county - the timeless testament to one man's unyielding spirit, forever on the road, forever saving lives.

Albie Morris

First published in the July 1980 edition of “The Delirium Curiosum” a now defunct, Wiltshire based underground cultural newspaper which started in 1971 and was dedicated to avante garde poetry, wyrd folklore, ghost stories , hippy philosophy, Eastern mysticism and other ideas associated with the counterculture at the time.

Footnotes:

WGH is, I believe, the Wiltshire Gazette and Herald, a local paper still going strong today.

Watchfield refers to the free festival in Watchfield, Oxfordshire in 1975, where Hawkwind played for over 2 hours and there were rumours of a Frenchman on the loose with Rabies, which turned out to be a false alarm.

Author of the article, Albie Morris, was a “face” on the scene around Wiltshire in the 60s, 70s and 80s.

Mainly known for being a dealer who specialised in particularly strong LSD - those in the know claimed it was “up there with Purple Owsley”.

No one ever knew the source of the Acid, whether Morris made it himself or had friends in the Pharmaceutical industry.

On one occasion, Police raided his Melksham flat and Morris, fearing arrest, ingested a freshly blotted sheet of tabs, thus hiding the evidence, but severely debilitating himself in the process.

After a spell in Roundway Hospital’s Secure unit in Devizes, and with ambitions to become a writer, Morris quit his job at Melksham’s Avon Rubber Factory in 1971 and started The “DC” as it became know, with fellow “head”, Vic Carter.

It flourished throughout the 70s and did surprisingly well in the 80s, until eventually calling it a day in July 1985.

Morris became an expert on Crop Circles and was often seen at Honey Street’s Barge Inn, regaling anyone who would listen with tales of the 70s music and counter cultural scene, UFO abductions and general strangeness in the Wiltshire vicinity.

His current whereabouts are unknown...

In the annals of Midsomer Norton's history, one story looms large.

An enigmatic cult known as The Esoteric Order who rose to prominence in the early 1970s, captivating the imagination of both locals and outsiders in the small Somerset former Mining town.

With their eerie rituals and fervent devotion, they worshipped an unlikely deity—the towering coal slag heap in town, nicknamed "The Volcano” by locals. The cult firmly believed that this ominous black mound held the key to their salvation from an impending apocalyptic event, prophesying an otherworldly intervention.

Led by a mysterious figure named Nathaniel Davey, a former miner and self-styled visionary who claimed to have received divine revelations during his encounters in the dark depths of the coal mines, the Esoteric Order's origins remain shrouded in secrecy. Davey, a charismatic and enigmatic presence, possessed a magnetic aura that drew disillusioned souls seeking solace from the uncertainties of the world. His followers believed he had received portentous visions, imparting upon them the urgency of their mission to seek refuge within The Volcano's depths, protected by a celestial alien race.

As news of The Esoteric Order spread, Midsomer Norton was enveloped in a veil of intrigue and unease. Townsfolk whispered about the cult's cryptic ceremonies, often held under the moon's pale glow at the foot of The Volcano. Clad in dark robes and chanting cryptic incantations, the devotees fervently awaited the promised arrival of their extraterrestrial saviours, their eyes gleaming with both hope and trepidation.

The town's authorities initially dismissed The Esoteric Order as a fringe group indulging in harmless eccentricities. However, as the cult's influence grew, so did apprehension within the community.

It was in the autumn of 1973 when the first reports of unexplained occurrences surfaced in Midsomer Norton. Strange sightings of ethereal lights dancing around The Volcano were spotted by nearby residents , while others spoke of hearing disembodied voices murmuring on the wind. Doors creaked open of their own accord, and objects seemingly moved without human intervention. Fear gripped the community, and all eyes turned to The Esoteric Order, bearing the brunt of suspicion and blame.

As the incidents multiplied, so did the unease among the townspeople. Some reported hearing an eerie low pulsating sound that seemed to emanate from the area around the Volcano, filling the air with an otherworldly presence. It was as if the cult's unwavering faith had unleashed a malevolent force, its tendrils reaching into the very fabric of Midsomer Norton's reality.

The authorities, under mounting pressure from the frightened populace, sought answers. Their investigation aimed to unveil the truth behind the unsettling phenomena, with the cult as the primary target of scrutiny. Whispers of black magic, devil worship, and sinister rituals spread like wildfire, further fuelling the belief that The Esoteric Order had opened a gateway to darkness.

Davey vehemently denied any involvement in the supernatural events plaguing Midsomer Norton. In his defence, he claimed that the bizarre occurrences were manifestations of the otherworldly forces they awaited—the heralds of the promised salvation. Davey contended that these phenomena were signs of imminent divine intervention, proof that their faith was not in vain.

Nevertheless, the weight of suspicion persisted. The Esoteric Order's practices, shrouded in secrecy and mysticism, seemed to cultivate an aura of dark energy. Their bizarre ceremonies, conducted under the moonlit sky, were viewed as catalysts for the escalating supernatural activity. As the cult's influence grew, so did the fear and conviction that they had somehow tapped into an ancient power far beyond mortal understanding.

The yearning for normalcy and safety finally compelled the local authorities to take action. In a controversial move, they attempted to ban The Esoteric Order's gatherings and rituals, hoping to sever any perceived link between the cult and the strange phenomena. The order, however, fiercely resisted these measures, denouncing them as an assault on their religious freedom. The stage was set for a clash between a community gripped by fear and a group unyielding in their beliefs.

In the end, time proved to be the most potent force in the gradual fading of The Esoteric Order's influence. The strange phenomena eventually subsided, leaving behind a town scarred by unexplainable events and a haunting memory of the cult's enigmatic presence. The legacy of suspicion and blame cast upon The Esoteric Order remained, an enduring reminder of a dark chapter in Midsomer Norton's history. The passing years eroded the once fervent devotion, leaving behind a ghostly echo of their presence. Nathaniel Davey’s enigmatic charisma dimmed, he eventually died in 1979 in mysterious circumstances, leaving behind a void that would never be filled. By the turn of the 1980s, the cult's rituals had become a fading memory, consigned to the chilling depths of Midsomer Norton's past.

Today, The Volcano stands as a haunting monument, a constant reminder of the enigmatic cult that once held Midsomer Norton in its thrall. The town, forever marked by The Esoteric Order's presence, cautiously treads the line between fascination and unease. The tale of the cult that worshipped The Volcano serves as a chilling testament to the power of belief and the depths to which the human soul can descend.

As twilight descends upon Midsomer Norton, casting long shadows across the landscape, the town moves forward, forever haunted by the echoes of The Esoteric Order. The coal slag heap, now cloaked in an air of mysterious foreboding, stands as a silent sentinel, bearing witness to the secrets that still linger within the depths of the Volcano.

The dying light was licked clean by the tongues of twilight as I found myself ascending the darkened trails of Morgan’s Hill. A spectacle indeed, the interplay of twilight and the encroaching dark, a cruel yet captivating mirage, ensnaring reality and contorting it into an otherworldly tableau.

An orchestra of spectral silhouettes danced under the cold illumination of the moon. They were trees, gnarled and ancient, silent observers of the passage of time.

Furze Knoll emerged from this ink-washed backdrop, its gnarled tendrils slicing the horizon with eerie beauty.

Strolling through this dreamscape, there was a gnawing undercurrent of the hill's grim past. John Morgan, a mere player in life's grand theatre, met his tragic end here, hanged in 1720 for the murder of his Uncle, forever bound to the hill's lore. Such a story had a knack of curdling the blood, adding a solemn dread to the whispering wind.

Towering above the scene, two radio masts pointed to the star-strewn heavens. Their metallic forms glinted in the moonlight, stoic remnants of Marconi's fabled transmission of 1913. A testament to man's conquest over the ether, they jutted into the night, like modern obelisks of a forgotten time.

Veering off the beaten path, I found myself standing before a gargantuan tree, the epitome of nature's splendid and brutal whimsy. Reaching out to touch its roughened bark, the world shifted, the fabric of reality fraying at the edges. A cryptic phrase, disembodied and chilling, wove its way into my thoughts: "In the moon's cold grin, the hanged man stirs."

The words hung in the air, a toxic melody seeping into my very marrow. A cryptic prophecy or an echo of Morgan's lament? The tree remained stoically mute, its secrets swallowed by the indifferent night.

Departing from the hill, the hallowed whispers clung to me like a shroud. The night was still young, laden with the clandestine lore of Morgan’s Hill. A sense of bizarre normalcy resumed, the night's cryptic message lingering as an uneasy echo in my consciousness, a haunting refrain under the moon's impassive gaze.

I must return here soon …

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We met this week to record a section of our new podcast show which will be coming out in the next few months. We recorded a discussion of our motivation for the song John Barleycorn, and we recorded us playing it live, to include in the show. Its going to be centred around the themes of our debut album, We Wish You Health. The album is full of symbolism, has many references to all kinds of folklore related things, but much beyond that too. We haven’t really discussed anything in depth about this until now, so the podcast is our chance to go deeper into the themes of the album and we don’t yet know where this will take us. We pretty sure its going to lead us towards another album and it’s going to form some kind of backdrop to our live experience too, but the direction along the path is unclear. So you’ll really help us by engaging along the way. So lets see where this goes, shall we?

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It was a typically wet, miserable day with rain bouncing off the tarmac and a low mist.

Despite their seemingly mundane purpose, lay-bys have become known as liminal spaces where strange and sometimes unsettling events occur.

Existing in a space between two states, characterized by a sense of ambiguity, uncertainty, and transformation, neither fully part of the road nor entirely separate from it.

A threshold between different states of being. This quality of in-betweenness makes lay-bys fertile ground for strange occurrences that defy explanation.

There was an array of unpleasant detritus such as plastic bottles filled with foul, septic coloured urine, and saturated adult magazines, adding to the general disquietude.

Every other lay-by on the road had been occupied by vans and  lorries on their tacho breaks but this one was completely empty.

I felt a very eerie atmosphere about the place, despite being so close to a major road and the roar of traffic.

I took a short walk up to a metal sign, hoping to glean some information on the place, but it was faded and weather beaten.

The only readable part of the sign named the area as Week Wood.

I pondered the name.

Could this have been the site of an alien abduction, where the unfortunate victim had re-emerged, probed and bewildered, a week later?

Or is it how long it would take authorities to find a body dumped here?

I shivered.

I’d heard stories of phantom hitchhikers being spotted in the area, ghostly figures that are said to appear on the side of the road, often near lay-bys, asking for a ride.

Suddenly I got a sense of being watched from the line of trees on the hill away to the left.

Was there a figure lurking there?

Maybe not.

It was difficult to tell in the drizzly haze of the late morning.

There was a car bumper in a ditch,partially consumed by vegetation, I wondered if it was the remnants of an awful accident that may have occurred here.

I had this overwhelming urge to leave immediately.

A few nights later, I had a dream that left me with a sense of continuing unease.

I was back in that lay-by on the  A361, except it wasn’t.

It was some otherworldly version created from deep within my subconscious which bared hardly any similarities to the actual road.

But it was the A361.

Like most of my dreams, this took place in a gloomy atmosphere of twilight.

Peering through the trees by the ditch, I noticed a figure, standing about 100 yards away in the field.

Despite the gloaming, the figure was bathed in an oasis of beautiful sunlight.

It appeared to be a man, completely statuesque.

Was he staring at me? I couldn’t really tell.

The only noticeable thing was the huge grin on his hideously pale face, frozen in rictus.

But his wasn’t a countenance of happiness or joy.

Rather, it gave the impression that he had seen unimaginable terror, that he had gone so far into hell , that this was the only expression left that he could bear.

It was fantastically horrific.

I couldn’t look..

The dream switched instantly.

I was driving the car in the pouring rain, the wipers screeching across the steamy glass.

A quick glance in the rear view mirror…

There’s a huge grinning mouth, just a mouth, with no other recognisable features. Monstrous yellow teeth visible between taut pink lips.

I start to scream….

Nothing specific was planned for our visit to Wellow, a small village just outside of Bath, which was amongst other things famous for the fact that Peter Blake, pop artist and designer of the Sgt Pepper album cover had lived there having entertained the Beatles there after converting the former railway station into a dwelling with a sunken garden where the tracks once were.

Its also where Peter Blake and Jann Haworth founded with other artists the Brotherhood of Ruralists, a figurative British art movement with an interest in reviving traditional skills.

As it gets dark pretty early at this time of year, there isn’t a lot to see from our field recording footage, but it was certainly atmospheric. This village has a great deal of history. Its got a multi-chambered long barrow close by at Stoney Littleton.

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Bandcamp Friday is here again. What is that you may ask? Bandcamp Friday allows artists and labels releasing music to take back 93% of the money earned through sales, with the other 7% being used for processing fees and charges.

To support your favourite artists and labels use the hashtag #bandcampfriday on social media to let others know your recommendations and who you support.

To celebrate Bandcamp Friday, we are giving away 100 free album downloads of our debut album We Wish You Health.

Just find a free code in the file below and head over to

https://horsesofthegods.bandcamp.com/yum to redeem your code.

Don’t forget to hit the subscribe button for Bandcamp and subscribe to our newsletter here on Substack too.

Rdtsbstck Bandcamp

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I was 9 when it happened.

My Grandad had just died, and my Nan had moved in with us for a while, so we could look after her, try and help her with the process of coming to terms with her loss.

My Mum had to help her sell her house and sort out all the usual mountain of paperwork after a death. I went with my Step Dad to the local scrapyard to get rid of their beloved old car, a navy blue Austin 1100.

I had very fond memories of that car.

Me, my mum and sister lived with my Nan and Grandad for the first 3 years of my life,after my parents had split.

We had many happy times in that car and I can vividly recall the smell of the interior on a boiling hot day out to Hayling Island or the New Forest.

Grandad used to enjoy a few pints at the pub and drive us home afterwards, which could be hair raising on the odd occasion.

This wasn’t to say he was an irresponsible person. He was 67 when drink driving became illegal in the UK so he took a bit longer to adapt to the change. He’d always loved beer and pubs, an interest I undoubtedly inherited from him.

He was born in a pub and ran a pub himself, later in life. It was about 3 months later when it happened.

It must’ve been a Saturday afternoon because I was off school,and returning from a trip to the local shops.

I was walking along the top of the low wall of the small car park opposite the grocers.

The winter sun was low in the sky and there was a dazzling glare from the windscreens of the cars parked nearby.

As I crossed the road, I noticed a woman, sat in the passenger side of a blue car, parked on the opposite side of the road.

There was a black dog with her, in the back, jumping excitedly on the back of her seat as she laughed and petted him.

She looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t quite work out why.

The car was an Austin 1100 and looked identical to the one my Granddad had owned.

It was then I noticed the number plate

BPT 231F

It was the same registration number as my Granddad’s car.

But this wasn’t possible!

The car had been scrapped 3 months previously.

I looked again at the woman inside the car, more intensely this time.

Then i realised.

The woman in the car was my own Nan.

But a much younger version of her.

She was in her mid 20s, wearing a floral blouse and her raven black hair in roll curls, in the 1940s style.

I recognised her from pictures I’d seen in my Mum’s family photo album of her childhood.

The dog with her looked exactly like Charlie, their beloved family pet who had died when my Mum was a teenager.

I felt a sudden panic rise inside me.

My Nan was still very much alive at this point in time, and well into her 70s, so this wasn’t a ghost that I was looking at.

I staggered back against the wall, breathing fast.

Had I somehow wandered into a time slip of some kind?

I ran home, nervous as to how my Nan would be when I got there, worried that I had somehow upset the fabric of her temporal reality by seeing her out of place and time.

Thankfully, she was absolutely fine, and was sat with a cup of tea, watching TV.

I didn’t mention the experience to anyone as I felt it might have some kind of negative impact on things.

I’ve never been able to make sense of that day, though I often think about it.

My Grandad’s death was the first family death I’d had to deal with so could this have been a grief or stress induced hallucination of some kind?

The incident happened in 1979, at a time in the UK when there seemed to be many paranormal and unexplained occurrences. Was my imagination just tapping into that realm, creating a metaphysical mystery of my own?

I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened had I tapped on the car window to talk to the woman in the car.

But I’m glad I didn’t.

◦

I have lasting memories of nightmares from about the age of 4 or 5. This was in the early 1970s. I once had a dream that I was in my lounge sitting in front of the TV. It was in the early hours of the morning, when I should have been tucked up in my bed, and it was dark and I was all alone. The television suddenly came on on its own. A man started reading the news. After a short while, the screen started to take on a blue tinge and the newsreader began shouting at me through the TV. I got so scared that I tried to wake up but the man kept shouting and getting really angry with me. I fought to wake up but I eventually did.

I thought not much more about it. Then it wasn’t until the January 1984 when Gordon Honeycombe appeared on launch show of TV-am a new breakfast show on ITV and it started to dawn on me that the nightmare from my early childhood might actually be unfolding on TV. I was so startled that I nearly spat out my breakfast cereal.

Why does television from the 1970s have the ability to conjure such hauntological memories?

Well, it was a period of significant cultural, political, and technological change, and as the most popular medium of that time, television played a major role in reflecting and shaping these changes. Television was a central part of people’s lives and formed an important part of their collective cultural memory.

However, for those of the haunted generation who experienced the 1970s through a mostly terrified childhood lens, (see Threads, Children of the Stones, Picture Box, Public Information Films etc.) the passage of time has transformed the way we view and understand the 1970s, and this has contributed to a sense of hauntological fragments and memories that some people experience when they think back to that era. Hauntology, first coined by French philosopher Jacques Derrida and explored at length by the author and music and cultural critic Mark Fisher described the idea that the past can continue to exert a ghostly presence in the present, ever more so as it recedes further into history.

In the case of 1970s television, this hauntological effect may be due to the fact that many of the shows and cultural phenomenon have become iconic and are now viewed through a nostalgic but ghostly lens. This means that sometimes they can evoke feelings of loss, longing and strange disconnection from the present.

In my experience, in the dream state, the breaking of the fourth wall, when a character or TV personality or stage performer acknowledges the audience or the fact that they are in a performance, was a jarring, eerie and unsettling experience. The fact that I had no knowledge of who Gordon Honeycombe was at that age, or much knowledge of what a newsreader was, only makes for it to be more of an unsettling experience, especially that I wasn’t accustomed to seeing news presenters behave in this way or even the news itself, as a far as I was aware. I’ve since found out that Gordon Honeycombe appeared as a newsreader in several films and plays, so I suppose its possible that I could have received a fragmentary memory of one of those performances, which contributed to my nightmare.

The eerie nature of the landscape is something we have explored in our first album, and our interest in our connections to the past through ancestors and folklore. The eerie and hauntological memories of our past seem to be increasingly of interest to us, and these themes are bound to crop up as part of our creative work in the near future.

to lie in golden fields,

Imprisoned in that place and time.

Surely you weren’t the only one

But the hammer never stamped its mark on your dreams

Seeking heaven on earth amidst the filth and the din

The poet from the Labourer class

You saw beyond the wall

To dreaming spires and visions of the Panchatantra

‘Joy in every hill and hollow’

t…

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Standing tall and alone, the tree whispers secrets of its own mythology. Gnarled roots run deep tapping into the folklore of the field. Some say that on moonless nights, the tree comes to life, bringing lost wanderers to the furrows. Perhaps it's just the wind, howling through the branches as the tree continues its role as watcher of the land.

The tree stands as a silent sentinel, a witness to the passing of time. Its leaves rustle softly in the breeze, murmuring ancient stories passed down through the ages. The bark, rough and textured, bears the marks of countless seasons and storms, each one a testament to its resilience and strength.

But the tree is more than just a living monument to the past. It is also a source of life and vitality, a symbol of the interconnectedness of all things. Its roots delve deep into the earth, drawing sustenance from the soil and nourishing the land around it and speaking to others through an interconnected web of knowing. The branches reach skyward, offering shade and shelter to countless creatures. When you sit under a tree, you share that moment with the ancestors, who contemplated their fortunes or misfortunes at the same spot.

Trees are viewed as sacred beings in many cultures and traditions, often seen as being imbued with magic. They are believed to be the homes of spirits and the gatekeepers to other worlds.

Trees are a source of food, medicine, and shelter and have been for countless generations. We have looked to the tree for guidance, solace, for inspiration. And in turn, the tree has looked to us, nurturing and supporting us in our journey through life.

In the Neolithic period, many societies had ritual practices that were centred around trees. These practices were based on the belief that trees had spiritual and supernatural powers, and that they were connected to the forces of nature and the cycles of life, death and rebirth.

One common ritual practice associated with trees in the Neolithic period was tree worship. This involved honouring and paying respect to trees as sacred beings and often involved rituals such as leaving votive offerings at the base of the tree, or tying red ribbons to its branches.

How many times have people held hands and circled the tree, how many times have people passed offerings, or left messages to loved ones that have since become snapshots of intimacy, celebration of a life or regret for what was left unsaid?

Another practice that was associated with trees in the Neolithic period was the use of trees in burials. Some societies would bury their dead under or beside trees, believing that the tree would protect and guide the spirit of the deceased on its journey to the afterlife.

In addition, people in the Neolithic period used trees in rituals related to fertility and agriculture, it was believed that the tree was a symbol of life and fertility and that by performing rituals around trees, they could encourage the growth of crops and the fertility of animals. Some societies would perform rituals such as planting a tree or cutting down a tree to mark the beginning of a new season or the start of a new agricultural cycle.

These rituals were also linked to ancestor worship, where certain trees or groves were believed to be the homes of the spirits of ancestors or other entities. These rituals could include offerings or other acts of devotion to these entities to invoke their blessings or protection.

Wassailing, which comes from the Old English root, “Waes Hael”, proclaims, “be in good health”. It follows a practice passed down from ancient times, where wassailers bang pots and pans and sing raucously to rough musick or appease tree spirits to ensure a good harvest for the coming year.

In a world that is increasingly disconnected from nature, the tree stands as a reminder of our ancient connection to the natural world. It is a symbol of the continuity of life and our need to stay connected, and that we are all part of something greater than ourselves. In a time where ancient trees are being removed from the earth at an alarming rate, every tree that remains is a source of hope and inspiration, a symbol of the enduring beauty and mystery of the world around us, we are guardians of each and every one of them, and their protection is forever tied to our survival.

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Source – Local Studies (Swindon Libraries)

I'm sound asleep when suddenly, I'm awoken by something.
It's never clear what that something is,
but it leaves me breathless with shock and terror.

Then I hear the car pull up outside, and later,
the inevitable limp, lifeless tapping on the wooden front door.

I stumble downstairs in the twilight.
The sick lump of dread in my stomach rises as I open the front door,
expecting to be confronted by them.

But they're not there.

Frozen to the spot, with the awful metallic taste of fear in my mouth,
I wait.
I can hear the footsteps approaching now, crunching and dragging on the cold gravel.

They're here

It's time

The Drummer

The Horses of the Gods recorded their album, We wish you health, over a number of years, in a multitude of recording locations around Somerset and Wiltshire.
A favourite place of theirs to work was Langridge village hall.
This remote building, located high on the hills above the city of Bath, lies literally yards from the Somerset border with Gloucestershire.
It stands exposed to the elements, with far-reaching views across the glorious landscape to Cherhill Down and over to the  Wiltshire/Oxfordshire Ridgeway in one direction, and if you take a short walk across the Racecourse opposite, the bridges crossing the mighty River Severn and beyond to the Welsh mountains, in the other.

The hall also lies close to the site of the Civil War Battle of Lansdowne of 1643, where Lord Hopton's Royalist army forced Sir William Waller's Parliamentarian forces to retreat to the city of Bath, but it was a Pyrrhic victory for the Kings men.
Over 300 lives were lost that day, and the area is rife with stories of ghostly sightings and strange phenomena.
One such tale concerns a Drummer, in English Civil War period attire, who has been spotted on numerous occasions, during dark winter evenings around the  Lansdown area.

Little is known of this man, but it is believed he was a Roundhead, brutally killed whilst beating a parley to Royalist forces, who accused  him of spying and, showed him no quarter.

For many years, residents of the nearby Swainswick Valley have reported hearing the sound of a beating drum, late into the night.
One warm summer evening in 1975,a farmer driving a tractor down Freezing hill lane reported swerving into a ditch to avoid a figure in the road who appeared to be playing a side drum, hanging from a strap around their neck, who seemed to just disappear into the  twilight.

But the strangest story of them all happened during a Horses of the Gods recording session late one evening at Langridge village hall in the winter of 2008.
Whilst doing vocal takes for their rendition of the 17th century protest ballad "the Diggers' song", the lights in the hall inexplicably turned off and on again, at 10 second intervals for well over a minute.

The atmosphere in the hall suddenly changed and the temperature plummeted.
Just then, the distant sound of an adult male, crying out in pain and anguish, was heard coming from the fields beyond the hall, in the direction of the battle site.
Mike Ballard and Matty Bane from the band went outside and called out  into the darkness to offer assistance, but there was no response.
Upon returning to the hall, they noticed, written in large, italic style scrawl in the condensation on one of the windows, what looked like the word "slanin"

It had been written from inside the hall.

Neither Bane, nor Ballard had noticed it before, at any point that evening, and neither had any idea what it could mean.
A quick search of the hall revealed they were the only people there.
At this point, they decided to pack up and leave.
The next day, Mike was in his home studio, listening to a playback of what they had recorded the previous evening.

It was then that he heard it.

A tabor part had previously been recorded, and was the only percussion part on the song.
Only now, it had been joined by something else.

From about a minute into the track, there was the distinct thud of a drum, beating an ominous, repetitive pulse on the one and three of the bar.

Mike attempted to isolate the drum by muting the other tracks, but was shocked to discover it had been recorded on one of the vocal takes from the hall the previous evening.
Whoever played it, was joining in with the singing at the time.

Was there someone lurking in the background at the session?

Were they responsible for the portentous drumming and the  strange scrawl on the window?
In an attempt to try and shed more light on this mystery, they researched the Battle of Lansdowne, to discover that one of the Royalist Army Commanders at the Battle was Sir Nicholas Slanning.
After much discussion,Mike and Matty decided to keep the vocal take with the eerie drum part.
If you listen closely to the Diggers' song from the We wish you health album, you can hear it for yourselves.

The band don't like to speculate too much on how it got there, or who played it.

A ghost story . . .

Ok, I have one ghost story. Well I have a few but this is the only one I can't really explain. I grew up for part of my life in a house next door to a church. I was always uncomfortable about the fact that the side of the house looked onto gravestones. It probably didn't help that I was a teen in the 80s and a fascination with all kinds of horror, the paranormal and the strange and eerie.

My mum was quite interested in this stuff and also delighted in telling M.R James stories and the like. She said one evening shall we watch this story on TV, it's probably not any good. It was the BBC adaptation of the Woman in Black. Yeah, thanks mum. Our house was quite creepy anyway with various bells ringing and doors tapping and I often heard  or saw other strange things but I always managed to convince myself that it was my imagination. I was once sat down reading a book whilst sat next to my dog one morning, and whilst engrossed in the book, heard a loud cracking sound, I immediately looked up to see that the dog was about 3 feet away from where she had been lying sleeping, so that was weird. But this isn't the story.

Another morning, I went down to the kitchen for my breakfast and could see past the gravestone immediately outside the kitchen window to the gates entrance of the church. I saw a young boy no more than about 3 or 4 years old but he was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a dark navy almost black top and dark shorts to the knees. As I was eating my cereal,  I stood there watching him and could see that he had a kind of nautical neckerchief thing with strings hanging down. At that moment he moved a long a little and bent down to pick something up or tie his shoes but then he looked up and ran as if called by someone.

He ran behind a tree but then didn't come out the other side. I stood there watching for maybe half an hour but he didn't appear. There was nothing the other side of the tree as it was a yew tree and on its own. It wasn't wide enough to hide behind. There was a toddlers group that often met behind the church. I though he could be in fancy dress but there was no toddlers group that morning . . .

He took to the river and it dragged him down,

Every a mystery, till this fine day,

Why old Elijah, washed up the bay . . .

We try to draw on tales that connect to our past and those of our ancestors. The song, "Down in the bay" is inspired by an event that happened to my great great grandfather, Elijah Harris. There is a bit of poetic license to the lyrics but its our impression of what happened, and that's all the matters. Nothing is really known about why Elijah Harris was lost at sea, until his body was found washed up on Chesil beach.

The "young lad" in this song was my great grandfather, Bill Harris, Captain of the Dartmouth ferry, called The Mew. He led a colourful life and sadly did lose his father to the sea.

I managed to unearth the following clip from an Episode of the Onedin line called "The Wind Blows Free" Bill Harris, in the photo above can be seen bringing James Onedin in to the old quay at Bayards Cove in Dartmouth.

In a recent Guardian review of the exhibition, Bridget Christie quotes him as saying that the uncertainty around the origin of these rituals "creates a space for us to insert ourselves into them. It allows us to embellish and add to them – and it’s in the retelling of these stories that we keep them alive. They’re not relics from another time. They tell us who we used to be, but they also tell us who we are now, and who we want to be. They change and evolve just as we do – and they’re changing all the time."

We are not in the habit of taking a snapshot of the past and bringing it in to the present, we are adapting it, giving it our own interpretation and mixed in with this tradition is a curious mix of modern and ancient myth.

Even though we were unable to go on this occasion we hope the exhibition will be repeated or appear in other locations in the UK.

The Goathland Plough Stot

This footage from the BBC archive is a great account of the practice. Originally broadcast on 12th January 1973

https://www.bbc.co.uk/archive/goathland-plough-stot-ceremony/zm4wcqt

More on the history of the Goathland Plough Stots here

https://www.goathlandploughstots.com/

If we are going to continue to enjoy these ancient links and tantalising clues to a world we have lost, then we need to provide new narratives celebrate the folklore that surrounds them, to ensure their continued survival and resist the creep of corporate landslaughter.

https://www.righttoroam.org.uk/

In the next series of visual and musical experiments, we will continue to reinforce our connection to the land and the energies that inspire us.