Evenings have always felt liminal to me—not fully part of the day, not yet night. In observing kvöldvaka, I’ve turned that threshold into a sacred space: a time to read, stitch, sit with my ancestors, and let magic seep in quietly, like candlelight on old stone

Calling every person who composted with eggshells or brewed mint for an upset stomach a witch reveals more about our own romanticisation of the past than it does about the reality of life before modern convenience. To honour our ancestors truly, we must let them speak for themselves—acknowledging their practices without rewriting their identities.

Honouring the inward cycle of my witchcraft hasn’t been easy, but it’s been necessary. In stepping back from hands-on spellwork and leaning into divination, study, and spirit-tending, I’ve found a deeper connection to my practice. It’s not the kind of magic that leaves visible marks—but it’s the kind that roots me in who I am.

The 1582 trial of Ursula Kemp reveals far more about the fears and folklore of early modern England than it does about the woman herself. Accused of consorting with spirits, wielding charms, and offering healing, Kemp's story reflects how cunning knowledge, poverty, and neighbourly conflict could be alchemised into witchcraft in the eyes of a suspicious community. Her case reminds us that witchcraft trials were rarely about magic—they were about belief, control, and survival.

Deconstruction is not the death of my practice — it is its preservation. By periodically stripping my craft to its essentials, I ensure that what remains is living, vibrant, and honest.

If we only ever read what is written for us, by our contemporaries, we risk living in an echo chamber. To build a magical practice that is resilient, dynamic, and informed, we must venture into history, folklore, language, and literature — connecting with the deeper roots of the traditions we honor.

Witch trial testimonies, despite their distortion by fear and coercion, preserve vital fragments of folk belief concerning the roles of spirits in magical practice. By examining these records for recurring patterns — the familiar as ally, the initiator as tester, the guardian as protector — I ground my spirit work in a historically informed, culturally contextualized approach to relational magic

An altar is only alive when it’s tended. Left to gather dust, it becomes a hollow space — a place of resentment rather than reverence. My lunar routine isn’t about worshiping the moon, but about keeping time: a rhythm of tending, charging, stripping, and cleansing that keeps my practice — and my spirits — fed.

The people accused in the witch trials were not witches—but the stories told about them reveal something powerful. Beneath the fear and forced confessions lie fragments of folk belief, forgotten ritual, and cultural memory. If we study these histories with care and discernment, we don’t reclaim a bloodline—we reclaim an understanding of how folkloric magic once lived in the margins.

I don’t stop being a witch when the sun comes out—my magic just changes form. In spring and summer, when seasonal depression takes hold and the world feels heavy and bright, I turn inward. I rest. I read. I dream. I remind myself that rest is not the absence of magic—rest is magic. And that, too, is part of the cycle.

For me, the difference between a Solitary Pagan and an Independent Pagan is more than just practicing alone. It's about a conscious decision to step away from community and share my spiritual journey only with myself, grounded in classical literature, academic study, and personal experience. My faith is shaped by ancient texts, not modern trends or the influence of others. While I respect the path of Solitary Pagans, who still seek connection and community, my practice is entirely mine—without the need for validation or shared experience.

For me, the names of my gods are sacred. I don’t share their names publicly because doing so would dilute the reverence I have for them. My connection with these gods is not for public consumption—it is a quiet, sacred space where their names hold the power of trust, love, and devotion. To honor them fully, I keep their names close, only sharing them in moments of true connection, where I can offer the respect they deserve.

Growing up among farmers and country folk, I learned early on that the seasons don’t start with a date on the calendar—they unfold gradually, shaped by the land itself. To me, the Solstices and Equinoxes aren’t the beginning of a season, but its peak, when the energy of that time is fullest. I honor these moments not as transitions, but as culminations of what’s already in motion, drawing on the power of the season at its height to guide my practice and magic.

Writing a grimoire is an intimate act of devotion, but right now, I find myself writing not just one, but two. One is for my wife and me, a sacred space where our individual practices intertwine, strengthening both our craft and our bond. The other is a resource for the wider magical community—an offering of knowledge, shaped by my belief that magic should be accessible to all who seek it. In crafting these books, I am preserving, sharing, and evolving magic, ensuring that it remains both a deeply personal experience and a gift to others.

For a long time, I used the term 'Traditional Witchcraft' to describe my practice, but over time, I found it no longer fit. While my craft shares some structural elements with Traditional Witchcraft, its true foundation lies in historical magic—early grimoires, folklore, and the practices of cunning folk. My goal is to honor those who came before me, not through modern interpretations, but by reconstructing my craft from historical sources. That’s why I now call it 'Old-Style Witchcraft'—a term that better reflects my approach, rooted in authenticity and tradition without being bound to contemporary frameworks.

When I set out to reconstruct my family’s magical tradition, I quickly realised that English-language resources were scarce—and often unreliable. Translations carried biases, academic sources simplified complex traditions, and folklore lost its richness when stripped of its original linguistic and cultural context. Learning the languages of my practice wasn’t just about expanding my research; it became essential to preserving the integrity of my craft. By engaging with primary sources directly, I uncovered layers of meaning, symbolism, and nuance that would have otherwise been lost. In doing so, I not only deepened my connection to my ancestors and their magic but also ensured that my practice was built on authenticity rather than assumption.

Finding the right herbal substitute isn’t just about matching magical properties—it’s about understanding the deeper symbolism, historical context, and method of use. A true replacement must honor the spirit of the original herb, not just its function in a spell. By weaving together folklore, historical research, and lived experience, I strive to ensure that every plant I work with is not only meaningful but also rooted in both tradition and my personal craft.

Tools are not the foundation of my magic, but they are the allies that shape my practice. Each item I use—whether crafted by my hands, gifted by the land, or chosen with care—carries its own spirit and purpose. Over time, my toolkit has evolved, reflecting the changes in my path and the deepening of my craft. These tools are more than objects; they are extensions of my magic, woven into the daily rhythms of my practice and my relationship with the unseen.

Magic isn’t something I reserve for special occasions—it’s woven into the rhythm of my daily life. From greeting the house spirits each morning with an offering of tea or coffee to blessing the meal my wife and I share, my routines are small but intentional acts that deepen my connection to my spirits, my home, and myself. Each moment, from listening to the crows to placing my besom against the door at night, is a quiet spell, a reminder that magic is always present, waiting to be lived.

For 25 years, I’ve walked the path of a practicing witch, shaping my craft through folklore, folk magic, and personal experience. While I appreciate the structure of Traditional Witchcraft, I hesitate to claim the label outright. Too often, it comes with assumptions—of strict adherence to specific traditions, of working with the Witch Father or the Witch’s Devil, of following a path that isn’t mine. My magic is rooted in history but ultimately personal, and I’ve learned that labels, while useful, should never define me more than my own practice does.