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.

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.

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.

I have been practicing magic for 25 years, yet my grimoire remains empty. Not because I lack spells, rituals, or knowledge—but because perfectionism keeps me from writing them down. What if my handwriting is messy? What if I discover a better method later? What if I get something wrong? But magic isn’t static, and neither should my grimoire be. It’s time to stop waiting for perfection and start treating it like what it truly is—a living record of my craft, more like a family recipe box than a sacred, untouchable tome. It’s time to finally put pen to paper.

Veiling is a practice often associated with religious tradition, but for me, it has become a deeply personal part of my witchcraft and Pagan path. What began as a way to protect my energy during divination and ritual soon evolved into a daily act of magic, honoring my ancestors and recognizing the sacredness of my hair. Now, I veil in public spaces as both a form of spiritual protection and a ritual of personal power. In this post, I explore the magical, ancestral, and practical aspects of veiling—and how it has transformed my practice.

Magic is not just about what we do—it’s also about what we do it with. A year ago, I began rewilding my witchcraft, shifting away from mass-produced supplies and returning to historically appropriate materials and crafting methods. This meant trading store-bought candles for hand-dipped beeswax, synthetic cords for hand-spun thread, and glass bowls for earthenware and wood. In doing so, I found a deeper connection to my magical ancestors, a richer engagement with my craft, and a renewed sense of authenticity in my spellwork.