As May Day and Beltane fast approach, now is the perfect time to talk about morris dancing.

Folklore connects us to one another and to the land where we find ourselves, but they also allow us to access the knowledge of those who came before.

It’s not late, but the gloom of the late afternoon deepens. The morning star, or rather the evening star, Venus, is like a diamond shining bright, rising in the deepening darkness of the sky, even as the horizon is splashed with a fabulous orange light.

Food is one of the most basic needs for all living things. But food is more than that. It connects us to our history, our ancestors, the land and nature.

It’s easy to see the linden as a holy tree, and indeed it is considered as such in different parts of Europe, particularly Eastern Europe, with many gods and goddesses being linked to it in some way.

Come fellow seeker, enter into the garden wild where mystery and wonder echo that which can be found in the wild landscape, a microcosm of it, if you will. Here the magic shimmers in the air, is held in the blooming flowers and carried in their scent, blowing gently on the breeze or perhaps heard in the singing of the birds and the buzzing of bees.

The land's song is different for us all. It still whispers to me, bids me come, see in the day, bear witness to the newness of it.

The winter witch teaches us it is okay to take a step back, to step away from the crowd, to hear the slow winter song of the quieting Earth.

Animism brings us back to ourselves. It reminds us we are connected to the land and to one another.

The land remembers you.

Time is a funny thing out in the woods, seeming to stand still and yet be constantly shifting, an ode to the ever turning wheel of the year and the ebb and flow of the seasons.

What is it about a wooded country lane on a warm, still morning? Perhaps it calls to that part of us that craves something new and familiar all at once. Fool vibes.

As I write this, Beltane is so very close. You can feel it in the land, a surge of energy bubbling up through the earth and bursting forth with tremendous beauty, a mirage of sound, colour and scent. Spring is well under way now and where I live, the land is blooming.

The gulls have been awake for hours already, if they ever slept at all, their calls loud and abrasive in the dark of the winter morning. They suit this place. Their cries ring out, triumphant in the face of winter, or perhaps relishing in it. This is their place after all.

Folk stories and folklore contain the shared knowledge of a collective. They may have their regional differences and several versions, but they convey truths and lessons, often hard ones. Folk stories and folklore are not some passive thing but instead form an active part of our lives today

It’s tiring though, isn’t it. These issues are ones that we should all be concerned about, are not unique to the UK and are a symptom of capitalism, particularly when the plebs get a bit lairy. I think what can be most tiring is the feeling of uselessness so many of us have.

Words and language are indeed pure magic. It is how we share ideas, how we communicate, how we affect change and inspire change in others and in ourselves.

It’s a beautiful place all year through but seems extra special in the autumn months. But it’s not just the beauty and the sense of spirit that draws me to the woods at this time of year, though I cannot deny that in itself is enough, anything else an added bonus. It’s mushroom season.

Perhaps it is no wonder then that this time of year brings to mind cooking pots (as I write this I’m reminded I need a new slow cooker). The cauldron is one of those items perhaps most associated with witchcraft, magic and fire.

And as the cycles of nature begin that inevitable unwinding, it tugs at the corner of our nostalgia and perhaps we return to that stage of reflection where we can linger over our experiences, all of those events and happenings that have touched our lives.