After weeks of hiding away, retreating from the world and all the recent chaos, I finally took that step outside. A simple walk, just local, around the fields with Jamie and the little ones, yet it felt monumental. Sometimes, it’s the smallest journeys that hold the most meaning.
The land welcomed us with open arms, dressed in her finest autumn hues. I felt the air change as we wandered, rich and earthy, reminding me of the quieter magic—the kind that doesn’t shout but whispers. It’s a magic found in the colours of leaves, in the way the light softens as it dips below the horizon. The kind of magic that heals.






Autumn’s palette, rich and fleeting, a tiny nudge to cherish every season.
Pathway maintenance had stirred up some little treasures from beneath the soil: a handful of bulbs, possibly daffodils, left barely clinging to their roots, exposed and vulnerable. A part of me recognised myself in them, uprooted, unsteady. Without much thought, I tucked them into a sandwich bag (one of those ‘just-in-case’ things I keep in my coat). You never know when nature will choose to gift you something precious, right?
As we walked, the kids and I threw handfuls of leaves into the air, letting them fall around us like nature’s own confetti. We laughed, danced, and let ourselves be part of the season, even just for a moment.



We stopped at one of my favourite fields, where on a clear day, you can see all the way to the Malvern Hills. As the sun dipped and painted the sky in colours that defy description, I felt so small, standing under that vast expanse. The kids were quiet too, each of us spellbound by the scene unfolding. The world has a way of reminding us of our place, of how insignificant yet infinitely connected we are.


Eventually, we tore ourselves away, heading homeward. We passed the community garden, a place I’ve grown rather fond of. It still makes me chuckle that the council asked the local witch to choose plants for it! They gave me a budget, with which I carefully selected traditional herbs—juniper, lavender, lilacs, rosemary, sage etc… —a herbalist’s dream. It felt right, like giving a little piece of myself back to the community – plus, everyone can use them in their kitchens for a spot of kitchin’ witchin’.
Witchling and I shared a look, the same thought crossing both our minds: why not add those bulbs to the garden? It was as if they were meant to be there, part of a quiet little blessing for anyone who walks by. So, I nipped back to grab a trowel and some homemade seaweed nutrient powder, and together, we planted them along one side of the garden. They’ll be safe, warm, and—hopefully—flourishing come spring.


On the topic of Guerrilla Gardening, on a similar walk a few months ago, Witchling and I spotted a couple of baby hawthorns that had been knocked over by careless folks. We took them back to the greenhouse for a bit of love and care. They’ve already started to show growth, sprouting stubbornly from the lower branches, ready to return to their original spot in the neighbourhood next autumn. It’s moments like these that remind me I’m not all chaos (like a shit storm amidst a hurricane), no matter how much I might feel like a magnet for the wild and unpredictable
And the best part? My little botanical escapades remain my secret world, shared only with my family and the plants themselves (well, ok. Good point. Now you’re in on it- shhhh!). That’s my kind of Magick—quiet, hidden in plain sight, woven into the soil and the seasons. It just seems right, intrinsic, interwoven. It is here betwixt the Genius loci that I am truly at peace.
I wish I could say that all was light and joy, but beneath the surface, I feel the weight of everything pressing down. There’s a melancholy in me that even the beauty of today couldn’t quite erase. After struggling against the tide of subjugation for nearly two years, I thought severing my connection to the situation would finally open the door to freedom. Instead, that open door was filled (then obliterated) by a cataclysm of darkness. It’s hard to know what’s best when you feel this low. But that’s a story for another day.
And so, we returned home, a little closer to the earth, a little lighter in spirit, even if only for an evening.






