THE WITCHES OF EASTCOURT

The single track road from the cottage towards Eastcourt is appropriately named Smithys Lane. At this time of year, the great trees above sag their green into a mystical tunnel. A journey through nature. The raised banks tower with ferns, nettles with white and purple flowers, budding pink-white wild roses, tall green grasses with bearded heads and enormous clumps of pink-purple buddleia cones droop from the gardens above, all their colours piercing the deep green.

Popping out into the sunlight of Taskers Lane, I randomly thought of the herbalist that recently rented rooms at the house. On listening to my tale, she hurried over to a foxglove, picked the top five budding flowers and instructed me to lightly open them, make a tea and sip it slowly before bed.

“Because you are ambitious and these enchanted flowers will protect you.” she added, waving away my protestations that I had been told they were poisonous. Which they are. I guess everybody has to draw the line somewhere between almonds and cyanide.

As I walked on, a recent 13 episode podcast on BBC Sounds, about so-called ‘witches’, sprung to mind. The patriarchal purge of women, and occasional men, that swept through Western Europe and America, purely to discredit ancient societal equalities for money and power, is rapidly being seen for the bloody religious sham it was by increasing numbers of people who have a connection with our true universal nature. My favourite is the ancient word, ‘Gossip’. Once used to describe a highly revered and respected women’s circle, it was ridiculed and denigrated to its current meaning. Manifesting circles is something I enjoy, especially the crop variety, but thinking of the female variety trumps it. The Divine Feminine.

With these empowering thoughts, I left the hedges, crowned with a tiara of purple rosebay willow herb and white umbrella cow parsley and turned right into Eastcourt. Strolling along the avenue of pretty thatch and slate topped homes, I stopped at the church then, not understanding why the whim, left the road and walked through the churchyard. The older stones were covered in moss and lichen, disguising the names of the bodies below, so I offered my gratitude to my ancestors and spirits soared. On reaching the far side, the cooing of plump woodpigeons and noisy shrill of a wren was merged with the sound of gay laughter coming from the copse beyond. Treading past a detritus of teenage decadence, crushed cans, disposed vapes and soiled rubber, I calmed my anger with reassurance that we all learn eventually. And if we don’t, nature will consume us anyway. I left the carnage behind and moved forwards towards the light, a glade beyond the twisted trunks of yew.

My next vision could not have been in greater contrast. Several women swirled, bare arms extended upwards, long monochromatic light dresses floated with their movement, as they laughed and danced. Their hair was adorned with flower garlands. Golden amulets and pendants flashed in the sunlight on wrist and breast, whilst dusty toes caressed the Mother below. In a seeming circle of sacred geometry, the spinning maenads brought pure joy to my world. They stopped suddenly when their spy was spotted and turned towards the intruder. Their obvious expressions of disappointment confirmed that I was no Dionysus. I fumbled then ventured.

“Haven’t seen any snowy egrets out here, have you?”

Photographs by Natasha Milanovich & Martha Simpson