Between tick & tock lies a dislocated hour. Home to things with names too terrible to say. In the lost hours, in the gained hours, temporal spirits come through. Between tick and tock, some swear they can hear a soul trapped in time, scratching at glass. - #CLNolan#ClocksGoBack
When does eccentricity become dangerous? The Campaign Requiring Obliteration Of Pillboxes (C.R.O.O.P) believe pillboxes portals to an England invaded by Nazis. Normally this would just be thought of a bit mad, but C.R.O.O.P. also believe in bombs. – Bob Wellings, BBC Nationwide
There are old roads and old walls that mark old ways across the land. Borders between more than field and track, paths as much for the dead as the living. Our landscape is simultaneously practical and symbolic. No walking of it can be without enchantment. – #CLNolan
@elessar42 In my case, I prefer the second-hand store to Chapters (Canadian), they often have stuff you don't find in the box stores. And also in Canada, new books - esp from the US, UK, and France - are sold at a mark up.
For it's Old St. Michaelmas Day. Folklore has it that no blackberry should be picked after this point for the Devil has spat or pissed upon them. Forgive me if on this, I trust my own senses above lore guidance that claims to know when Lucifer fell into a bush. – #EmilyBanting
The more you drive the country the less easy it is to believe the lie of empty fields. Sometimes you just have to pull over let the ghost soil speak. Let it tell stories – battles it has seen, bones it holds. Allow all of its strange memories to bleed into you. – #MattAdams
For I'm called to walk by the promise of strange England, the promise that round bend of track there might be a shrine to some neglected god, an ambush by wood sprites to avoid. My compass is set to True Faery North. My map a marking of weird ways and pubs to stop at. – #CLNolan
These are the last thirsty days of the year. The fields ache for rain, hedges crack and cry out to the clouds to slake their parched roots. The ghost soil rends, spills the malnourished spirits of drought-blighted harvests. On dry lips, prayers to the old gods of storm.