The land wears gold instead of green. We walk through October knowing it ends in the season of the dead. Everywhere an echoing back of bone omens, cardboard masks, mangle lanterns. Even the patisseries and fancy bakers of Weychester make folkloric nods in their displays of delight. – Dr. M. Benn

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The strange stone creatures that climb and cavort the churches of the country make a fabulous bestiary. They function less as lithic lookouts, more as a telling of the mediaeval mind. What filled it with such oddities? What did the stone carvers see? – Sir John Betjeman, 1969

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Goodnight from Neil Lampkin, not sure what form of bioluminescence he’s brushed against to make him glow like a green version of the Ready Brek Kid. Goodnight from Bill Bram, reluctant to pick up hitchhikers after hearing recent reports of ‘Ice-cold Eleanor’. Goodnight from Hookland.

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Re-enchantment is often a remembering, a discovery a map already tattooed upon our bones.

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I am a witch of stick and stone; herb-bag, hedge and bone I am a witch of tide and wave; sand, storm and salt-grave I am a witch of bog and moor; fear me knocking the door – Trad. Hookland witch rhyme, still often heard in the county's playgrounds

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