@virgiltwobyfour
Part-time mystic, allotment keeper, & shed-based philosopher. Publisher of rustic almanacs, horoscopes & questionable advice. Tea stains, rude vegetables, & wartime peculiarities. Frequently baffled by technology. https://linktr.ee/virgiltwobyfour
I think what it isn’t not saying is that the government didn’t fail to not be stopped from not banning something they didn’t not ban.
Which, if I’m not mistaken (and I usually am), means… nobody’s quite sure what hasn’t happened yet.
Still, sounds like something didn’t not go well for someone.
We are chuffed to share The Halloween Dossier cover!
Astonishingly, David Southwell (#Hookland) & Tony Walker (Classic Ghost Stories Podcast) have said very kind things - leaving Virgil speechless & Keith asking for a raise.
Full reveal & member release 31/10 👇
tinyurl.com/5ds4vyr6
Keep a lamp lit.
It was quite the eye-waterer.
Did anyone just see that? What a magnificent specimen!
Sunday walk. Trees all copper and fire along the disused line, through the old ironworks, quarries, and ancient beechwood written of by The Bard.
The air felt full; like history breathing too close, humming in the roots.
Something walked behind me, steady as memory.
#Hookland never really leaves you
The fog’s arrived early, there's a smell of scorched apples, and Something’s moving under the village bonfire again.
I’ve written down what it whispered in The Hallowe’en Dossier.
Copies available soon, assuming the post still reaches this side of #Hookland
ko-fi.com/virgiltwobyf...
The moon’s too clean tonight. It’s the sort of light that makes every puddle look like it’s remembering something.
Dogs won’t bark, clocks keep hesitating, and I swear my shadow just winked.
Best keep bread in your pocket and don’t look the moon in the eye. It remembers. A #Hookland night.
@goonpod.bsky.social Have you, on your audio travels, happened upon the aural delights in Listen Through The Brown Window (@soullessparty.bsky.social)? Fun in a distant-cousin-thrice-removed-from-the-Goons kind of way, not least in the wonderful attention to detail over the soundscapes they create.
I sat down to my boiled egg with soldiers this morning & found the top already off, & the yolk looking back at me in a faintly accusatory tone. Checked the egg box, & it explained everything. I'll need to speak with Mrs Burgin at the corner shop about sourcing her local produce from #Hookland
October 1st and a cold snap overnight. The scarecrow in the North Field has turned to face the lane again. Nobody admits to moving it. Seagulls won’t go near it, and they’re not fussy. Last night someone heard it knocking on the grit bin for salt.
Could be nothing. Could be #Hookland.
Found a sign this morning. A crow on the post looked like it had done the paperwork. I asked if it was council business or a Barrow Marsh advisory they speak of in #Hookland. It blinked like I was late to my own haunting. The fog smelled of hymn books & burnt nettles, so I took that as confirmation.
@jayforeman.bsky.social @markcooperjones.bsky.social
Dear Map Men,
Can you help? We are all a bit uncertain about where we live.
Best wishes
Virgil Twobyfour
@loremen.bsky.social I found this old tome in a neighbour’s potting shed, wedged between their back issues of Peat Monthly.
Should I wear gloves before attempting the Surye Wanton Tricks, or is a strong cuppa protection enough? And should I keep it away from my biscuit tin? Any advice welcome.
Wonderful. Have you ever made a video showing your process? I would love to see how you go about creating such beautiful art.
Morning tea. Mist hanging like pearls on every cobweb. September has tiptoed in while the beans weren’t looking.
The month reminds me nothing truly ends, just changes shape, like a bucket turning into a colander over time.
If you see me staring at the mist, I’m trying to work out what it’s plotting.
Late summer sun
amber & thin
sliding thru nettles
brushing my skin
It hangs in cobwebs
it dozes on gates
it lingers on apples
deciding their fates
Swallows rehearse
their farewell song
the day feels borrowed
the night too long
Here in the hedgerow
where shadows run
I warm my hands
on late summer sun
Black Bart—Pembrokeshire’s most rakish export and proof that even cardigan wearers may harbour piratical leanings.
A toast then, to Bartholomew Roberts: scourge of the shipping lanes and pioneer of impractically lacy cuffs at sea.
Let's raise a chipped mug of something questionably amber and murky
Woken at dawn by what I assumed was a celestial trumpet heralding the end times. Turned out to be Mrs Tappley’s ferret getting stuck in her euphonium again.
Postman handed me a parcel addressed to ‘The Unknowable One (Care of Potting Shed)’. Contents: a single radish & a note that read ‘Soon.’
The Eve of St. Pegrin’s Wiggle
Ah, Friday! That most wobbly of weekdays, when the sky smells faintly of nettle wine and burnt hope, and one can almost hear the sigh of the village as it collectively decides not to finish anything important before Monday.
Beltane Blessings from me and the mysteriously smouldering gnome by the pond
This morning while tending to my ceremonial boots, an event transpired. A horse galloped across the garden, adorned in my late aunt’s nightdress and carrying a basket of milk teeth. It neighed in Latin before disappearing near the compost pile, which now exudes the aroma of printer ink and betrayal.
