Welcome to All The Wild Magic

What offering will you make at the entrance to the wildwood?

An Invitation

Meet me at the old stone stile. The one with the steps worn down in the middle by centuries of passing feet. Take this walking stick if you need it, and a piece of chestnut cake for the journey.  

The air cools as we leave the village behind. Distantly, church bells chime. Chime and fade, as we head along the narrow path. Wild roses arch through mossy boughs of elder. Your sleeve snags on a briar. Sweetness stirs from the grass as the sun glints off dark water: a burn running swiftly below. The path bends this way and that until, finally, there it is: the entrance to the wildwood; one of the last wildwoods in the land.

You can already sense the deep magic; a watchful gaze from between the trees, eyes as old as the river.

Speak your intention, whispers the water.

A creaky hawthorn arches over.

The land listens. Waits.

You look to the tree, prick your finger on a thorn, press the drop of blood into the gnarled bark.

The creaking of branches overhead might be permission to enter.

So, as the light fades, we head into the wood.

About All the Wild Magic

Welcome to All The Wild Magic, stories and correspondences direct from a remote woodland hut in England’s north. This Substack has weeds in its heart and dirt under its nails, following Mary Oliver’s instructions for living a life:

Meet me at the place where the village meets the wood to explore themes at the intersection between nature-connection, ecology, folklore, myth, and magic. Expect otherworldly portals, strange encounters, and time spent with the land’s wild inhabitants, from plants and mushrooms to rivers and rocks.

All the Wild Magic is penned by hand before being transcribed for your inbox. Hazel Cottage has no road access, no mains power and no address. It does have a pot-bellied stove, a whistling kettle, goldcrests in the hedge, and a wildling human often seen pottering about with a basket.  

The human is me, Sophie, and it is a pleasure to welcome you here.

A little about me

I am an apprentice to the woods and the wild, always learning, tracking stories across the landscape and listening for them in the wind and the water. Find me picking herbs by the edge of the river, splitting wood out back of the hut, or at my desk putting pen to paper, joyfully distracted by the little birds outside.

The edge is often where my adventures begin and I have long been drawn to these liminal places. For many years I lived a travelling life, on boats along England’s waterways. Now, I write to you from a hut in the woods. Wild valleys and islands, pre-historic places and old ruins also draw me in, and are likely to make an appearance on these pages.

Here’s me in the little canal boat that was my home for several years.

Will you Subscribe?

All the Wild Magic is a rusty old mailbox overgrown with ivy, found in the wildwood of deep imagination. Subscribers are invited to wend their way to it whenever they hear the call, and find a new correspondence waiting for them.

By subscribing, you let me know that you would like to receive this invitation and offering, and that you have found something of value in these pages. For that I thank you.

If you become a paid subscriber you will receive a physical, handwritten letter from me in the post. I have shared some glimpses of my letter writing preparations, and of my desk here at Hazel Cottage, in this correspondence.

What else would you like to know about me and my journey? Ask a question, or leave me a sign of your presence in the comments below.

With warm wishes,

Sophie