For a long time, I used the term 'Traditional Witchcraft' to describe my practice, but over time, I found it no longer fit. While my craft shares some structural elements with Traditional Witchcraft, its true foundation lies in historical magic—early grimoires, folklore, and the practices of cunning folk. My goal is to honor those who came before me, not through modern interpretations, but by reconstructing my craft from historical sources. That’s why I now call it 'Old-Style Witchcraft'—a term that better reflects my approach, rooted in authenticity and tradition without being bound to contemporary frameworks.

When I set out to reconstruct my family’s magical tradition, I quickly realised that English-language resources were scarce—and often unreliable. Translations carried biases, academic sources simplified complex traditions, and folklore lost its richness when stripped of its original linguistic and cultural context. Learning the languages of my practice wasn’t just about expanding my research; it became essential to preserving the integrity of my craft. By engaging with primary sources directly, I uncovered layers of meaning, symbolism, and nuance that would have otherwise been lost. In doing so, I not only deepened my connection to my ancestors and their magic but also ensured that my practice was built on authenticity rather than assumption.

Finding the right herbal substitute isn’t just about matching magical properties—it’s about understanding the deeper symbolism, historical context, and method of use. A true replacement must honor the spirit of the original herb, not just its function in a spell. By weaving together folklore, historical research, and lived experience, I strive to ensure that every plant I work with is not only meaningful but also rooted in both tradition and my personal craft.

Tools are not the foundation of my magic, but they are the allies that shape my practice. Each item I use—whether crafted by my hands, gifted by the land, or chosen with care—carries its own spirit and purpose. Over time, my toolkit has evolved, reflecting the changes in my path and the deepening of my craft. These tools are more than objects; they are extensions of my magic, woven into the daily rhythms of my practice and my relationship with the unseen.

Magic isn’t something I reserve for special occasions—it’s woven into the rhythm of my daily life. From greeting the house spirits each morning with an offering of tea or coffee to blessing the meal my wife and I share, my routines are small but intentional acts that deepen my connection to my spirits, my home, and myself. Each moment, from listening to the crows to placing my besom against the door at night, is a quiet spell, a reminder that magic is always present, waiting to be lived.

For 25 years, I’ve walked the path of a practicing witch, shaping my craft through folklore, folk magic, and personal experience. While I appreciate the structure of Traditional Witchcraft, I hesitate to claim the label outright. Too often, it comes with assumptions—of strict adherence to specific traditions, of working with the Witch Father or the Witch’s Devil, of following a path that isn’t mine. My magic is rooted in history but ultimately personal, and I’ve learned that labels, while useful, should never define me more than my own practice does.

Inspired by a dream and shaped by necessity, my magic rings are more than just tools—they are portals, focal points, and protective boundaries in my craft. Inspired by the Witches' Compass of Traditional Magic, these iron and copper rings enhance my workings, allowing me to reach beyond the physical and into the unseen. Through trial, fire, and intuition, I forged a practice that balances tradition with personal revelation, crafting rings that are both practical and deeply magical.

Writing about witchcraft isn’t difficult because I don’t know enough—it’s difficult because no single post can capture the depth of a magical worldview. Every time I try to put my thoughts into words, I feel the weight of what gets left out: the context, the nuance, the alternative perspectives. Will someone misinterpret a metaphor as literal? Will they assume my personal practice is a universal truth? It’s a narrow and winding path, but one worth walking. Because even if I can’t say everything, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t say anything.

I have been practicing magic for 25 years, yet my grimoire remains empty. Not because I lack spells, rituals, or knowledge—but because perfectionism keeps me from writing them down. What if my handwriting is messy? What if I discover a better method later? What if I get something wrong? But magic isn’t static, and neither should my grimoire be. It’s time to stop waiting for perfection and start treating it like what it truly is—a living record of my craft, more like a family recipe box than a sacred, untouchable tome. It’s time to finally put pen to paper.

Veiling is a practice often associated with religious tradition, but for me, it has become a deeply personal part of my witchcraft and Pagan path. What began as a way to protect my energy during divination and ritual soon evolved into a daily act of magic, honoring my ancestors and recognizing the sacredness of my hair. Now, I veil in public spaces as both a form of spiritual protection and a ritual of personal power. In this post, I explore the magical, ancestral, and practical aspects of veiling—and how it has transformed my practice.

Magic is not just about what we do—it’s also about what we do it with. A year ago, I began rewilding my witchcraft, shifting away from mass-produced supplies and returning to historically appropriate materials and crafting methods. This meant trading store-bought candles for hand-dipped beeswax, synthetic cords for hand-spun thread, and glass bowls for earthenware and wood. In doing so, I found a deeper connection to my magical ancestors, a richer engagement with my craft, and a renewed sense of authenticity in my spellwork.

I’ve always loved cauldrons, but when it came to making magical brews, I found myself stuck. My kettles were claimed for mundane use, and my food-safe cauldrons didn’t handle water well. That’s when I introduced a brewing pot into my practice—a ceramic-coated cast iron pot that lets me gently heat oils, waters, and herbs right on my altar. This small change transformed my magic, allowing me to create intentional brews, deepen my connection to my tools, and stay immersed in ritual from start to finish. If you’ve ever struggled to incorporate brewing into your craft, this might be the missing piece.

What began as an effort to stretch meals further, learn to garden, and replace store-bought cleaners with homemade alternatives slowly spilled over into my magical life. The more I worked with my hands—kneading dough, pouring candles, infusing oils—the more I realized I didn’t need to buy my magic. I could make it. Bit by bit, my practice reshaped itself, shifting away from accumulation and toward creation, until every item I nearly added to my cart made me think: I can make that.

My journey into magic began over twenty-five years ago within what I would later recognize as my family’s cunning-tradition. A handful of hand-me-down spells and charms formed the foundation of my early practice, shaping a path that would evolve through folklore, history, and spirit-work. Today, I walk the path of Black Book Traditional Magic—an animistic, historically informed approach to witchcraft rooted in ancestral guidance. This blog is where I chronicle that journey, weaving together personal reflections, magical musings, and the living practice of a modern folkloric witch.