No, I’m thinking about the true witches. The old ones, like me. There aren’t many of us left, which makes these encounters even more rare, more charged. It’s not always a comfortable sensation either, brushing up against someone who knows the old ways. It’s like catching the whiff of another’s work in the woods—real work, mind you, not the garish plastic ribbons tied around trees or poorly placed trinkets meant to mimic tradition. You know it when you come across it. The air seems to hum a little differently when someone has been working magic in a way that connects to something deeper, something older.

It’s a feeling that makes me reflect on just why there are so few of us left. And of course, I always come back to the same thing—central heating.

Oh, it’s not really the heating itself, naturally. But what it symbolizes, the comfort, the ease. I’m sure you remember the aches from past lives, the harshness of the world before we softened it with modern conveniences. Our craft, our magic, our traditions were once necessary just to survive. There was no luxury in it, no hobbyist approach. It was a matter of life or death, and those who couldn’t survive the path fell away. Only the strongest, the most resilient, endured.

Now? The necessity is gone, and with it, the drive. So few have the will to learn anymore. We’ve lost so many traditions because of this. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and yes, it’s sad, but the worst thing we could do is water it all down in a desperate attempt to pass it on to someone who isn’t ready or worthy. It’s sacrilege, really. The spirits, the forces we work with—they never accept those who are unacceptable, no matter how much we might want them to. You can leave gifts, say parting words, but there’s no tricking them. The magic knows.

I see the temptation in others, though. There’s a pull to pass the reins, the contracts, the legacy to someone, anyone, before time runs out. But so often it’s left too long. The blood ages out, the ties weaken, and there’s no time to train the next generation properly. Then, some try to find alternatives—those younger practitioners with grit but not the right blood for the path.

I used to think the keepers—those outsiders with a fascination for our craft—could help. The magical groupies, if you will. They protected what we couldn’t, or so we thought, until the time came when someone worthy would emerge. But now I wonder. The museums we once entrusted with our relics and artifacts, like Boscastle… how terrible it has all become. What was once a place of preservation has turned into something else entirely. Perhaps it’s better to send our items off to the charity shop, or better still, take them to the grave with us.

There is dignity in letting a tradition die, like a plant wilting, its beauty spent but still remembered for what it was. There is also, of course, the Egyptian method—taking everything with you into the beyond. I see the allure of that, too. But then again, I wonder, does magic ever really die? Or does it simply change form, waiting, biding its time until the world is hard enough again for it to be needed?

For now, I’ll continue on, knowing that the dance between us—those of us who still practice, still live the old ways—is rare and strange. But in that strangeness, there is a sense of connection, a knowing. Even if the world around us forgets, we still remember. And that’s enough. For now.

The change I’ve seen looming around 2026 is no longer a distant vision. It’s starting now, here in 2024, with subtle shifts in people, in the world around us. The pieces are falling into place, as they must, for the reality to take shape. This century, the 21st, will be a time of immense transformation. History books will mark it as such, no doubt. But I’m less concerned with the grand sweep of humanity and more with the local, personal changes that are beginning to crack the surface. There is a deep winter coming, one that I believe will last for two long years. Not a winter of snow and ice alone, but of darkness—of hibernation, if you will. The kind of cold that forces everything to pause, to still, while the saplings grow under frost, biding their time until the thaw. I feel this not only in my own life, but in the lives of those magical folk around me.

There’s a sense of contraction, of withdrawal into deeper, more solitary work. Whether we all stay the course together, or if some of us will retreat into our own larger, private workings without confiding in one another, remains to be seen. It’s a personal choice, after all. Magic has always been a balance of the collective and the individual. There is one witch in particular—someone I know well—who has been delaying her great works for too long. Bigger, more dangerous projects she’s pushed aside, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of complacency. But now I sense that her hand is being forced. The spirits will wait no longer. They are patient, yes, but only to a point. If the mundane aspects of her life stand in the way, they will be swept aside. Her journey will continue, whether she likes it or not. The rabbit hole only goes deeper from here, and I believe she knows it. Meanwhile, I’ve noticed a curious interest in magic and the so-called paranormal among the mundanes around me.

It could just be the thinning of the veils—October has a way of awakening that in people. It’s that time of year when the air grows thick with possibility, when those with even the slightest inclination toward the unseen start to sense something. I’ve wondered if any of them will feel the true call and find themselves drawn toward the craft. I had hoped at least two would, but I’ve learned not to place too much hope in others as I’ve grown older. It’s not wise to gamble on whether someone has the guts to go through initiation. There’s always a chance, but more often than not, they fall short.

October has always been my favourite time of year. The air smells different, charged with mystery and potential. But these next two Octobers will be special. I feel it in my bones—a changing of the guard in some of our traditions. New blood stepping into old shoes, some of us stepping aside, and others digging deeper into their power. It’s the way of things, after all. Magic moves in cycles, just like the seasons. I wonder who will stay, and who will leave the path behind. The time for waiting is nearly over. Whatever comes next, I’ll be ready. For now, I’ll enjoy the crispness of the air, the turning of the leaves, and the knowledge that the future I’ve always seen is finally coming into view. 

What weighs heavily on one person’s shoulders can barely graze the next. For me, I’ve always been the stable one. There’s a certain use in that. I can take on more responsibility than most, but there’s a price. The weak tend to cling to stability like a life raft, and I’ve found myself surrounded by those who can’t quite stand on their own. That’s another funny thing about getting older, isn’t it? You notice things about the elderly that start to make sense as the years pass. Patience, for one, seems to go out the window. I’ve seen it time and again. The older people get, the less they seem to care about the trivialities of others’ dramas. It’s as if, after so many years of carrying other people’s burdens, they finally allow themselves the freedom to just stop giving a damn. It’s not that they don’t care about anything, but their tolerance for nonsense?

Well, that seems to evaporate. And I can understand why. There’s a beauty in it, really. Take the old man’s slippers, for instance. Hideous things. But oh, so comfortable. That’s what life becomes about after a while—the comfort over the appearance, the easy over the complicated. We spend so much of our lives worrying about how things look, how they come across, and then one day, you wake up and realize you just want to be comfortable. The fuss, the performance, it all starts to fade. Maybe that’s why old people seem to grow bolder, sharper in their words.

They’ve earned the right to let go of what doesn’t matter, to embrace the simplicity of an easy life. I’m not quite there yet, but I can feel it creeping in. The things that once demanded so much energy—keeping everyone else’s secrets, minding everyone else’s business—don’t feel as pressing anymore. It’s freeing, in a way, though it does leave me questioning what I want to carry forward. What’s worth holding on to, and what can be left behind, forgotten like all those secrets that once seemed so important?

I suppose the real secret is this: you don’t need to keep everything. Some things are meant to slip away, to lighten the load. And the older you get, the more you realize how little you truly need to hold on to. 

When they were finally caught, their secret was revealed. In exchange for a lighter sentence, they divulged their method—an herbal vinegar mixture that kept the sickness at bay. There’s something thrilling about the idea, isn’t there? The notion that a few common herbs, when combined with intention and precision, could protect against something as devastating as the plague. The line between magic and the mundane blurs in the most exciting way. Here we have a formula, yes, but it’s not just a simple recipe. It’s an act of magic disguised as medicine, a few mysterious ingredients woven together to produce a potion that does something far greater than the sum of its parts.

I’ve always loved this story and the formula that came from it, not just for its intrigue but because it’s a perfect example of what makes potion-making such a deeply creative and personal practice. It takes the would-be student on a journey, teaching them a few fundamental rules while still encouraging creativity and ingenuity. After all, there are so many variations of Four Thieves Vinegar—each one slightly different, each one a reflection of the practitioner who made it. The challenge, of course, is that you’re limited to just four ingredients.

Four thieves, each with their own role to play, each carefully chosen. And that’s what makes it brilliant. So many beginners, in their eagerness, want to throw every herb and correspondence into a potion—every single ingredient they’ve read about that could possibly help. But magic, like good crime, is about precision. It’s about knowing exactly what’s needed and nothing more. When crafting a Four Thieves Vinegar, you have to think carefully. You must choose four ingredients that not only work individually, but also together. There’s no room for excess, no space for chaotic combinations. I like to think of it as assembling a team of criminals for a heist. Each ingredient is a member of the crew. You’ve got the safe cracker, the lookout, the muscle, and the getaway driver.

They might not all get along, but they need to be professional. There has to be honour among these thieves. They need to complement each other, each one serving a unique purpose. One to break through, one to shield, one to soothe, and one to strike. It’s an artful balancing act, and when done right, it’s a perfect symphony of power. The other thing that fascinates me about this formula is how it walks the line between magic and practicality. Vinegar itself is such a mundane substance—nothing magical about it on the surface.

Yet when infused with the right herbs, it transforms into something protective, something powerful. The mundane becomes magical, and that’s the core of what I love about potion-making. Everyday ingredients, handled with care and intent, can become vessels for extraordinary power. Of course, I won’t give you the recipe—not because it’s forbidden, but because it’s a journey each practitioner has to take for themselves. That’s part of the magic. You have to learn how the ingredients speak to you, how they interact, how they come together.

Every witch’s Four Thieves Vinegar will be a little different, because every witch’s magic is different. It’s not about blindly following a formula—it’s about understanding it, living it, and then making it your own. And that, I think, is the heart of why this story endures. It’s not just a legend about survival during the plague. It’s a lesson in magic itself.

The balance between creativity and discipline, the interplay of ingredients, the power of simplicity. It’s a reminder that sometimes, less is more, and that the greatest power often comes from the simplest things—when they’re combined with the right intention, of course.

The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, published in 1747. It reads:

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Welcome to the official YouTube channel of the infamous Cunning Man, known only as Psychic Villain. Here, you'll find videos on folk magic, spellcraft, divination, and the hidden traditions of the occult, all shared anonymously. Join me as I explore the mystical world through rituals, tutorials, and ancient practices—always keeping one foot in the shadows. 

Looking back, I see now that I’ve always had a bit of a rebellious streak in me when it comes to the local practitioners. Don’t get me wrong, they possess power, wisdom, and experience, but there was always something about their secrecy that rubbed me the wrong way. I was never one to stay in the proverbial broom closet. Even in my early days working in construction, I had magical clients calling me for help and advice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I wore my practice openly, even if the rest of the world kept it under wraps. This might sound odd, given the anonymity I enjoy here in this journal, but it’s true—I’ve never hidden who I am. And maybe that was part of my naïveté in the beginning, trusting that people who said they wanted to learn magic really meant it. I’ve met plenty of great practitioners in my time, the real deal. The fascinating thing about these truly skilled witches and magicians? They don’t write books. They don’t teach openly. They’re not chasing after Instagram followers or writing for that absurd publishing company with the crescent moon logo. No, these people lurk in the shadows, working quietly, occasionally turning up at the odd Pagan moot to scope out talent. More often than not, they’re looking to see if there’s anyone worth assimilating into their private practices—though some, like Mr. Q (yes, I see you), just show up to see which plebs they can manipulate for their own ends.

These real practitioners stay hidden, keeping their craft close and inaccessible, and sometimes it’s hard not to feel a bit superior when you know the difference. I get accused of being elitist sometimes, but it’s not because I’m puffed up by my own skill or think I’m better than others. It’s just that I know what it takes—the sheer determination, the grit, and, yes, the metaphorical balls—to really get anywhere with magic at a high level. The quality of modern-day practitioners is… well, let’s just say it’s lacking. The 21st century has become a playground for spiritual dabblers, and if you’re serious about magic, you either have to commit or bow out. There’s no middle ground. That’s what led us—me and another practitioner, someone with the same frustration I felt—to open the doors. To let the profane, the mundane, the wannabes in. We thought, why not?

Why not try to teach the unworthy, to show them what real magic looks like, and maybe—just maybe—find the one or two gems among the hundred fools. And for a time, it worked. We found some hungry souls, people who really wanted to learn and progress. We built workshops, created communities, and soon enough, the experiment stretched across the globe. But for every one true student, there were a hundred more who just wanted to play dress-up. Magic is serious work, yes, but it’s also fun. And I never cared much about what someone looked like—after all, glamour magic is a thing. But I do care about their ambition, their hunger to know. And it became clear that most people just didn’t have it.

They’d spend thousands of pounds on crystals, without a clue how to use them. They’d collect tarot decks like trophies, but couldn’t pull a single accurate reading if their lives depended on it. Witchcraft has become an industry. And not because there aren’t real practitioners out there—there are—but because that’s what people want. They want the aesthetics, the tools, the trinkets. They don’t want the actual work. It’s frustrating, sure, but it’s also just the way things have gone. The world’s full of people who want the look of magic, not the substance. Now, as this grand experiment I’ve been part of begins to wind down, I find myself reflecting on it all. I started this journey to prove the old witches wrong, to show that it could be done—that magic could be taught to anyone willing to learn. And in some ways, we succeeded. But mostly, I’ve learned that the old ways really are the best. The closed circles, the secrecy, the intense dedication—it’s there for a reason.

Magic isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay... 

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Welcome to the official YouTube channel of the infamous Cunning Man, known only as Psychic Villain. Here, you'll find videos on folk magic, spellcraft, divination, and the hidden traditions of the occult, all shared anonymously. Join me as I explore the mystical world through rituals, tutorials, and ancient practices—always keeping one foot in the shadows. 

I offered him advice again, this time urging him to develop his own magical abilities, work on energy manipulation, and stop relying on spirits to do all the work. The core issue with the Fool wasn’t his magical potential, but rather his psychological state—he was naturally submissive, a slave to others' will, which is counterproductive for any serious magic practitioner. Though things eventually improved for him, it was a slow process, and he had to learn to reclaim his personal power. There are lessons to be learned here about the dangers of giving too much power to others—whether they be humans or spirits—and the need to stand on one’s own feet in the craft.

I’ve also been reflecting on the Tarot itself, particularly the Tarot de Marseille. Unlike the more visually symbolic Rider-Waite-Smith deck, the Marseille deck’s simplicity can be a challenge for many, though I find it a valuable teaching tool for psychic development, spellcasting, and revealing occult secrets. During my time studying the deck, I learned some of the rules passed down by a student of Philippe Camoin, a descendant of its original creators. The "rule of gazes," for example, provides structure in a reading, showing how many cards to pull and where to place them. The Tarot can easily become a crutch for some, but when approached properly, it offers not just insight but a system of laws that reveal deeper truths...

This situation with Black Sabbath is not unique. I’ve encountered many who dabble in magic without understanding the seriousness of what they’re getting involved in, and more often than not, they end up in trouble. When I share stories of these experiences, particularly at local moots or in online communities, I’m often accused of fear-mongering or being overly involved with "dark arts." It’s frustrating, as many modern practitioners ignore the reality that magic, like nature, isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. The "love and light" crowd tends to overlook the dangers that come with crossing powerful forces without proper knowledge or respect, often resulting in hard lessons that could have been avoided.

The nature of working with death and Saturnian spirits is often misunderstood. They aren’t malicious forces, as many believe, but rather neutral entities concerned with balance. My misuse of the Scythe didn’t change much in the grand scheme, as Death gets everyone in the end, even the universe itself. It’s all about ensuring the scales are balanced, and they don’t mind how that’s achieved as long as everything adds up. High-level magic, at its core, is really just understanding how to navigate these cosmic balances. But as with all things, there are layers of mystery left unspoken, and perhaps it’s best to leave the rest unsaid—for now.

I stress the importance of pushing beyond natural abilities and never being satisfied with staying at your starting point. Even those who discover magic later in life, without natural gifts, can surpass naturally gifted individuals if they have the right hunger and determination. Success in magic isn’t about what you’re born with—it’s about how far you’re willing to push yourself, to break through barriers, and learn from mistakes. The only practitioners I’ve seen fail are those who either give up, refuse to open their minds, or stay stuck in worshiping idols and feeding their energy to parasitic spirits. Ultimately, real magical growth comes from challenging yourself, learning new skills, and seeking the guidance of wise teachers—whether human or spirit—who can help push you further down the path. Magic is a journey, and settling for less is a sure way to stagnate.

In the subsequent sections, I delved into the three fundamental components of magic—psychological, physiological, and energetic. Mr. H was quick to attribute magical effects to the placebo effect, but he failed to see the broader picture. Magic works by combining all three aspects, just as the ancient Egyptians did in their powerful rituals. Psychological techniques work with the unconscious mind, while potions and substances affect the body on a physiological level, and energy manipulation adds a third, elusive layer. Modern practitioners often focus solely on the energetic level, but true magic is holistic. It integrates all three components, creating a powerful synergy that goes beyond what science, medicine, or religion can accomplish individually.