It’s deep November when a man named Filtiarn hands out pots and pans in a small crop of Lancashire woodland. He’s dressed typically, apart from the cheap camo face paint and the crude crown of twigs on his head. ‘I’m the Green Man!’ he explains to a group of six, including me.
To the side of us flickers a modest fire. We’ve just completed a ritual – one that was advertised on Facebook. Well, that’s how I found it. Not how you’d expect to find pagans in the woods, but this is how paganism works now. It’s very online and very keen for new converts, curious folk like me.
The gang armed with cooking utensils are the Wolves of Brigantia (the name of an old Celtic goddess), and they encapsulate paganism’s modern rebrand. They’re progressive, pro-trans, multi-belief, and always open to outsiders. Their co-leader, Andy Gibbons – also known by his Celtic name, Filtiarn – has yet to say no to my nosiness and questioning. Andy runs a Facebook page with thousands of followers, and talks with the gorgeous rhotic speech that you get around here.
Victoria – whose living room I later find myself sitting in – is the Wolves’ other co-leader. She is, appropriately, a witch. As I sit on her sofa, Victoria and Andy dive into their beliefs, showing me books with Latin words. Andy has an academic approach to theology, words like ‘Zoroastrian’ and ‘Henotheism’ fly from his armchair like he’s talking about the weather.
It’s fitting that we’re chatting in Lancashire under the shadow of Pendle Hill, the birthplace of one of England’s most infamous witch trials. The trials spawned a historical legend and its own bus service: the Witchway. On Victoria’s street there’s a for-sale sign branded with a green cartoon witch. For the most part, modern Pendle is a destination for tourists and wannabe spiritualists. But there’s been an uptick in genuine interest. Call it pandemic paganism or a return to tradition, but folk beliefs are becoming more popular, especially among the young and the queer.
Part of me wants to believe, too. Andy and Victoria’s eyes light up when I tell them about my great uncle who is a faith healer, on account of Irish folklore saying that the seventh son of a seventh son is imbued with special powers. ‘You’re one of the red people,’ Victoria tells me, pointing to my ginger hair. I want to believe, sure, but there’s a tension between the ancestral return to Albion’s woodlands and the sweet allure of modern luxuries. It’s hard to feel you’re being authentically pagan-y when your phone vibrates or your car keys pinch your arse.
Andy seems sympathetic, to the first part, at least. ‘Technology leaves me behind a bit,’ he says, as the proud admin of multiple Facebook groups (and a TikTok account). In fact, he’s not averse to modern trends at all. Back in the day he was on X Factor, where he wore a purple ruffle shirt and black leather trousers singing Billy Idol’s Mony Mony after giving Gary Barlow a Mars bar.
As for Victoria, her mum practised taro while her dad was a farmer with his own folk beliefs. She tells me how he would take her outside at 3am, crouch down, and make her listen to the sound of the world yawning from the shrubs. A psychologist and counsellor previously, Victoria has the sense to blend folk with scientific fact. ‘You can be a literal believer or capitulate that these are pre-science explanations of the world,’ she says. ‘Some of the tales are just for entertainment.’ Alright, I’m in.
