Strap in for some northern sorcery with the Wolves of Brigantia.
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.
Luckily for the perpetually skint, paganism is cheap as far as religious conversions go. It requires no setup costs. ‘You can just do it,’ Victoria tells me. ‘You don’t need to go to Stonehenge, you don’t need any money. At our Grove, all you need is transport – though we sometimes help with that.’ Overheads are basically zero too thanks to no need for a church or special building. The Wolves’ grove is spiritual because of how often they practise there, growing stronger each time. It’s all genuinely convenient – you don’t even need to know the proper names of spirits, you can just worship the trees if you like.
Some druid courses cost a pretty penny – but Andy’s firm that he won’t name names. He first got interested in paganism after watching The Omen. He left his church in 2011 and by 2012 he was at solstice with the druids.
The setup is slightly anarchistic, no hierarchy exists and it operates on a peer-to-peer basis. It’s equally normal to ask someone for money advice as it is for their best spell. It all feels so freeing – Innermost thoughts vocalised without judgement, merry making by a fire with potluck cauldron food. Like the antidote to the chronic un-fun-ification of the 21st century. Their retelling of Samhain sounds rapturous. In December, most of us in the Western world were stressing about gifts, the cost of living, and the lack of vitamin D. Meanwhile these guys were simply vibing in the woods, contacting the dead, tossing things into the fire, and having an intense, emotional ritual. I want that!
A few hours into our conversation and Christianity seems like sado-masochism. ‘Paganism takes a whole lot of guilt out of being human,’ Victoria puts effortlessly. Desperate to feel the way they do, I ask for a herbal concoction in the witch’s living room. In one of Victoria’s tomes she points to beginner foraging targets like dandelions and nettles. I’m sort of disappointed. There’s talk of advanced herbs and flowers that I’m presumably too horticulturally-challenged to identify. ‘Warrior drops,’ are the good stuff apparently, but I’d need a dozen herbs to make them. No tinctures or alchemy for me. She also shows me a ‘naughty’ book with recipes on things you’re not really supposed to make: poisonous and hallucinogenic concoctions. Apparently, Mugwort can give you trippy dreams and one page even has a recipe for the elixir of life. She doesn’t make either for me. Instead, I’m given a tea infusion for new beginnings.
The conversation spirals around topics like a Blackburn market homoeopath, cat skeletons in the walls, and naked dances in the woods (they do happen, apparently). Eventually I leave in my predictably unpagan car and return to modernity. As I write this, I await enlightenment. The tea tastes good – better than Earl Grey – but my awkwardly Anglican-gone-agnostic brain leaves me unconvinced. I’m not a convert. But by Brigantia, do I wish that I was.
