Let us walk the woods as feral possibility space. Let us walk the woods in hope of strange sights, fantastical encounters. Stories we can tell to those we love as an intimate folklore of hope that wonder is still abroad. That we still have places of constant magic. – #DAKilroy
September 26, 2026 at 10:49 AM
Let us walk the woods as feral possibility space. Let us walk the woods in hope of strange sights, fantastical encounters. Stories we can tell to those we love as an intimate folklore of hope that wonder is still abroad. That we still have places of constant magic. – #DAKilroy
The concrete cicatrix of the war haunts the landscape. Even those elements which become children's dens serve as trauma mirror. Pillboxes as ghost gateways to battles never fought, an invasion of shadows from elsewhere. – #DAKilroy
March 9, 2026 at 3:32 PM
The concrete cicatrix of the war haunts the landscape. Even those elements which become children's dens serve as trauma mirror. Pillboxes as ghost gateways to battles never fought, an invasion of shadows from elsewhere. – #DAKilroy
Give me this hour with its last gasp of solar alchemy. This hour when shadows walk from the woods. For it is a time of spirit murmurations and dissolved borders. All natural magics at the change of their tides. – #DAKilroy, 1982
March 17, 2025 at 6:10 PM
Give me this hour with its last gasp of solar alchemy. This hour when shadows walk from the woods. For it is a time of spirit murmurations and dissolved borders. All natural magics at the change of their tides. – #DAKilroy, 1982
Whilst summer burns the fields, I sit in dark, neglected churches with ghost congregations who await twilight's feral evensong. My soul may not be at peace, but it is at beauty. – #DAKilroy, 1982
August 9, 2026 at 4:53 PM
Whilst summer burns the fields, I sit in dark, neglected churches with ghost congregations who await twilight's feral evensong. My soul may not be at peace, but it is at beauty. – #DAKilroy, 1982
As the River Casta pools into Ashcourt, ghosts of boats long lost to deep water graves can still be glimpsed. Brackish flicker phantom still plying former routes, reappearing at old mooring posts. Spirit fleets floating on temporal tides. – #DAKilroy
September 4, 2026 at 8:16 AM
As the River Casta pools into Ashcourt, ghosts of boats long lost to deep water graves can still be glimpsed. Brackish flicker phantom still plying former routes, reappearing at old mooring posts. Spirit fleets floating on temporal tides. – #DAKilroy
Even in winter, the wood calls out to be walked. Its paths tell your boots to ignore the mud. Its occulted roots whisper to your bones with promises of clearings you've never encountered before. The way into it is a seduction that makes even the oldest of us young again. – #DAKilroy, 1982
December 16, 2024 at 11:06 AM
Even in winter, the wood calls out to be walked. Its paths tell your boots to ignore the mud. Its occulted roots whisper to your bones with promises of clearings you've never encountered before. The way into it is a seduction that makes even the oldest of us young again. – #DAKilroy, 1982
In a week, the last flower offerings of a lingering summer will be gone. Their spot taken with displays of corn maidens, apples and pears from local orchards. A celebration of harvest, of the turning of the year. From field, allotment and garden, a pagan dressing. – #DAKilroy
September 25, 2026 at 2:53 PM
In a week, the last flower offerings of a lingering summer will be gone. Their spot taken with displays of corn maidens, apples and pears from local orchards. A celebration of harvest, of the turning of the year. From field, allotment and garden, a pagan dressing. – #DAKilroy
The rural is propagandised in chocolate box aesthetics, cosy cottages sold in Sunday supplements. A thousand hollow lies to commodify the countryside. Yet the truth is feral. The garden path is ghosted. Enfolding woods watch with malevolence. Everywhere curse-trapped. – #DAKilroy, 1982
May 12, 2026 at 12:18 PM
The rural is propagandised in chocolate box aesthetics, cosy cottages sold in Sunday supplements. A thousand hollow lies to commodify the countryside. Yet the truth is feral. The garden path is ghosted. Enfolding woods watch with malevolence. Everywhere curse-trapped. – #DAKilroy, 1982
At the withered end of the year, where summer is reduced to a dried memory, grass whispers on behalf of the ghost soil. The land's nameless spirits roam old paths across the heath. This is the season of dead alchemy. – #DAKilroy
September 16, 2025 at 1:33 PM
At the withered end of the year, where summer is reduced to a dried memory, grass whispers on behalf of the ghost soil. The land's nameless spirits roam old paths across the heath. This is the season of dead alchemy. – #DAKilroy
We risk the road. We risk its ghosts, its possibility of timeslips. We travel in the knowledge that we may be lost beyond easy return. For this is Hookland. Its hodology is haunted. Its navigations rarely bypass the strange. – #DAKilroy, 1982
March 16, 2026 at 4:44 PM
We risk the road. We risk its ghosts, its possibility of timeslips. We travel in the knowledge that we may be lost beyond easy return. For this is Hookland. Its hodology is haunted. Its navigations rarely bypass the strange. – #DAKilroy, 1982
The land is blossom blur. Spring wears its bridal white despite a belly already swollen with coming summer. The feral churches of the county hold marriages for spectral couples. Even myths are mating, creating stories waiting to be born. Our blood chases hope. – #DAKilroy, 1982 #Spring
April 8, 2026 at 5:20 PM
You can walk and after two miles of tangled lane that's untroubled with being on the Ordinance Survey, find a feral church. These are the chapels beyond bishops, untethered from parishes. Existing in green communion, their gathered ghosts sing wild hymns. – #DAKilroy, 1982
November 14, 2025 at 1:51 PM
You can walk and after two miles of tangled lane that's untroubled with being on the Ordinance Survey, find a feral church. These are the chapels beyond bishops, untethered from parishes. Existing in green communion, their gathered ghosts sing wild hymns. – #DAKilroy, 1982
Those feral churches – beyond diocesan office, enjoying green communion – call the imagination. Even before visiting, we've a knowing their ivy-blinded windows, their ghost-congregation cooled interiors, refuse this barbarous heat. Offer spirit-shaded sanctuary. – #DAKilroy
August 4, 2026 at 1:16 PM
Those feral churches – beyond diocesan office, enjoying green communion – call the imagination. Even before visiting, we've a knowing their ivy-blinded windows, their ghost-congregation cooled interiors, refuse this barbarous heat. Offer spirit-shaded sanctuary. – #DAKilroy
Those cold fields of winter – ploughed, harrowed and frost-cracked – leak ghosts. To walk them is to walk with escaped temporal shades. As you fill you pockets with flint tools, even an arrowhead, you fill your head with dead whispers. – #DAKilroy
February 3, 2025 at 12:52 PM
Those cold fields of winter – ploughed, harrowed and frost-cracked – leak ghosts. To walk them is to walk with escaped temporal shades. As you fill you pockets with flint tools, even an arrowhead, you fill your head with dead whispers. – #DAKilroy
We may walk morning streets and meet old gods and their hare-headed messengers in gallery windows. Find shops shut for the days of obscure, misremembered saints. Everywhere a sense of the pagan breaking through. Everywhere the tingling possibility of magic. – #DAKilroy, 1982
July 9, 2026 at 10:29 AM
We may walk morning streets and meet old gods and their hare-headed messengers in gallery windows. Find shops shut for the days of obscure, misremembered saints. Everywhere a sense of the pagan breaking through. Everywhere the tingling possibility of magic. – #DAKilroy, 1982
We wander winter afternoons where the light is too weak to keep the ghosts at bay. Stumble onto paths that can only be haunted. Each footstep scuffs up stories, scuffs up spirits. We walk and leave a wake of whispers. – #DAKilroy, 1982
December 27, 2025 at 1:40 PM
We wander winter afternoons where the light is too weak to keep the ghosts at bay. Stumble onto paths that can only be haunted. Each footstep scuffs up stories, scuffs up spirits. We walk and leave a wake of whispers. – #DAKilroy, 1982
Where does the wild begin? At the last light in the village? First few feet beyond its illumination where the grass whispers stories of those that have trod it? Ruffled Foxes, Children-Made-of-Thorns, the Spider-legged woman come to collect her offerings. – #DAKilroy
June 6, 2026 at 1:23 PM
Where does the wild begin? At the last light in the village? First few feet beyond its illumination where the grass whispers stories of those that have trod it? Ruffled Foxes, Children-Made-of-Thorns, the Spider-legged woman come to collect her offerings. – #DAKilroy
We like to tell ourselves that time flows evenly, but we all have a history of convenient lies. Time has its slow eddies. It runs across some places so tardily a year might become a decade. Places where the walk of a hundred yards might take two hours to complete. – #DAKilroy
October 3, 2026 at 11:52 AM
We like to tell ourselves that time flows evenly, but we all have a history of convenient lies. Time has its slow eddies. It runs across some places so tardily a year might become a decade. Places where the walk of a hundred yards might take two hours to complete. – #DAKilroy
The Restal Waste is a place of bleak wonders. Marsh Ape navigations. Wides and pools where pale-eyed swimmers glare the surface. Salt-winds that cannot help but whisper dooms. Its mud covers your boots, its waters silt your soil. It stitches itself onto your imagination. – #DAKilroy
February 28, 2026 at 1:15 PM
The Restal Waste is a place of bleak wonders. Marsh Ape navigations. Wides and pools where pale-eyed swimmers glare the surface. Salt-winds that cannot help but whisper dooms. Its mud covers your boots, its waters silt your soil. It stitches itself onto your imagination. – #DAKilroy
Feral churches holding green communion growl at careless trespass. Their wild mysteries are not easily untangled. They scratch the soul, infect with untamed spirit. They place the language of vegetation upon the tongue and you find yourself offering thorned hymns. – #DAKilroy
October 17, 2025 at 11:01 AM
Feral churches holding green communion growl at careless trespass. Their wild mysteries are not easily untangled. They scratch the soul, infect with untamed spirit. They place the language of vegetation upon the tongue and you find yourself offering thorned hymns. – #DAKilroy
We are watched with carved disdain, watched with stone sneers. Our ephemeral lives are nothing but flicker in the thousand-year stare of lithic lookouts. Time is different for them. We are no more than fast insect blur, ghost vapour. The default of grotesques is contempt. – #DAKilroy
March 13, 2026 at 6:19 PM
We are watched with carved disdain, watched with stone sneers. Our ephemeral lives are nothing but flicker in the thousand-year stare of lithic lookouts. Time is different for them. We are no more than fast insect blur, ghost vapour. The default of grotesques is contempt. – #DAKilroy
Walls demand stories, demand we project tales upon them. Every act of enclosing violence against the land, every bit of wicked landlordism, becomes a folkloric engine. For lore remembers injustice and greed. Tells of dark, monstrous things behind the brick to memoralise theft. – #DAKilroy #Folklore
April 5, 2025 at 3:24 PM
Give me the ghost-brush in narrow alley. Give me gooesflesh on a sunny afternoon, words whispered into the ear by discarnate mouths. Give me a haunted England and I will know I am truly home. –DAKilroy #Ghosts
April 11, 2025 at 1:21 PM
Give me the ghost-brush in narrow alley. Give me gooesflesh on a sunny afternoon, words whispered into the ear by discarnate mouths. Give me a haunted England and I will know I am truly home. –DAKilroy #Ghosts