My childhood home is located down the road from a striking Tudor Hall. Largely rebuilt after a fire in 1867, it’s look harks more to Victorian times. But growing up, it operated as a carvery, maintaining its exterior charm through ivy-laden castellated towers, red brick warmth, and stately garden surrounds.
Each Halloween, my dad would take us out trick-or-treating, donned in bin-liner capes over velvet dresses, pointy witch hats, and cauldrons for our spoils. We’d walk down the dark country lane, starting at the rustle of wildlife hiding in the brambles. And each year, as we reached the grand driveway of the hall, my dad would regale us with stories of its history.
Pointing to the upper casement window, directly in the centre of the building, barely inches from the roof, he’d whisper, “Did you see her?”
Some years, I could have sworn I did. Dad would talk of the halls repurpose as a hospital during the Great war, and the spirit of a nurse who never left. He’d tell us how her silhouette could be seen in the window on Halloween night. I didn’t doubt him for a moment.
And while my dad’s tales were intended to spook, the thought of the nurse didn’t frighten me. I thought of her as a witch, not a ghost. In my infantile brain, that’s how she’d survived all those years. Between Charmed, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and Practical Magic, I’d been thoroughly convinced witches were cool. Talking cats and killer outfits. Scared? Never. I wanted to be part of their club.
The thought of war-time phantoms, and sassy magical women thrilled me. In my dreams, I’d join their ranks, flying from my bedroom window on a broomstick, circling the town, having adventures without consequence.
It occurs to me now that all the women I’d admired had one thing in common: a coven. Sally Owens had Gillian, Aunt Frances, and Aunt Jet. Piper had Prue, Phoebe, and Paige. They were stronger together, happier together.
It’s no secret that the invention of witches came about from the desired persecution of women. Specifically, women who refused to comply.
Single? Witch.
Childless? Witch.
Contrary or intellectual? Witch.
Women were ousted from work, medicine, and public life for fear of their power. Oppression was the intended outcome, and the effect has persisted for centuries.
But strength is found numbers, in shared values. Strength is found in the coven.
In societal systems that try their hardest to subjugate, we are in dire need of our hype girls. These are the ones we turn to in weakness, when the weight of expectations hit a little too hard. They’re the ones we turn to when we need to blow off steam, have a laugh, enter party mode. I bet a few faces have already sprung to mind. I hope they have.
Perhaps spontaneity is the driver of your coven. Or perhaps your parallel schedules need wrangling months in advance to secure plans. Either way, many advocate for the creation of new rituals.
Mona Challet describes in In Defence of Witches how one Wiccan woman began a tradition when celebrating the winter solstice with her friends. Congregating on the beach at sunset, they lit a huge fire, and in a moment of wild impulse, stripped off, and ran together towards the ocean, screaming with hands in the air. Now, it’s an annual event.
After all, “Do something once, it’s an experiment. Do it twice, and it’s a tradition.”
These days, my beloved neighbourhood hall is home to three luxury apartments, owned by local footballers, and their families. I have since learned that its history, whilst colourful and often tragic, did not include use as a hospital. I’m glad of that. I would hate for the spirit of my nurse to be alone.
Instead, I hope the souls of all women who frequented the hall are dancing together, holding hands in the historic grounds, united in their shared experience.
I’m fortunate enough to have found numerous covens over the years, the current of which is unmatched. So, if you do nothing else this All Hallows Eve, reach out to your fellow witches, ahem, women. Create rituals, light fires, or eat waffles around the table.
Whether there are three of you, fourteen, or five-hundred, whatever you do, do it with your coven.
Another good post Amy.xx