I have taken a step back from Freemasonry in North Wales for a simple reason. The rot in the system has become too obvious to ignore. Not the gentle moss that grows on an old stone wall, but the sort of creeping decay that makes you stop, fold your arms, and mutter something unprintable under your breath. I have spoken about it before in passing, and there are more than a few example and example that would make any sensible person raise an eyebrow.

My calendar tells the story better than I ever could. From January to April last year I had around twenty five meetings, not counting the Administrative work I did. A full season of ritual, fellowship, and the usual dance of obligations. This year the same months offered me five. Five. A number so small it feels like the universe is tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, Wayne, lad, take the hint.

And yet, in the middle of this quiet withdrawal, May arrived like a bard kicking open the tavern door. Seven events in one month. More than the rest of the year combined. It was as if the world had decided to remind me that even when you step back from one path, life has a habit of throwing open another. Seven gatherings. Seven moments of community. Seven reminders that my story is not tied to a single institution, no matter how many chairs I have sat in or how many aprons I have worn. It felt like the year itself cleared its throat and said, You may rest from the old duties, but do not imagine for a moment that your calendar will stay empty.