A day like this asks for stillness. It asks for the kind of quiet that settles over the hills of North Wales when the wind finally pauses and the world seems to hold its breath. Today marks the anniversary of the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army, the opening dawn of the Battle of the Somme, when hope and horror walked side by side into the smoke of a new century.

It is strange how anniversaries feel like doorways. You step through them and suddenly the past is not distant at all. It is close enough to touch. Close enough to hear. Close enough to remind you that the stories we inherit are not just lines in a book but echoes of real men who once stood upright and unafraid, even when the world around them was breaking.

On this day in 1916 thousands of young men rose from the trenches at first light. Many had never seen battle before. Many carried letters from home tucked into their tunics. Many believed they were marching into a decisive moment that would change the course of the war. They were right, but not in the way they hoped.
By nightfall the fields of the Somme had become a scar upon the earth. A generation was shaken. Families across Britain and the Commonwealth waited for news that would never come. The scale of loss was so vast that even now it feels mythic, as if the land itself remembers and refuses to let the memory fade.

Yet within that darkness there remains a thread of light. Courage that did not falter. Duty that did not bend. Love that endured even in the face of unimaginable fear. These are the things that survive the centuries. These are the things that shape us still.
So today we pause. We remember. We honour the men who stepped forward into history and never returned. And we carry their memory with the quiet dignity it deserves.

As the old words remind us:
They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

The Saturday sun was already blazing when I abandoned my precious lie in and pointed the car back toward England. Everything seems sunny at the moment, sunny and far too hot, as though the weather itself has joined some grand cosmic conspiracy. This time the road carried me to Shrewsbury, glowing in the morning light like a town carved from warm gold.

It was the final SRIA meeting of the season, so I made my way to Charles Darwin College, that familiar little haven of esoteric curiosity. I dropped off a bundle of certificates for their secretary, then settled in to enjoy a beautifully worked second grade ceremony. I found myself standing in as the Second Ancient, which added a pleasant touch of theatre to the morning. Afterwards we were treated to two papers, both thoughtful, both delivered with that gentle Rosicrucian charm.

Somewhere along the way I realised the number two had taken over the entire day. Second grade. Two candidates. Two papers. Second Ancient. It was as though the universe had decided to tap me on the shoulder and whisper a message in numerical form. I have no idea what the message is, but I am fairly sure it involves the number two, and I am equally sure it will make sense eventually.

A warm day, a sunny town, a final meeting, and a quiet nudge from the cosmos. Not a bad Saturday at all.

The heat hit like a wall the moment I stepped outside, the kind of shimmering, impossible hundred‑degree blaze that makes a man question every life choice that involves wool, lining, and a tie. Yet there I was, stubborn as ever, armouring myself in a suit and setting off toward the river. The old bridge stood there like a patient sentinel, watching me park up and wait for my lift as though this were all part of some ancient ritual.

The designated driver arrived with the cheerfulness of a man who has already accepted his fate. He rolled down the window, grinned, and declared that his air conditioning had died a heroic but final death. And so, like two pilgrims in a mobile sauna, we set off toward Leeds, me bound for a Masonic Hall I had never seen, to join a Masonic Order I had never entered. A new chapter, a new initiation, a new adventure.

It was strangely delightful to be a candidate again. There is a particular humility in standing at the threshold, waiting to be admitted, reminded that every journey begins with that first symbolic step. Even better was being ceremonially kicked out during the Installation later. I genuinely cannot recall the last time I had to leave the room for an Installation, the act itself felt like a warm echo from decades past. A nostalgic tug, a reminder of younger days when everything was new and every ceremony felt like stepping into myth.

Afterwards, the day softened into something wonderfully ordinary. We stopped for Chinese on the way home, the kind of unplanned feast that becomes the perfect punctuation mark at the end of a long, symbolic sentence. The meal was fantastic, rich, comforting, exactly what the day needed and it closed the adventure with a sense of quiet satisfaction.

A blazing morning, a broken aircon, a new Order, a nostalgic exile, and a glorious Chinese banquet. A great day, woven together with heat, humour, and a touch of ceremony.

​This evening I attended Clwyd College at Mostyn, for my fourth Rosicrucian event this month.

It was our Installation meeting, which went exceptionally well considering the College Secretary had quit all things Masonic so there was a few organised in a rush. This meant we were missing several members, and the new celebrant had not organised a celebrants talk. It is traditional in the SRIA for the celebrant to present a paper on the night he goes into the chair.

I had a feeling this might be the case, so the morning of the meeting I had grabbed some notes I had from some research I was doing, and put together a short, and hopefully slightly funny talk taking the members with me on a quest to find the Holy Grail. I even managed to get several Monty Python references in there.

Sometimes you just need back up plans.

This evening carried that familiar blend of quiet anticipation and gentle chaos that seems to follow me around the Rosicrucian world. I made my way to Clwyd College at Mostyn for what turned out to be my fourth Rosicrucian gathering this month, a detail that suggests either admirable dedication or a worrying lack of hobbies. It was our Installation meeting, always a moment of ceremony and transition, and despite the hurdles it unfolded with surprising grace.

The College Secretary had recently stepped away from all things Masonic, which meant several parts of the evening had been assembled at speed. A few chairs were empty, a few roles redistributed, and the new celebrant had not prepared the traditional celebrant’s paper that should accompany his ascent into the chair. In the SRIA this is not a small omission. The talk is part of the rhythm of the Order, a moment where scholarship meets symbolism and the new celebrant sets the tone for his year.

I had suspected this might happen. There is a particular silence that descends when someone has not prepared a lecture, and I could hear that silence forming long before the meeting. So earlier that morning I gathered a few notes from some research I had been doing and shaped them into a short talk. Nothing too heavy, nothing too academic, just a playful little quest for the Holy Grail with enough humour to keep the room awake and enough Monty Python references to ensure the brethren were smiling rather than bracing themselves for a dissertation.

It went down well. The room laughed in the right places, nodded in the thoughtful ones, and for a few minutes we all wandered together through myth, mystery, and the gentle absurdity that makes our Order so endearing.

Sometimes you simply need a back up plan.

Today was nothing short of fantastic. One of those rare days when the world seems to lean in your direction and give you a wink. The sun, that elusive mythical creature that has spent the better part of three decades hiding behind the mountains of North Wales, finally decided to step out and shine with the confidence of a bard who has just remembered all the words to his own song.

When the sun appears in this part of the world, it is not simply weather. It is a sign. A blessing. A celestial nudge that says, Go on lad, make something of this. So I did what any sensible Welshman would do when the heavens open in approval. I quietly slipped across the border into England for the Province of Western Counties and North Wales SRIA Vault of Adepts meeting.

Three ceremonies awaited us, each one rich, resonant, and beautifully worked. The kind of ritual that settles into the bones and reminds you why we do any of this in the first place. There is a particular stillness in a well delivered ceremony, a sense that the room itself is listening, that the very air is holding its breath. Today had that in abundance.

And then came the meal. A simple thing on the surface, but as every Adept knows, fellowship is the true heart of our Order. Good company, good conversation, and that warm sense of belonging that lingers long after the plates are cleared. There is a magic in shared bread and shared laughter that no ritual book can fully capture. It is the quiet alchemy of companionship, the kind that turns strangers into brothers and brothers into friends.

If there was a downside, it is only this. Now the countdown begins. A whole year until the next one. Twelve long months before we gather again in that same spirit of learning, fellowship, and gentle mischief.

But what a day to carry with us until then. A day lit by the sun, shaped by ceremony, and sealed with fellowship. A reminder that even in a world that often feels uncertain, there are still moments that shine with purpose.

Markham’s Brotherhood:

The Rosicrucian Manifestos in Modern English

By Steven E. Markham
Published by Ferret Books in 2019

For students of Rosicrucianism, Western esotericism, and the great currents of thought that helped shape modern Freemasonry, Markham’s Brotherhood is a welcome and valuable companion. Steven E Markham has taken on the formidable task of translating the three foundational Rosicrucian texts, the Fama Fraternitatis of 1614, the Confessio Fraternitatis of 1615, and the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz of 1616, into clear and readable modern English while preserving the spirit, strangeness, and symbolic fire of the originals.

One of the book’s greatest strengths is its accessibility. The original manifestos, whether encountered in early English translations or in scholarly editions, can feel like wading through a philosophical marsh in the dark. Markham clears the path without flattening the landscape. His prose flows with an easy rhythm, allowing readers to focus on the ideas rather than wrestle with archaic language. The mystery remains, but the fog lifts.

The accompanying notes and annotations are equally valuable. Markham does not drown the reader in interpretation. Instead, he offers just enough historical and symbolic context to illuminate difficult passages while encouraging readers to form their own conclusions. This balance between guidance and restraint is essential when dealing with texts that have inspired centuries of debate, speculation, and esoteric commentary. He understands that the Rosicrucian tradition is not a puzzle to be solved but a journey to be undertaken.

The book also succeeds in showing why the Rosicrucian manifestos remain historically significant. Their influence reached far beyond the world of occult philosophy, inspiring thinkers such as Robert Fludd and Elias Ashmole and contributing to intellectual movements that would eventually intersect with Freemasonry, Hermeticism, and the broader Western esoteric tradition. Markham restores that sense of living context, reminding us that these texts once stirred Europe like a sudden wind.

Visually, the inclusion of illustrations enriches the experience. The artwork complements the text without overwhelming it, reinforcing the symbolic atmosphere that surrounds the Rosicrucian tradition. It feels less like reading a book and more like stepping into a chamber where old ideas still breathe.

If the book has a limitation, it is only that readers seeking a heavily academic or critical edition may find the commentary lighter than expected. But that is not Markham’s purpose. His aim is not to build a fortress of scholarship but to open a doorway. In that respect he succeeds with grace.

Overall, Markham’s Brotherhood is an excellent introduction to the Rosicrucian manifestos and a worthy addition to the library of anyone interested in esoteric history, mysticism, alchemy, Rosicrucianism, or the philosophical roots of Freemasonry. It achieves the rare feat of making a notoriously difficult body of literature approachable while preserving its depth, symbolism, and sense of wonder.

A thoughtful, readable, and respectful modern rendering of some of the most influential texts in Western esotericism.