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.

There is a question that is tearing the Internet apart, and no it is not about a dress and is it Black/Blue or White/Gold.

It is:-

Everyone on earth takes a private vote by pressing a red or blue button. If more than 50% of people press the blue button, everyone survives. If less than 50% of people press the blue button, only people who pressed the red button survive. Which button would you press? BE HONEST.

There is a strange fury in the air again. Not the dress debate this time, but something far more ridiculous. People are shouting, people are threatening, people are declaring that they refuse to live in a world ruled by Red button pushers. All this rage over a question so simple that even a sleepy druid could answer it before breakfast.

The answer is Red. It has always been Red. Any other choice is an act of heroic foolishness.

Red means nothing happens. Blue means there is a chance you die. This is not philosophy. This is not ethics. This is not a riddle from an ancient temple. It is basic survival.

Someone explained it perfectly. Imagine you are standing beside a railway track as a train thunders toward you. Red is simply standing still and letting the train pass. Blue is leaping in front of the train in the hope that enough other people also leap in front of it that the train eventually slows down. Would you leap in front of that train. Would you trust your life to the hope that strangers will hurl themselves under the wheels beside you.

Or imagine you are handed a bottle of poison. Red is to put the bottle down and walk away. Blue is to drink the poison and hope that enough other people also drink it that someone somewhere decides to invent an antidote. Would you drink the poison.

The problem is not the question. The problem is the age we live in. An age where some people are so desperate to appear virtuous that they will choose Blue simply to show how caring they are. They declare that they must press Blue to save anyone foolish enough to press Blue, without noticing that they have just placed themselves in the very category they claim to be rescuing.

This is what happens when the world becomes so padded with safety warnings that even the profoundly unwise are protected from the consequences of their own decisions. They begin to believe that danger is optional, that risk is a story told to frighten children, and that pressing Blue is noble because surely someone else will step in to save them.

The truth is simpler. Many people do not understand the question. They want to feel like heroes. They want to be seen as compassionate. They want applause for choosing the path that looks selfless, even if it endangers millions. Give them a button that says nothing bad will happen if you press this and they will refuse to press it because it does not make them feel special.

And so they choose Blue. And they call it kindness. And they call it courage. And they call it moral superiority.

But it is none of those things. It is vanity dressed as virtue.

Humanity is not doomed, not yet, but it is certainly wobbling on its stool while trying to reach the biscuit tin on the top shelf.

I have returned from the SRIA High Council meeting with my mind humming like a golden hive in midsummer, every cell alive with ideas, symbols, and the soft crackle of revelation. There is something wonderfully absurd about it. Every year I think, surely this is the summit, surely they cannot climb any higher without sprouting wings. And every year they simply smile, adjust their robes, and ascend another invisible staircase into yet another chamber of wonder.

The talks were not merely lectures. They were a procession, a pilgrimage, a slow drifting through the great cathedral of human thought. We wandered through the living landscape of Tarot, where archetypes breathe and whisper. We stepped into the deep forest of Shamanism, where the world is stitched together by spirit and story. Then, with a sudden turn worthy of a Greek chorus, we found ourselves contemplating Artificial Intelligence, that strange new creature humanity has called into being, half mirror and half mystery.

From there we drifted into Alchemy, that ancient art of turning both metals and minds into something brighter. We touched on History, Greek philosophy, Qabbala, and a dozen other winding paths that twist through the labyrinth of human understanding. It felt less like attending a conference and more like being handed a library card for the universe, stamped and approved by the custodians of hidden knowledge.

What astonishes me most is how the gathering keeps improving. Year after year they manage to summon the right people, the right subjects, and the right spirit of curiosity. It is as if the entire event is guided by an invisible compass that always points toward inspiration, no matter how the world outside may wobble or wander.

So here is to the speakers, the organisers, the seekers, and the quietly brilliant minds who make the SRIA High Council meeting such a joy. Long may it continue to grow, evolve, and surprise us. And long may we return home with our heads buzzing, our hearts lifted, and our spirits nudged a little closer to whatever truth waits just beyond the next veil.

Earlier today, I took a brief hiatus from haunting the digital wilds and shaking my metaphorical walking stick at the TikTok generation to wander down to the Maesgwyn Masonic Hall. Every now and then it’s good for a man to step out of the algorithmic shadows and remind the world that he exists in three dimensions, not just as a sarcastic ripple in the newsfeed.

This particular outing was for an Open Day, a chance to pull back the curtain on this so‑called “secret society” of ours and show the world what Freemasonry is actually about. Spoiler: it’s not all bout world domination, lizard people, or coded handshakes that unlock the vaults of the Illuminati. It’s a mix of making friends, helping deserving causes, and having a damn good hobby. In other words: community, charity, and the occasional biscuit.

The event was a brilliant opportunity for anyone curious to meet both Male and Female Freemasons and learn about the wide constellation of charities the fraternity supports. As someone who has spent twelve of the last thirteen years in one Masonic chair or another, it does my heart good to see the Craft standing proudly as part of the community rather than lurking in the background like a Victorian uncle with too many secrets.

And speaking of community, Blood Bikes Wales were there in force, engines gleaming, bikes lined up like a cavalry of red‑liveried dragons. Their presence was a heartfelt thank‑you to the North Wales Masons for the incredible support we’ve received over the years. As many of you know, I’ve been giving presentations for Blood Bikes since 2017, and through those talks we’ve raised over £50,000 for this vital cause. Seeing that support reflected back today reminded me exactly why I pour so much energy into those presentations. It’s not just fundraising, it’s fellowship in motion.

Of course, the Blood Bikes weren’t the only ambassadors in the car park. We were accompanied by: –

• St John Ambulance — the ever‑reliable healers in green
• North Wales Mountain Rescue — the heroes who go uphill so the rest of us don’t have to
• The Widows Sons — our leather‑clad brethren on two wheels

Now, regarding the Widows Sons, today was a perfect chance to dispel a few myths. As I wrote in my book, people sometimes see our patches and assume they’re looking at an outlaw biker gang. To be fair, we do have some members who look like they were carved out of granite and taught to frown by a thunder god, but the truth is far more wholesome. We are Masonic Ambassadors on two wheels, blending the brotherhood of the square and compasses with the freedom of the open road. Less “Sons of Anarchy,” more “Sons of Harmony.”

It was, in every sense, a day for dragons, community, and that particular flavour of Welsh magic that sparks when good people gather for a good purpose. Whether you came to admire the big shiny motorcycles or to find out how to become a better citizen of the world, the message was the same: even in a world that feels increasingly fragile, the spark of community service refuses to go out.

And that, perhaps, is the quiet miracle of days like this. They remind us that the world isn’t held together by grand speeches or sweeping gestures, but by ordinary people choosing, again and again, to show up, help out, and be part of something bigger than themselves.

On this VE Day, I pause… as many of us do, to honour a generation who faced down the darkest storm the world had ever seen and still found the strength to rebuild, laugh again, and put the kettle on.

It’s easy to romanticise history, to wrap it in sepia tones and stirring music, but the truth is far more powerful: ordinary people did extraordinary things. Not because they were fearless, but because they were needed. Because someone had to stand up. Because the world had to be made safe for those who would come after.

And in that spirit, I like to imagine the veterans of 1945 looking at us today with a raised eyebrow, the kind that says, “What are you doing? Be better people! We didn’t do all that for nothing.”

So here’s to them:
To the courage, the sacrifice, the stubborn hope.
To the women who kept the country running.
To the men who never came home.
To the families who carried on.
To the quiet heroes who never called themselves heroes.

May we remember them not just with silence, but with action, with kindness, service, and the occasional bit of well‑aimed mischief that reminds us we’re still alive, still free, and still capable of shaping the world they handed to us.

We will remember them.

Today I went up into the hills to do something that actually matters for our collective future. I went to vote in what is undoubtedly the biggest and most important vote in our history as a nation. We are currently standing at a threshold where we have to decide if we are going to keep surrendering to the decline. For far too long we have been sitting at the bottom of the pile for almost everything that matters. We are currently suffering with the worst schooling and the worst education of all the home nations. Our healthcare system is in a state of decay and our roads are being intentionally ruined by people who clearly do not value the freedom of the open road. Our economy is struggling and it is a rot that has been allowed to spread for way too long.

This was our one chance to try and fix the issues that have been building up under years of the same leadership. It was a chance to vote for the possibility of a none labour Welsh government for the first time ever. I have made no secret of the fact that I want an end to this current regime and today I finally put my mark where my mouth is.

To be born Welsh is to be born privileged with music in your heart and poetry in your soul. But that privilege comes with a heavy responsibility to protect our heritage and our future. We cannot keep allowing an army of clipboard holding jobsworths to manage our decline while they see liability in every footstep and ruin in every policy. I am an INDIVIDUAL and I refuse to be pigeon holed or told to worship at the heel of those who think they are superior. Today was my own small act of defiance against the encroaching dark. I can only hope that when the dealing is done we see the first spark of dawn for a better and more prosperous Wales.

But that is not what this post is about. Not today. No, today is about an actual change, the kind that makes you stop mid stride and wonder if the world has finally decided to surprise you after three decades of doing the same thing in the same way with the same people.

Ever since I moved to this corner of Wales thirty years ago, every vote has followed the same ancient rhythm. The same trek up into the hills, the same slow climb toward the old hall that looks as if it was built by a committee of druids who ran out of enthusiasm halfway through. Inside, the same two venerable guardians of democracy, who appear to have been carved from oak sometime during the reign of Henry the Eighth, sit behind the same table with the same expressions of polite bewilderment.

Nothing ever changes. Not the room. Not the ritual. Not the gentle smell of dust and civic duty. It has always felt less like voting and more like participating in a seasonal rite, as if I should bring an offering of bread and mead to ensure a good harvest. If you want a reminder of how this little pilgrimage has always unfolded, you can wander back through my older ramblings and revisit the scene. You might start with this ONE where I described the whole affair in loving detail, right down to the creaking floorboards and the eternal nod of the two guardians of the register.

But today was different. Today the air felt charged, as if someone had opened a window in a room that had been closed for far too long. Something had shifted. Something had stirred. And for the first time in thirty years, I found myself thinking that perhaps the old hall on the hill was not just a relic of the past, but a doorway into whatever comes next.

The two unchanging guardians of the sacred voting booth were nowhere to be seen. You know the ones I mean. The people who point you toward the pencil that is taped to a piece of string, the pencil that has seen more elections than most politicians, the pencil with which you make your solemn mark on a bit of paper before dropping it into what is essentially a ceremonial bucket. Those guardians. The eternal watchers of the register. The custodians of the sacred tick.

Gone.

In their place stood two young people. Actual young people. Bright eyed. Upright. Awake. The heavy quiet that usually hangs in the room like the breath of an elderly librarian had been replaced with friendliness and chirpiness and even a spark of excitement at the sight of human beings arriving to vote. It was unsettling in the best possible way, like discovering that the ancient stone circle at the top of the hill has suddenly installed a coffee machine.

I do not know what happened to the elder pair. Were they replaced. Did they finally retire. Or did some unfortunate souls who turned up to vote get used in a strange ceremony involving candles and chanting and possibly a wicker man in order to rejuvenate the guardians into younger forms. I am not saying this happened. I am simply saying that if it did, it would explain a lot.

And now the questions begin to whisper at the back of my mind.

Have they always been there.
Will they always be there.
And now that I suspect them, is it even safe for me to ever go back and vote.

Because once you start noticing these things, once you begin to tug at the loose thread of the familiar, you never quite know what might unravel. Perhaps the voting hall is older and stranger than any of us realised. Perhaps the guardians are part of some ancient civic order that predates the council tax. Or perhaps they simply fancied a day off.

Either way, the world has shifted. The ritual has changed. And I find myself wondering what other small miracles or mild terrors await me the next time I climb that hill to cast my vote.

A very happy Star Wars Day to all who celebrate the ancient Jedi tradition of doing the right thing even when it’s wildly inconvenient and involves travelling great distances with questionable navigation droids.

And let’s be honest: if the Jedi were here in Wales today, they wouldn’t be gliding around in starships or meditating on some windswept cliff.
No! they’d be on a Blood Bike, riding for Blood Bikes Wales.

Because what is a Jedi if not someone who gives their time freely, rides out at all hours, and answers the call for the benefit of all? A lightsaber is impressive, yes… but try delivering urgent medical supplies across North Wales in the rain at all hours. That’s real heroism.

I can absolutely picture it: Cloak billowing, visor down, the Force guiding them through the roundabouts of North Wales while an AT‑AT sulks in the background because it can’t corner as well as a Blood Bike

So on this May the Fourth, here’s to the real guardians of peace and wellbeing, the volunteers who ride not for glory, but for service. The Jedi would be proud.
And they’d definitely want a go on the bike.

May the Fourth be with you, and may the road rise to meet every rider who serves the galaxy, one delivery at a time.

My poor old Kindle is about to be exiled to the wilds by Amazon, banished like some elderly hermit who has dared to outlive the fashions of the age. No more buying, no more downloading, no more anything. After years of loyal service, the little thing is being marched off into digital retirement and straight toward a landfill. And for what? Because it has a keyboard. A keyboard. The sheer audacity of functioning buttons in the year twenty twenty six. The horror.

And as if that were not enough to make a grown man sigh into his tea, my other Kindle, the Paperwhite, is also on the chopping block. Two perfectly good, perfectly functional devices, still holding charge, still doing their job every single day, being nudged toward the great electronic graveyard because someone in a boardroom has decided they are too old. Electronic wastage dressed up as progress, like putting a fancy hat on a donkey and insisting it is a racehorse.

All because it is apparently too expensive to update the software on older Kindles to handle the new book format Amazon is pushing in the name of stronger digital rights management. Stronger for whom, exactly? Certainly not for the reader. Do you not long for the days when buying a book meant the book actually belonged to you, rather than being rented from a distant corporate overlord who can revoke it at will?

I mean honestly, Amazon, if you are going to force me into an upgrade, can I at least stack the twenty percent discount from both devices and stroll off with a smug forty percent? It seems only fair at this point. 😄

I used to be genuinely disgusted by the Metropolitan Police and their new policy that requires every Freemason to declare their membership. At the time it felt like yet another strange idea born from the old conspiracy theories that cling to the Craft. The claim that membership needed to be recorded in order to prevent corruption struck me as unfair, unnecessary, and completely out of proportion. It seemed wrong that Freemasons were being singled out while countless other groups were not. What about the Lions, the Round Table, the RAC, the AA, any hobby club, fan club, band, choir, Scouts, Guides, St Johns, charity groups, or even family associations. Every group or association on earth could be described as a place where two members might look out for one another or do a favour.

For a long time I supported Grand Lodge in their opposition to the policy. I believed the whole thing was misguided and that it placed an unreasonable burden on ordinary members who had done nothing wrong. But recent events have forced me to rethink my position. My view has shifted completely. I now find myself fully on the side of the Metropolitan Police. I believe that Freemasons should be registered and that proper oversight is necessary.

I will now explain why my views have shifted so dramatically.

I am in Rose Croix, and as in every other order there is a steady progression. People on the ladder usually move up one step at the annual Installation meeting. This year the Brother who was due to go into the chair had been unwell for some time. He was not really strong enough to take the chair, but he dearly wanted to, and we were prepared to support him and make it work. Then, in the weeks leading up to the Installation, quiet conversations began to circulate. The Craft Provincial Grand Master wanted to go into the chair of Rose Croix.

I should make it clear that he is indeed a member. He joined, attended for about a year, and then vanished for eight or more years. Now he wished to go through the chair so that he could be made a Thirtieth Degree Mason. The quiet talk suggested that the plan was to hold back everyone on the ladder who should have been promoted this year and simply place the PGM at the top of the list.

More details then leaked out, and the truth was even worse than that. The plan was not only to jump the PGM ahead of everyone who turns up to every meeting and does the work. The plan was to put his name at the top of the line, then on the night when the Master was due to be installed, make that Brother step down because of his health and place the PGM in the chair for one single meeting. He would only need to attend once, do nothing, and then receive his Thirtieth Degree, even though every other member must perform every part of the ritual before becoming eligible.

Sadly the Brother who was due to take the chair became too ill to continue, and the plan had to be rushed. They placed the PGM directly into the chair on his first appearance in eight years. The difficulty was that the order has rules, and those rules state clearly that he was not eligible to go into the chair. The Secretary therefore wrote to the powers above, explaining that the Brother due to be installed was too ill to advance and that no one else was eligible, and asking for a special dispensation to allow the PGM to take the chair even though he did not meet the requirements. As a side note, every single member of our Chapter is more eligible to take the chair than the PGM.

Since the PGM is friendly with those in authority, the dispensation was granted. He was placed in the chair, and he will no doubt receive his higher degrees without doing the work. Not through merit, not through effort, but simply because he holds office in another order.

This is why my view has changed completely. If some Freemasons are willing to trample over their own Brethren in order to advance themselves, then it raises a troubling question. If they will do this to fellow Masons, what might they do to people who are not Masons?

The idea is delightfully simple: for 30 days, you post once a day in response to a book-themed question. That’s it. No essays, no footnotes, no need to summon the ghost of Shakespeare, just honest answers, curious reflections, and maybe a few cheeky confessions about your reading habits. I have decided to take part this year, and since I picked a month with 31 days (I know it would have made more sense to use a 30 day one) I am using March 1st to explain what I am doing.

Each day brings a new prompt: favourite characters, memorable endings, guilty pleasures, and the books that made you weep, rage, or fall in love with the written word. It’s a gentle nudge to celebrate your literary life, one post at a time.

So why not give it a go? Dust off your bookshelf, sharpen your wit, and join the challenge. Thirty days. Thirty questions. One slightly eccentric bookworm’s journey through the pages.

DAY 30. – Book you couldn’t put down.

I have read many books that I simply could not put down, the sort that keep you awake long past any sensible bedtime. You know the feeling. You tell yourself, just one more chapter and then I will sleep. Only you never do. The next thing you know it is three in the morning and you are still turning pages with the determination of someone who has abandoned all thoughts of rest.

So which one of these unforgettable reads do I choose.

My pick is Outside The Gates of Eden: A Tale of 1970s Life During The Cold War by Julius Harlande.

It is a gripping story set in the early years of the Cold War, filled with atmosphere, tension, and a sense of possibility that feels entirely real. The world Harlande creates is so grounded in actual places, genuine science, and the mood of the era that you can almost believe you are reading a true account rather than a novel. Every chapter pulls you deeper in, and before you know it you are completely lost in that world.

It was one of those rare books where I genuinely could not stop reading. It held me from the first page to the last, and even after I finished it, the story stayed with me for days.