There are days when the news feels like a gentle breeze across the hills of Wales, and there are days when it arrives like a startled raven dropping a scroll at your feet. Today’s scroll contains the latest grand plan from the powers that be, a plan that declares that young people under sixteen must be banished from the digital commons entirely, while those aged sixteen and seventeen must be watched, measured, and gently herded like slightly suspicious sheep. It is a curious thing. A very curious thing indeed.

Because only a short while ago the same government was telling us that sixteen-year-olds are wise enough, mature enough, and responsible enough to help choose the next leaders of the nation. They are old enough to vote, old enough to shape the future, old enough to stand at the ballot box with the rest of us and make decisions that echo through the land. But apparently, they are not old enough to use Facebook.

Of course, this is not really about Facebook, Instagram, Twitter (I refuse to call it X), Or whatever new platform the young people have invented while the rest of us were still trying to remember our passwords. This is about identity.

Because to enforce this new rule, every person in the United Kingdom will need to hand over their personal information to prove who they are before they can step into the digital square. Every account. Every login. Every platform. The gates will not open unless you show your papers.

And once you have shown your papers, the gatekeepers will know exactly who you are, where you are, and what you say. The old dream of anonymity on the internet, that wild and unruly freedom of the early days, will be gone. The masks will be taken away. The names will be written down. The watchers will watch.

Some people are already whispering that this is less about safety and more about surveillance. That this is one more stone placed in the long road toward a world where every citizen is catalogued, monitored, and gently nudged into approved behaviour. A world where the digital realm is no longer a place of exploration but a place of observation.

And then there is the other piece of the puzzle. The forced digital ID. The one that has been creeping toward us like a polite but determined market researcher with a clipboard. Combine that with the new social media rules and you begin to see the shape forming in the mist. A shape that looks uncomfortably familiar.

Some say it resembles Big Brother from the pages of Nineteen Eighty Four. Others say it looks more like The Party from V for Vendetta, that cold and calculating machine that smiles while it tightens the net. I am not saying we are there. I am not saying the sky is falling. But I am saying that when you place these pieces together, when you look at the direction of travel, you cannot help but feel the faintest chill at the back of your neck, and the urge to purchase some Guy Fawkes masks.

I am not a number; I am a free man!

This evening it was the meeting of Valle Crucis Chapter Rose Croix. Since the Craft PGM is now in the Sovereign’s chair thanks to insider dealings, his friend the Sovereign Grand Commander was in attendance. Oddly, since the person who has attended one meeting in the last 8 years was not able to attend rehearsals, and due to VIPs visiting it was decided to have three additional rehearsals (the guy turned up to none of them, but since he refuses to do any work in his year it makes no difference).

Then there was the voting.

Without any committee discussion it was suddenly decided that we would vote on making the Sovereign Grand Commander an honorary member of the Chapter. A noble idea, except that only white balls were handed out. Our choices were therefore yes or yes. The vote passed. A miracle for the ages.

Next came a vote on a re joining member who happens to be a friend of the Sovereign. This time the Director of Ceremonies had overheard whispers about black balls, so two people went around the room. One handed out white balls. The other simply carried the black ones like a ceremonial prop, never offering them to anyone. Once again our choices were yes or yes. The vote passed with great enthusiasm.

Then came the third vote, this time for two new members. The Sovereigns brother and his close friend. I will let you guess how that vote went. You will not need many guesses.

At least the rest of my meetings this year appear to be free of such creative interpretations of democracy. I look forward to gatherings where the ritual is ancient, the symbolism is rich, and the voting system does not resemble a children’s magic trick.

Friday a group of us from Valle Crucis Chapter (Nev, Hugh, & Myself) travelled over to Leicester for a few beers. “Technically” the few beers came about while we were trying to decide what to have for food, and figured we should test the beer in Leicester while we decided.

The main reason for the trip was the Kind Edwards VII Rose Croix Chapter of Improvement were doing demonstrations of two of the Intermediate degrees. The event was being held at Freemasons Hall Leicester, which is the home of the Province of  Leicestershire and Rutland Freemasons.

The hall itself was breathtaking, and then, the museum. What a treasure trove. Cabinets of symbolism, regalia whispering of long‑gone brethren, jewels that have seen more ceremonies than any of us ever will. And Emu eggs carved with images, It was one of those rare spaces where you don’t just look at the past, you feel it leaning in beside you.

The two demonstrations were nothing short of fantastic. Beautifully delivered, deeply symbolic, and performed with that perfect blend of dignity, drama, and heart that Rose Croix does so well. You could feel the room shift as the story unfolded, that quiet, collective moment when everyone realises they’re witnessing something special.

The first day of Volunteer Week rises like a bright banner across Wales, calling us to pause for a moment and honour the people who give their time and their strength simply because it is the right thing to do. These are the men and women who step forward without fanfare, who lift the weight of their communities with steady hands, and who remind us that the heart of a nation is not found in its buildings or its borders but in its people.

Across our valleys and our coastlines volunteers keep the world turning. They guide the lost, comfort the weary, support our hospitals, protect our animals, strengthen our young people and breathe life into every corner of our shared life. They do it with kindness. They do it with courage. They do it because service is a light that never goes out.

Among these quiet heroes stand the volunteers of Blood Bikes Wales. Riders who take to the road in the rain and the dark. Controllers who hold the night together with calm voices and clear minds. Fundraisers who keep the wheels turning. Supporters who stand behind every mile. They carry blood and samples and hope through the small hours when most of the world sleeps. They ride not for glory but for the simple truth that every journey matters and every life is precious.

So as Volunteer Week begins let us raise our heads and honour them all. The unseen. The steadfast. The ones who answer the call without hesitation. Wales is stronger because of them. Wales is kinder because of them. Wales is Wales because of them.

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.