St Swithin has always been one of those saints who feels less like a figure from a dusty manuscript and more like a quiet companion who walks beside us through the British summer. His day arrives every fifteenth of July, slipping into the calendar with a kind of gentle authority, and suddenly the weather feels as though it has stepped into an old story. The legend is simple, memorable and wonderfully dramatic. Whatever the sky chooses today it will keep choosing for forty days more.

The old rhyme still carries its charm:

St Swithin’s day, if thou dost rain,

For forty days it will remain.

St Swithin’s day, if thou be fair,

For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.

A neat little prophecy wrapped in four lines. A reminder that our ancestors watched the clouds with the same mixture of hope and dread that we do.

And today the sun is not merely fair. It is triumphant. It is hot, so very very hot. The kind of heat that makes the air wobble above the roads and the kind of heat that makes every Welsh hillside look as though it is glowing from within. You step outside and the world feels like a kiln. You step back inside and the world feels like a sauna. Even the shade seems to have given up and joined the sun in its mischief.

If the old rhyme holds true we are now standing at the doorway of forty more days of this blazing splendour. Forty days of shirts sticking to backs. Forty days of cold drinks vanishing faster than you can pour them. Forty days of dogs lying on cool floors with expressions that say they blame us personally for the weather. There is something delightful about it though. Something mythic. As if the land has decided to remind us that folklore is not dead. It is alive and warm and occasionally scorching.

St Swithin’s Day always feels like a moment when the past taps us on the shoulder. Today it has done so with a sunbeam that feels more like a spotlight. We are living inside a story and the story is glowing.

Now, in the spirit of survival and sanity, does anyone know of any good ice cream machines?

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.

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.

National Wayne Day, celebrated on March 26 each year, is a fun and quirky holiday dedicated to people named Wayne and honoring the individuals who share this name. It is a day to celebrate the unique qualities, contributions, and stories of those named Wayne, whether they are well-known celebrities, public figures, or everyday people.

History of National Wayne Day
The origins of National Wayne Day are not entirely clear, but it seems to have emerged as a way for people named Wayne to celebrate their name and its significance in various contexts. The day has grown in popularity, especially among those who enjoy unique and offbeat holidays. While no major historical event directly links to this day, it serves as an opportunity for people to celebrate their name and share their experiences with others.

Goals of the Day
National Wayne Day aims to achieve several key goals:

• To celebrate people named Wayne and their contributions to society.
• To promote the value of personal identity and the uniqueness of names.
• To create a sense of community among people named Wayne and their admirers.
• To encourage lighthearted fun and recognition of lesser-known holidays.

On this most Welsh of days, when daffodils bloom, dragons stir, and even the leeks stand tall with pride. We raise a toast (of water, if we’re being strangely saintly) to Dewi Sant, our patron of piety, poetry, and peculiar diets.

Born in the 6th century on a stormy Pembrokeshire clifftop (because of course he was), St David lived a life so austere he made monks look like party animals. He preached, he prayed, he founded monasteries, and he famously lived on leeks and water. No beer. No meat. No nonsense (AKA Insanity). Just spiritual grit and a dove on his shoulder.

Legend says that when he spoke at Llanddewi Brefi, the ground itself rose beneath him so all could hear, proving that even the earth couldn’t resist a good Welsh sermon.

His final words? “Gwnewch y pethau bychain” or “Do the little things”.
A reminder that greatness often begins with small acts, quiet kindness, and the occasional leek.

So today, whether you’re wearing a daffodil, baking Welsh cakes, or just whispering “Cymru am byth” to your coffee, know that you’re part of a proud, poetic, and slightly eccentric lineage.

Happy St David’s Day, dear friends.
May your dragons be fierce, your leeks be fresh, and your little things be legendary.

As tradition demands, it’s time for the annual reminder of the official survival rules, because nothing says “I value my life” like refusing to behave like a horror‑movie extra.

So, for those wishing to make it safely to Saturday the 14th, please observe the following:

• ❌ Don’t go swimming. Lakes, rivers, ponds… if it’s wet, avoid it.
• ❌ Don’t have sex. Horror‑movie law. I don’t make the rules.
• ❌ Don’t smoke. The killer can smell irresponsibility.
• ❌ Don’t drink. Yes, I know, tragic!!.
• ❌ Don’t go out. The outside world is where the plot happens.
• ❌ Don’t split up. Ever. Even to “just check something.”
• ❌ Don’t run from the killer. They have Olympic‑level cardio.
• ❌ If you trip, get up immediately. Don’t lie there screaming like a Victorian fainting goat.

And above all, for the love of God… TURN ON THE LIGHT before entering any room. Darkness is where the soundtrack gets ominous.

Follow these simple guidelines and you might just survive the day without being chased by a masked man with questionable hobbies.

Stay safe, stay sensible, and for the love of all that is holy… don’t investigate strange noises.

To the Welsh among us: “Happy Santes Dwynwen Day!”
May your love be as enduring as a slate roof in a storm and your pronunciation confuse at least three Englishmen before lunchtime.

To the Scots: “Happy Rabbie Burns Day/Night!”
May your haggis be hearty, your whisky be flowing, and your poetry only slightly slurred by the end of the evening.

And to the rest of you non‑Celts…
Well… tough luck.

Today is for dragons, thistles, ancient saints, questionable folklore, and people who can win an argument using only vowels.

You may observe from a respectful distance and bring snacks

Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!

As we step across the threshold into 2026, I want to send each of you my heartfelt thanks and my fiercest good wishes. Another year has turned its page, and here we stand, wiser, a little more battle‑tested, and still carrying that spark that refuses to go out.

May 2026 bring you courage in the face of uncertainty, laughter in unexpected places, and moments of quiet triumph that remind you who you are. May your path be lit by good people, good purpose, and the occasional bit of Welsh magic when you need it most.

Here’s to resilience, to community, and to the stories we’ve yet to write.

Raise a glass, steady your stride, and step boldly into the year ahead.

Onward into 2026 – stronger, stranger, and absolutely unstoppable.