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 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.

Coronation Lodge No. 2927 has a quarterly Masonic Publication associated with it called Coronatio Quadrans, or CQ for short.

One part of the publication is “Question from the Master” This is where the Lodge’s Worshipful Master asks a esoteric or masonic question to the Lodge Mentor who will answer it in an article in the next edition. After the Mentor answers the question, the “Question” is thrown open to all, and anyone can try and answer it themselves anonymously. The CQ Editors will read all the submissions and pick the best which gets published in CQ.

The Question in CQ Vol 9 was “Choosing one or more points I would like you to consider the history, and significance of the use of Tracing Boards in Freemasonry; the symbolism contained within regarding their associated degrees, how they convey the meaning of the respective ritual; the evolution of the symbolism, the style of imagery presented across the centuries and evolving culture, and what, if anything you would include or omit to make them more useful vehicles for conveying their intended meaning?“

This time the question was more like a series of questions, or such an open ended question you could almost write about anything and still manage to get it to fit into the range covered by the question. I decided to write something about how tracing boards used to be special and taught a lot, while now they are mass produced and some of the teachings have been lost.

So, I won.

“What did you win?” you ask, (yes I heard you. I have explained in an old blog post, I can hear you when you speak out loud while reading this site).

Well my prize is that I get to write an article on any topic of my choice, and it will get published in the next edition of CQ.

ANYTHING!

So now I need to think of what I would like to write about.

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 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.

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.