Hexing the Bomb

Hot on the heels of my little foray into the Battle of the Beanfield I decided to dig a little deeper into another important and largely forgotten nugget of social history. This one incorporates a couple of my favourite subjects, neither of which is politics. It does, however, have women standing up together and achieving the seemingly impossible. And witches.

Pull up a chair… 🙂

There are moments in history when politics, folklore and belief collide in ways that seem almost impossible to imagine. One such moment unfolded on the windswept perimeter fences of Greenham Common during the final decades of the Cold War, when thousands of women gathered to oppose the presence of American nuclear missiles on British soil. Among the banners, songs and acts of civil disobedience was something few journalists expected to find at the heart of a major political protest. Witches.

For nearly two decades, Greenham Common became one of the most significant centres of peace activism in modern British history. It was a place of arrests, demonstrations, campfires and confrontation. It was also a place where ancient symbols found new life. Women danced in circles, wove webs across military fences, invoked goddesses, cast symbolic spells and drew upon centuries of folklore to challenge one of the most powerful military alliances in the world.

To understand why, we must first return to a Britain gripped by fear.

The early 1980s were shadowed by the threat of nuclear war. Relations between East and West had deteriorated. The Soviet Union and NATO were engaged in a dangerous arms race. Television viewers watched films such as Threads and The Day After, which depicted the horrific consequences of nuclear conflict. Schoolchildren grew up with the knowledge that a single political miscalculation could end civilisation in an afternoon.

Against this backdrop, the British government agreed to host American cruise missiles at RAF Greenham Common in Berkshire. To supporters, the deployment was a necessary deterrent. To opponents, it made Britain a target and increased the likelihood of nuclear confrontation.

In September 1981, a small group of Welsh women marched from Cardiff to Greenham Common. Their intention was straightforward. They wanted a public debate about nuclear weapons. When their concerns were ignored, some chose to remain.

Few could have imagined that their decision would create one of the most influential protest movements in modern British history.

The Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp became a permanent presence outside the military base. Women arrived from every corner of Britain and beyond. Some stayed for days. Others remained for years. Grandmothers camped alongside students. Teachers shared fires with artists, nurses, activists and travellers. The camp developed its own culture, traditions and rituals.

Media coverage was often hostile. Newspapers portrayed the women as scruffy, eccentric or dangerous. Politicians dismissed them as naïve. Yet Greenham continued to grow. By December 1982, around 30,000 women joined hands around the nine-mile perimeter fence in one of the largest demonstrations Britain had ever seen.

As the movement evolved, some participants began drawing upon folklore, mythology and spiritual traditions to express their opposition to nuclear weapons.

For many women involved in the peace camp, the figure of the witch held profound significance.The witch has never been simply a character from fairy tales. Across European history she has represented independence, resistance and the refusal to conform. She is the village healer, the wise woman, the outsider and the scapegoat. She embodies knowledge that exists beyond accepted authority.

Many women at Greenham recognised parallels between historical witch hunts and contemporary attempts to dismiss or marginalise female voices. The image of the witch became a powerful symbol of protest.

Some protesters identified as pagans or practitioners of modern witchcraft. Others were not religious at all but embraced the symbolism. Together they transformed folklore into a political language.

At various demonstrations, women dressed as witches, carrying besoms and wearing pointed hats. They conducted symbolic rituals outside the base gates. Circles were formed. Chants were spoken. Songs echoed through the Berkshire countryside.

Perhaps most striking were the webs.Women frequently attached ribbons, wool, photographs, toys and personal objects to the military fences. These creations resembled enormous spider webs stretching across the perimeter. They symbolised connection, community and the fragile threads linking humanity together. Military planners saw security barriers. The women transformed them into canvases for storytelling.

One protest became known as the “Embrace the Base” demonstration, during which thousands of women encircled Greenham Common. The act itself echoed ancient traditions of protective circles and boundary rituals found throughout British folklore.In many folk traditions, circles create sacred space. They mark a distinction between the ordinary and the extraordinary. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Greenham’s protesters drew upon symbolism that would have been recognised by generations of cunning folk, ceremonial magicians and village communities.

There were also reports of symbolic spell-casting directed not at individuals but at the weapons themselves.

These actions were largely theatrical and symbolic. Yet symbolism has always been one of humanity’s most powerful tools. Flags, crowns, crosses and national monuments derive their power from collective belief. Greenham’s witches understood this. They recognised that ritual could attract attention, build solidarity and create memorable images capable of travelling far beyond the camp itself.Photographs from the period remain remarkable. Women dance beneath military floodlights. Costumed protesters stand before coils of razor wire. Sacred imagery appears alongside anti-nuclear slogans. Ancient archetypes confront modern technology.

The contrast could hardly have been more dramatic.

Behind the spectacle lay a serious philosophical question. How should ordinary people respond when faced with systems that appear too vast to challenge?

For some, the answer lay in petitions or political lobbying. For others, it involved direct action. At Greenham, many women chose creativity. They responded to missiles with songs, fences with artwork and military authority with myth.

It is tempting to dismiss such actions as eccentric. Yet history suggests otherwise.Throughout the centuries, folklore has often emerged during periods of uncertainty and upheaval. Communities create stories to explain fears, express hopes and challenge power structures. Ballads mocked landlords. legends criticised rulers. Folk customs strengthened communities during times of hardship.

Greenham Common followed the same pattern.The camp generated its own folklore almost immediately. Stories circulated among protesters. Songs were composed. Rituals evolved. Shared symbols developed meaning through repetition. What began as a political protest became something resembling a living folk tradition.

Even the landscape itself absorbed these stories.

Greenham Common is now remembered not only as a military site but as a place of resistance. The fences have gone. The missiles have long since been removed. Yet the stories remain. Visitors still encounter traces of the movement in memorials, artworks and local memory.

The protest ultimately achieved far more than many observers predicted. Cruise missiles were removed from Greenham Common in 1991 following the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty. The peace camp remained for several years afterwards before finally closing in 2000.

Whether Greenham alone changed government policy remains a matter of debate. Few historians would argue that it was the sole cause. Yet its influence on public discourse is undeniable. The movement helped shape conversations about nuclear weapons, gender, protest and citizenship. It inspired campaigns around the world and demonstrated the power of sustained grassroots activism.

The witches of Greenham Common occupy a particularly fascinating place within that story.

They remind us that folklore is not confined to dusty books or distant centuries. It remains a living force, capable of adapting to new circumstances and addressing modern concerns. Ancient symbols continue to resonate because they speak to enduring human experiences.

The women who danced around Greenham’s fences were not attempting to retreat into the past. They were using the past to imagine a different future.

In an age dominated by military technology, political rhetoric and the machinery of the Cold War, they answered with stories, songs, rituals and symbols that had survived for centuries.

Whether one believes in magic is ultimately beside the point.

The real magic of Greenham Common lay in its ability to transform fear into action, isolation into community and protest into legend.

More than forty years later, the image remains unforgettable. A line of women standing beneath winter skies, facing one of the most formidable military establishments on Earth armed with banners, determination and the enduring power of folklore.

History remembers the missiles.

Folklore remembers the witches.

Further Reading

Common Women, Uncommon Practices by Sasha RoseneilGreenham Women Everywhere by Rebecca Mordan

Peace Camps: A Study of Greenham Women by Lynne Jones

The archives of the Greenham Common Women’s Peace

CampRecords held by the Women’s Library at the London School of Economics

Imperial War Museum collections relating to Greenham Common

Oral history projects documenting former Greenham residents

Copyright Notice:

© 2026 Mysterious Times. All rights reserved.This article is published exclusively for Mysterious Times. No part may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without prior written permission, except for brief quotations used for review, commentary or educational purposes with appropriate attribution.

Battle of The Beanfield

There are certain moments in modern British history that seem to sit just beyond the edge of official memory. Events that everybody vaguely remembers, yet somehow never quite make it into the comfortable national story we tell ourselves.

The Battle of Orgreave is one. The miners’ strike is another. The poll tax riots. Hillsborough. Brixton. They linger in photographs, old television footage and the memories of those who were there, carrying the uncomfortable reminder that Britain is not always as civilised, measured and orderly as it likes to imagine itself to be.

The Battle of the Beanfield belongs firmly in that category.

Forty years on, it remains one of the most controversial policing operations in modern British history. More than 1,300 police officers confronted a convoy of around 600 New Age Travellers attempting to reach Stonehenge on 1 June 1985. By the end of the day, dozens of people had been injured, hundreds had been arrested and an entire way of life had effectively been marked for destruction.

What happened in that Hampshire beanfield has never been the subject of a full public inquiry. Yet for many people who witnessed the decline of Britain’s traditional industries during the Thatcher years, the images remain painfully familiar.

I grew up in Yorkshire through the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. I watched pit villages hollow out. I watched steelworks close. I watched communities that had existed for generations suddenly find themselves described as obstacles to progress. There was a language that emerged during those years. Certain groups became “the problem”. Miners. Trade unionists. Travellers. Alternative communities. Anyone who stood outside the increasingly rigid idea of what Britain was supposed to become.

That is one reason the Battle of the Beanfield still matters.

To understand the confrontation itself, we first need to understand the strange, colourful and often misunderstood world that produced it.

The Stonehenge Free Festival began in 1974. It emerged from the wider countercultural movements of the late 1960s and early 1970s, combining music, environmentalism, spiritual exploration, political activism and communal living. Over the following decade it grew steadily, becoming one of the largest free gatherings in Britain. By the early 1980s thousands of people travelled to Stonehenge each summer to celebrate the solstice. The festival attracted an eclectic mix of punks, bikers, druids, musicians, environmental campaigners, anarchists, hippies and families living on the road.

The people who became known as the Peace Convoy were not a single organisation. They were a loose collection of travellers, festival-goers and alternative communities who spent much of the year moving between free festivals, protest camps and temporary settlements. Some were escaping unemployment. Some rejected consumer culture. Others simply wanted a different way of living. Many travelled in converted buses, coaches, ambulances and vans that doubled as homes.

To their supporters they represented freedom, creativity and resistance to conformity.

To their critics they represented disorder.

By 1984 tensions were reaching breaking point. The Stonehenge festival had become enormous. Estimates suggested attendance reached around 100,000 people. Concerns were raised about damage to the archaeological landscape, litter, unauthorised trading and open drug use. English Heritage, which had recently taken over management of the site, came under increasing pressure to act. Local authorities and police forces were equally determined that the gathering should not continue in its existing form. A High Court injunction was obtained to prevent the 1985 festival from taking place. The state had drawn a line.

On the morning of 1 June 1985, the Peace Convoy left Savernake Forest and began moving towards Stonehenge. Around 140 vehicles carried approximately 600 people. Many were families. Children were travelling alongside adults who had spent years living on the road. They knew there would be police opposition. Few appear to have anticipated what was waiting for them.

Police had prepared extensively.

The miners’ strike had ended only months earlier. During that bitter industrial conflict police forces had developed new methods of coordination, rapid deployment and large-scale public order operations. Senior officers later openly acknowledged that lessons learned during the strike had informed preparations for dealing with the travellers.

A four-mile exclusion zone had been established around Stonehenge. Roadblocks were prepared. Officers from multiple forces were assembled. Some estimates place police numbers at around 1,300. Others suggest even higher figures by the end of the operation.

The convoy encountered its first major roadblock near Shipton Bellinger, several miles from Stonehenge. According to police accounts, some traveller vehicles attempted to push through the blockade and rammed police vehicles. Travellers and independent witnesses tell a very different story. They describe a convoy seeking negotiation before finding itself trapped and surrounded.

Whatever happened during those first moments, the situation rapidly escalated.As vehicles attempted to leave the road and move into adjacent fields, police began smashing windows and making arrests. The convoy became scattered across farmland. Families were separated. Children became lost in the confusion. What followed would become one of the most infamous confrontations in modern British policing.

Television footage remains difficult to watch even now.

Officers in riot gear strike vehicle windows with truncheons. People are dragged from buses and vans. Terrified children can be seen inside shattered vehicles. Journalists and witnesses described police hitting men and women indiscriminately. Several accounts alleged pregnant women and individuals carrying babies were assaulted during the operation. Numerous vehicles that functioned as homes were systematically damaged.

The Earl of Cardigan, whose family owned Savernake Forest and who had followed the convoy on a motorcycle, later provided testimony that proved deeply damaging to official police narratives. He described officers rushing vehicles with drawn truncheons, shouting at occupants and creating scenes of intimidation and violence that contradicted many early police claims.

Journalists present that day reported similar concerns.

ITN footage captured scenes that shocked many viewers. Photographer Alan Lodge later described the event as an ambush rather than a battle. Others argued the very name “Battle of the Beanfield” created a misleading impression of two evenly matched sides. One side possessed riot shields, command structures, communications systems and overwhelming numerical superiority. The other consisted largely of civilians living in vehicles.

By the end of the operation, 537 people had been arrested. It remains one of the largest mass arrests of civilians in modern British history. Most of the charges eventually collapsed or were dismissed.

That fact alone raises uncomfortable questions.

If hundreds of supposedly dangerous lawbreakers had been lawfully apprehended while carrying out serious criminal acts, one might expect hundreds of successful prosecutions to follow. Instead, much of the legal case simply evaporated.

Years later, travellers successfully pursued civil actions against Wiltshire Police. Damages were awarded for wrongful arrest, false imprisonment and property damage. One police sergeant was convicted of actual bodily harm arising from the events of that day.

Yet despite these outcomes, there has never been a full public inquiry.

Perhaps that is because the Battle of the Beanfield was about more than Stonehenge.

Looking back now, it feels impossible to separate it from the wider atmosphere of Britain in the mid-1980s. This was a country being transformed at extraordinary speed. Traditional industries were disappearing. Unemployment was soaring in many regions. Entire communities were fighting for survival. Alternative lifestyles increasingly found themselves portrayed as threats to public order rather than expressions of individual freedom.

For many people in mining and industrial areas, there is a recognisable pattern.

First comes the language.

A group is described as troublesome, outdated or undesirable.

Then comes the media narrative.

Then comes the justification.

Then comes the force.

That does not mean every traveller was a saint, any more than every miner was. Human beings are messy. Large gatherings bring problems. Some attendees at the Stonehenge festivals undoubtedly caused damage. Some individuals within the traveller movement undoubtedly committed crimes. A serious historical assessment has to acknowledge that reality. The archaeological concerns surrounding Stonehenge were genuine. Local residents had legitimate complaints. Authorities were entitled to seek solutions.

But none of that explains the scale of what happened on 1 June 1985.

The images of smashed homes, frightened children and riot police advancing across fields continue to disturb because they seem wildly disproportionate. They suggest a state determined not merely to enforce an injunction but to send a message.

And the message was received.

The traveller movement never fully recovered.

Legislation introduced during the following years increasingly restricted nomadic lifestyles and unauthorised gatherings. The Public Order Act 1986 and later the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 created new powers that made life significantly harder for travellers, free festivals and eventually the emerging rave culture.

In many ways the Beanfield became a blueprint. The same language used against travellers would later be applied to ravers, squatters, protesters and environmental activists. Alternative communities were increasingly framed not as citizens exercising freedoms but as public order problems requiring management.

Yet the legacy of the Beanfield refuses to disappear.

Songs were written about it. The Levellers turned it into a folk-punk anthem that introduced a new generation to the story. Hawkwind referenced it. Writers, filmmakers and activists kept returning to it. Every summer solstice the memory resurfaces among those who remember what happened.

Perhaps that is because the Battle of the Beanfield sits at the crossroads of so many larger questions.

Who gets to occupy public space?

Who decides what constitutes a legitimate way of living?

How much power should the state possess when dealing with communities that reject mainstream norms?

And perhaps most importantly of all, what happens when governments begin to see certain groups not as citizens but as enemies?

Forty years later those questions feel remarkably current.

The travellers who set out for Stonehenge in 1985 were not trying to overthrow the government. They were trying to reach a festival. They were trying to celebrate a solstice. They were trying, in their own eccentric and imperfect way, to live differently.

Many paid a heavy price for that.

For those of us who grew up watching pits close, furnaces go cold and communities written off as inconvenient relics of the past, the Beanfield feels like part of the same story. Different people. Different landscape. Different politics perhaps. But the same underlying lesson.

When power decides a group no longer belongs, it rarely begins with dialogue.

It begins with exclusion.

Then comes the roadblock.

Further Reading

Andy Worthington, The Battle of the Beanfield

Christopher Chippindale, Stoned Henge: Events and Issues at the Summer Solstice, 1985

Emma Hallett, BBC News, Summer Solstice: How the Stonehenge Battles Faded

Tony Thompson, The Observer, Twenty Years After, Mystery Still Clouds Battle of the Beanfield

English Heritage, Stonehenge 1977–85: A Dig in Time and a Confrontation

Copyright © Mysterious Times 2026. All rights reserved. This article may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from Mysterious Times, except in the case of brief quotations used for review, criticism or scholarly reference.

The Knockers Beneath The Hill

Stone remembers.

That is perhaps the oldest belief of all.

Long before quarrying became industrial. Long before dynamite split the hillsides of Derbyshire and great clouds of limestone dust drifted across the Peak District, people already believed certain rocks held power.

Standing stones marked sacred places. Ancient burial chambers were raised from carefully chosen slabs. Hills themselves became sleeping giants, petrified witches or gateways to the Otherworld. Across Britain, stone was never simply dead matter. It carried memory, folklore and fear. And when man began cutting deep into the earth for a living, those beliefs did not disappear. They merely changed shape.

Quarry folklore is one of the strangest and least discussed corners of British supernatural tradition. It fits somewhere between mining lore, ghost stories, industrial history and folk horror. Quarrymen worked in landscapes that could kill without warning. Entire hillsides collapsed. Explosions misfired. Hidden shafts opened beneath workers feet. Men drowned in flooded workings or vanished beneath falling rock. In isolated upland regions where mist swallowed sound and strange echoes rolled through the stone, superstition flourished naturally.

And perhaps understandably.

A quarry is an unnatural wound in the landscape. Even today, abandoned workings feel… uncanny. Pools glow with impossible blue-green colours. Cliffs rise in geometric cuts unlike natural valleys. Rusting machinery sits half reclaimed by moss and water. Sounds behave oddly in deep excavations. A single voice can bounce and distort into something that feels distinctly inhuman. For centuries, workers believed these places were inhabited by spirits.

In Cornwall the miners told of Knockers, small subterranean beings who tapped against the rock walls. According to tradition, the Knockers could warn workers of cave-ins if treated respectfully, but could also lure greedy or careless men towards disaster. Welsh miners had similar creatures known as Coblynau. Tiny, goblin-like figures who were said to laugh in the darkness, mimic voices or lead workers astray underground.

Though Derbyshire quarrymen didn’t always use the same name, the beliefs travelled surprisingly far. Stories from limestone workings across the Peak District describe unexplained hammering in abandoned tunnels, phantom footsteps and the sound of picks striking stone long after the workforce had gone home.

Modern geology offers rational explanations for many of these phenomena. Rock shifts under pressure. Underground water systems create echoes and strange acoustics. Limestone cracks loudly as temperatures change. Yet those explanations do little to diminish the atmosphere of such places, especially when experienced alone, by candlelight, hundreds of feet underground.

One particularly old superstition shared by miners and quarrymen held that whistling inside a quarry was bad luck, or dangerous. In some communities it was said to anger spirits dwelling within the stone. In others it was feared because it could mask warning calls before blasting operations. Either way, workers often treated whistling as deeply unlucky.

Another widespread belief involved birds.

If crows gathered unusually near a quarry edge, older workers sometimes interpreted it as a warning of imminent death or collapse. Sudden silence among birds was also considered ominous. In Derbyshire and Yorkshire there are scattered stories of workers refusing to enter or descend after hearing unexplained bird cries from places where no birds should have been able to enter.

Then there were the rituals.

Many workers carried charms. Coins bent into crosses, Religious medals. Fragments of rowan wood. In Northern England, rowan was long associated with protection against evil influences and was sometimes tucked into clothing or hung near dangerous workings.Some quarrymen reportedly spat into the dust before entering new excavations, an act believed to either placate spirits or ensure a safe return.

In parts of Wales and Cornwall, workers would leave tiny offerings. Tobacco, bread, a splash of ale. These gifts were supposedly for the spirits of the earth, though whether workers truly believed in them or simply maintained old traditions ‘Just in case’ is impossible to say.

Britain’s quarry landscapes also became strongly associated with ghosts, and one recurring motif is the ‘phantom worker’.

Across Derbyshire there are stories of solitary figures seen walking ledges at dawn or dusk, sometimes carrying lamps. Witnesses approach, assuming a colleague has remained behind, only for the figure to vanish entirely. In some accounts the apparitions are linked to known industrial accidents.

At Dunsley Quarry, near Whitby, local stories long circulated about a workman crushed in a collapse whose lantern was still occasionally glimpsed moving along the stone faces after dark.Similar tales exist around abandoned slate quarries in Wales where visitors report hearing blasting whistles echoing from empty workings.

Some of the most chilling stories come from flooded quarries. These places are dangerous even in daylight. The water can be lethally cold and deceptively deep, often concealing submerged machinery, sharp drops and hidden currents. Yet abandoned quarries have remained popular swimming spots since the twentieth century, particularly during hot summers. But this popularity comes hand in hand with repeated tragedy.

In Derbyshire, Yorkshire and Cumbria there are numerous local legends surrounding quarry drownings. Some are sadly based on very real events. After fatal accidents, reports often emerge of strange experiences nearby. Voices calling from the water. Figures standing silently at quarry edges before disappearing. Unexplained ripples moving across perfectly still pools.

At the flooded quarry pools around the Peak District, local teenagers for decades swapped stories about ‘the Watcher’, usually described as a dark figure standing motionless on a distant ledge at dusk. Whether these tales were genuine experiences, campfire embellishments or cautionary folklore designed to deter reckless swimming is difficult to untangle. Folklore often develops to warn people away from dangerous places.

The same is true of Britain’s terrifying ‘Bottomless’ quarry and cave legends. Perhaps the most famous near the Peak District is Eldon Hole, near Dove Holes. This vast natural cavern was once believed to descend directly into Hell itself. Early visitors threw stones into the darkness and waited in vain to hear them land.

Seventeenth century philosopher, Thomas Hobbes wrote dramatically about the abyss, helping cement it’s infernal reputation and local folklore around Eldon Hole became wonderfully bizarre. One story claimed a goose thrown into the chasm later emerged from Peak Cavern, it’s feathers blackened by the fires below. Other tales told of strange beings dwelling beneath the hill and phantom lights glimpsed around the edges of the pit at night.

Such stories were not isolated. Throughout Britain, quarries and mines often became associated with gateways to the underworld. Dig too deep and you entered forbidden territory. Ancient spirits. Devils. Hidden kingdoms. Sleeping giants. The symbolism is remarkably ancient. Across many cultures, caves and deep holes represent entrances to realms beneath ordinary reality.

Industrialisation only intensified the eeriness. Victorian quarrying transformed entire landscapes into scarred labyrinths of tunnels, spoil heaps, cranes and abandoned railways. Many workings operated around the clock, their fires and lanterns glowing through misty valleys after dark. Accidents were common and sometimes catastrophic.

One of the worst mining disasters in Derbyshire history occurred at the Hill Carr Sough near Buxton, where flooding trapped workers underground.Though technically linked to mining rather than quarrying, stories afterward described locals hearing cries beneath the earth long after recovery efforts ended.

These tragedies left emotional marks upon communities. Folklore became a way of processing fear and grief. Ghost stories gave shape to danger. Omens created the illusion of warning signs in unpredictable environments.

Even modern paranormal investigators remain fascinated by abandoned quarries. Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) recordings frequently capture odd echoes and distorted sounds in stone environments. Investigators report sudden temperature drops, oppressive atmospheres and feelings of being watched. Sceptics point to acoustics, infrasound and environmental psychology. Deep excavations naturally trigger unease in humans. Echoes distort perception. Mist and shadow alter depth awareness.

And that, dear reader, is precisely why quarry and mining folklore persists. The supernatural has always thrived where landscape and emotion intersect, and few places embody that intersection more strongly than a big ‘ole in the ground. Especially in upland regions like the Peak District, where prehistoric ritual sites sit beside Victorian industrial scars, the sense of layered history becomes overwhelming. Ancient henges overlook blasted hillsides. Roman roads vanish into fog above abandoned workings. Beneath the surface lie caves untouched for millennia. It all creates the unsettling feeling the land itself has been disturbed repeatedly across thousands of years.

British folk horror understands this instinctively. Films like Quatermass and the Pit and The Blood on Satan’s Claw revolve around buried things emerging when the ground is broken open. Ancient forces reawakening beneath farmland and villages. Memory trapped in the soil. Quarries embody that idea physically. They are places where humans cut into deep time itself.

Perhaps that is why standing alone beside an open quarry at dusk is so unnerving. The silence is rarely complete. Water drips somewhere out of sight. Stones crack softly in the cooling air. Echoes move strangely among the cliffs. You become aware of the immense weight of the landscape around you, and somewhere… in the back of your mind, ancient instincts whisper that perhaps some places were never meant to be opened at all.

Further Reading

Peak District Mining Museum (https://www.peakdistrictminingmuseum.co.uk)

History of Derbyshire mining, quarrying and underground folklore traditions connected to the Peak District.

The Peak District Mines Historical Society (https://www.pdmhs.co.uk)

Detailed research archive covering historic mines, quarry workings, industrial archaeology and local history.

Atlas Obscura – Eldon Hole (https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/eldon-hole-british-gate-to-hell)

Overview of the legends, folklore and history surrounding Derbyshire’s infamous “bottomless pit”.

Derbyshire Folklore Archive (https://www.derbyshirefolklore.org)

Excellent resource for local legends, ghost stories, customs and strange traditions across Derbyshire.

The National Coal Mining Museum for England (https://www.ncm.org.uk)

Background on mining culture, working traditions, superstitions and industrial heritage in Britain.

Historic England(https://historicengland.org.uk)

Records and research on Britain’s historic industrial landscapes, quarries and mining sites.

The Folklore Society(https://folklore-society.com)

Academic and historical resources covering British supernatural traditions, customs and beliefs.

Suggested Books

The Lore of the Land by Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson

The Old Stones by Andy Burnham

Industrial Folklore and Folk Life edited by John Widdowson

Discovering Derbyshire and the Peak District by Neville T. Sharpe

The Living Folklore of Scotland by Margaret Bennett

The British Folklore, Myths and Legends Compendium by Marc Alexander

Copyright © 2026 [Mysterious Times](https://www.mysterioustimes.co.uk). All rights reserved.

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Mysterious Times Weekly Roundup W/E 12-5-26

Just when you think the world has settled down for a quiet week, along comes another pile of glowing orbs, declassified UFO papers, strange creatures in distant waters and enough odd headlines to keep Forteans happily staring into the night sky with a mug of tea in hand.

The week ending 13th May 2026 has been especially busy for paranormal watchers, UFO researchers and cryptozoology enthusiasts alike, with one story in particular dominating discussion across social media, news outlets and late night conspiracy forums.

The biggest talking point of the week has undoubtedly been the release of previously classified Pentagon UFO files. The United States Department of Defense began publishing what it describes as “never before seen” material relating to unidentified anomalous phenomena, or UAPs, on a rolling basis through a newly launched public archive.

The initial batch reportedly includes more than 150 documents, images and videos collected from agencies including NASA, the FBI and military intelligence departments. Among the files are astronaut reports, infrared footage of unexplained airborne objects and historical witness statements dating back decades.

Unsurprisingly, the internet reacted immediately. Believers hailed the release as historic disclosure while sceptics argued much of the material appears inconclusive or already partially known. Either way, it has reignited public fascination with UFOs in a major way. [1]

Several analysts and scientists interviewed after the release urged caution.

Experts noted that many of the images remain blurry, lack contextual data or could potentially be explained by balloons, optical artefacts or atmospheric effects. Others pointed out that eyewitness testimony alone is notoriously unreliable. Even so, the sheer scale of the disclosure has created a fresh wave of speculation, especially surrounding military encounters over oceans and restricted airspace. The Pentagon has stated that further document drops are expected in the coming weeks. [2]

Meanwhile, UFO sighting databases and reporting hubs have continued receiving a steady stream of new reports from around the world. This week alone included reports of silver spheres over Nevada, glowing orange orbs in remote desert areas and fast moving triangular formations seen above parts of Europe and the United States. One particularly intriguing case involved witnesses in Arizona describing two silent lights manoeuvring at impossible speeds without visible propulsion. Another report from Italy described a glowing sphere abruptly changing direction before vanishing. While none of these sightings have been independently verified, they continue to fuel public fascination with unexplained aerial phenomena. [3]

Over in the world of conspiracy culture, online discussions have exploded around claims involving missing or deceased scientists allegedly connected to classified aerospace or advanced energy projects. The theory, which has spread rapidly across social media platforms, suggests there may be hidden links between a number of unrelated disappearances and alleged UFO research programmes. Journalists, sociologists and investigators have strongly criticised these claims, describing the supposed connections as coincidence and pattern seeking rather than evidence of any organised conspiracy. Nonetheless, the theory has become one of the most widely discussed paranormal talking points of the month. [4]

Cryptozoology has had its own peculiar week as well. Reports from Australian waters involving unusually large squid sightings continue to circulate following several marine encounters shared online by divers and fishermen.

In Britain, the seemingly eternal mystery of phantom big cats remains active, with new alleged sightings reported in rural Wales and the north of England. Though photographs remain frustratingly unclear, witnesses continue describing large black feline shapes moving silently through woodland and farmland.

Nessie, naturally, has also resurfaced in discussion after fresh sonar anomalies from Loch Ness enthusiasts made the rounds online once again. No convincing evidence has emerged, but the legend clearly refuses to fade.

On the archaeological side of strange history, renewed interest has been sparked by reports concerning ancient Mesopotamian clay cylinders linked to King Nebuchadnezzar II. Researchers believe the inscriptions may represent some of the earliest surviving foundation texts associated with the rebuilding of the ziggurat of Kish. While not paranormal in itself, discoveries like these often blur the line between mythology, ancient religion and historical reality, particularly for those fascinated by lost civilisations and forgotten beliefs. [5]

Elsewhere in the world of Forteana, weather watchers in Wales shared photographs of bizarre lenticular cloud formations nicknamed “UFO clouds” after they appeared hovering motionless above hillsides earlier this month. Though meteorologists quickly explained the phenomenon as unusual but natural atmospheric conditions, the images spread rapidly online and inevitably revived memories of classic flying saucer imagery. [5]

The latest issue of Fortean Times has also been attracting attention this week with its deep dive into the historical origins of crashed UFO folklore, exploring mysterious airship scares, strange metals and tales of dead alien pilots from the nineteenth century. It serves as a timely reminder that many supposedly modern mysteries often have roots stretching far deeper into history than we sometimes realise. [6]

As always, the truth behind many of these stories remains frustratingly elusive. Some will eventually find mundane explanations. Others may remain permanently unresolved, drifting into folklore and becoming part of the strange modern mythology we continue building around ourselves.

And perhaps that uncertainty is part of the appeal. The unexplained continues to thrive precisely because it leaves room for imagination, speculation and wonder.

Further reading and sources:

Sky News UFO files report (https://news.sky.com/story/a-13541565)

ABC News Pentagon UFO release coverage(https://abcnews.com/Politics/pentagon-begins-release-decades-unresolved-ufo-files/story?id=132780534)

Spectrum News UAP archive article(https://spectrumlocalnews.com/us/snplus/news/2026/05/08/pentagon-ufos-unidentified-flying-objects-uap-new-website-tranches-additional-records)

Anomaly Daily sightings database(https://anomalydaily.com)

Aliens Digest sightings archive (https://aliensdigest.com)

Fortean Times magazine (https://www.forteantimes.com)

[1]: https://news.sky.com/story/a-13541565 “‘Never-before-seen’ files on UFOs released by Pentagon | US News | Sky News”

[2]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UFO_files_release_%282026%29 “UFO files release (2026)”

[3]: https://anomalydaily.com “Anomaly Daily — A field guide to the unexplained”

[4]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Missing_scientists_conspiracy_theory “Missing scientists conspiracy theory”

[5]: https://www.milkywaynews.com “Milky Way News”

[6]: https://www.zinio.com/publications/fortean-times/3154/issues/735151 “Issue 470 May 2026 – Fortean Times”

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According to legend, Bladud was a king of Britain who founded the city of Bath. He was also a wizard, and created magic wings to fly. However, like Icarus, Bladud flew too high, and his wings failed, so he fell to his death. His son was Shakespeare's King Lear.

#LegendaryWednesday #Folklore #BritishFolklore #Mythology #BritishMythology #Britain #Magic #Shakespeare #KingLear

Sulis, a goddess of healing and curses, is one of the few deities mentioned in surviving British folklore. When Bladud (Britain's mythical wizard-king) discovered some hot springs with healing powers, he built the city of Bath over them, along with a temple to Sulis.

#MythologyMonday #Mythology #Folklore #BritishMythology #BritishFolklore #Britain #CelticMythology #CelticFolklore #Celts

It’s here! My copy of Not Of This Wold: An Anthology of Weird Lincolnshire Writing has arrived. I’m absolutely thrilled to see my story in print.

My piece is a creative non-fiction tale about a cursed Lincolnshire train… eerie, atmospheric, and grounded in local legend. If you’re into the uncanny, the haunted, or the just plain strange, this anthology is for you.

Grab your copy and take a trip into the weird side of Lincolnshire: https://amzn.eu/d/1k8J6Wk

#NotOfThisWold #WeirdLincolnshire #BritishFolklore #CreativeNonFiction #HauntedTrains #LocalLegends #UKWriters #booklovers #books

Jack in the Green is an English folk custom, part of the May Day festival. A person is covered in a framework of green foliage, and then marches in a procession with musicians. It began in the 18th century, though some folklorists connect it with earlier imagery (such as the Green Man).

#LegendaryWednesday #Superstitiology #31DaysofHaunting #Folklore #BritishFolklore #EnglishFolklore #Mythology #BritishMythology #EnglishMythology #Britain #England #Festival #Celebration #MayDay #JackintheGreen