There was a time when belief in the Faeries was not considered unusual.
They were spoken of plainly, woven into daily life as naturally as the weather and the seasons. Farmers left small offerings at the edges of their fields. Doors were built with care, so as not to offend unseen passersby. Certain places were treated with quiet respect, ancient trees, still pools of water, rings of stone and grass and mushrooms, where the air itself seemed to pause.
These were not acts of superstition, but of relationship.
Across Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, and beyond, the Faeries were understood not as inventions, but as neighbours of a different kind. Not always seen, but often felt. Not always understood, but rarely dismissed.
Over time, though, the world grew louder.
The old ways gave way to progress. Forests were cleared. Electric light replaced firelight. The pace of life quickened, and with it came a different way of seeing, one that valued what could be measured, proven, and explained. The quiet spaces where the Faeries had once been noticed grew fewer, and belief itself was gently folded away, like an heirloom placed in storage.
But something curious remained.
Even now, people still speak of moments they cannot quite explain. A sudden sense of presence in an empty place. A path that seemed to reveal itself just when it was needed. The feeling of being gently guided, or quietly warned. Small coincidences that arrive with such precision they feel less like accidents and more like conversation.
Children, especially, do not question these things. They accept wonder easily. They speak to unseen companions, notice things adults have learned to overlook, and move through the world with a kind of openness that does not demand proof. Today, too many adults have lost that acceptance of wonder, their Inner Child has been locked away, and their adult logic now demands that proof.
I believe it is not that the Faeries left, it is that we learned to stop looking. Or, perhaps more truthfully, we learned to stop listening.
The old stories have always served as bridges, reminders that the world is larger, deeper, and more alive than it sometimes appears. Whether one understands the Faeries as beings, as symbols, or simply as expressions of nature’s mystery, their presence continues to linger in the quiet places.
In the wind moving through leaves. In the hush of early morning. In the instinct that tells us to pause, to notice, to feel.
The WyldeWoode exists as a small act of remembering.
Not to persuade, nor to convince, but to honour the possibility that not everything meaningful can be seen outright. That some things reveal themselves only to those willing to slow down, to wander without urgency, to remember their Inner Child, and to remain open to wonder.
So, perhaps the Faeries never left at all.
Perhaps they have simply been waiting, patiently, hoping as they always have, that one day we will remember them.
Walk gently,
Claire.
