A letter from Ada
My most esteemed and curious readers,
January cometh, shrouded in fog and melancholy, a month as wild and cheerless as a soul unshriven, as bleak and unyielding as the grave. This is the time when shadows deepen, when the howling gale rattles the panes like ghostly fingers, and when the fire’s meagre glow seems but a pale mimicry of the warmth it promises. The world lies cloaked in a pall of frost and misery, how WONDERFUL.
Here in the East, January reigns with a frigid majesty, its icy sceptre casting frost upon the marshes and gloom upon the skies. The pavements, slick with rain, glisten like the scales of some slumbering wyrm beneath the dim and flickering lamplight. A shroud of mist creeps over the horizon, blurring the line between this world and the next—a fitting stage for the phantoms who walk among you, unseen, yet ever-present.
Yet even in this dismal month, there are moments of unearthly beauty. Have you gazed, dear reader, upon the dying sun as it succumbs to the iron grasp of winter’s twilight? Glorious hues, soft as whispers, streak the heavens for but a fleeting moment, a cruel jest of nature to remind you of what has been lost. Before one can draw breath to admire it, the colours are snuffed out, swallowed by the eternal grey. How this fleeting beauty must torment you living souls! For my part, I find solace in the relentless monotony of the gloom.
And what of the fireside, that refuge for the living in this bitter season? It is there, amidst the flicker of flames and the hiss of damp logs, that tales of terror and wonder are best spun. I myself once listened intently to such tales, though now, I confess, I find greater joy in watching your faces as you tell them—how your eyes widen, your hands tremble, your voices falter! The stories may be old, but the fear they stir is ever fresh.
January, too, holds its secrets and superstitions. Here in Norfolk, some still whisper of wassailing the orchards, of singing to the trees to wake their spirits and ensure a bountiful harvest. There are those who believe in guardians who linger in the shadows of the woods, protectors of groves and glades. A quaint notion, but I wonder: do you not feel a prickle at the nape of your neck when you wander too close to the ancient oaks? The land remembers, dear reader, even if you do not.
And so, my cherished correspondents, as you trudge through this bleak month, heed my counsel: draw close to your hearths, secure your shutters against the wailing winds, and leave an extra log upon the fire. Should you hear a tap-tap-tapping at your door, think twice before you answer. For not all who seek entry on these dark nights come bearing glad tidings.
Ever yours in shadow and frost,
Ada
Postscript: Work has begun on Shuck 8. A magical theme, friends. Can you guess what it might be?
The Devil’s Hill in Thetford
It's the highest Norman motte in England although no trace remains of the castle built in turbulent times which it housed: but today's tale regards the hill, not what topped it.
Legend surrounds the imposing hill, which is partly sunken into a deep surrounding ditch and which is second only to Silbury in terms of man-made mounds in the UK.
Townspeople in Thetford know it as High Castle Hill and the ascent to the top is either reached by the 'running path' or the steps, while the ramparts are known as the little hills or the wooded hill.
The ruins of Thetford Castle, a Norman hillfort destroyed in 1173 under the orders of Henry II, have remained a popular tourist attraction on the outskirts of the market town for centuries.
Believed to have been constructed shortly after the Norman Conquest, either by Ralph Guader, Earl of East Anglia until his rebellion in 1076, or by Roger Bigod, his successor as Earl, the castle controlled important crossings of the rivers Thet and Ouse and dominated the town of Thetford which, at the time of the Domesday survey in the late 11th century, was among the six largest towns in the country.
A local story claims that Castle Hill wasn't man-made, but rather Lucifer-made: when the Devil finished his dyke-building work at Newmarket, Narborough and Garboldisham (or possibly after digging the Devil's Pits at Weeting), he leapt across to Thetford, shook his foot and the earth that fell from it created the mound.
Some say that if you walk round the hill seven times at midnight you can summon the devil, while others believe Satan haunts a depression in the moat north-east of the wooded hill which sometimes fills with mud. The Devil's Hole is also a hotline to the Devil if you walk round it the regulation seven times.
Another tale is spun which says that a king once owned a magnificent mansion on the hill but when his enemies landed close by in force, he buried not only his treasure, but also his entire home beneath the mound, forming a hill.
There, under the earth, are riches beyond our wildest dreams.
But the most persisting story about the hill has rung out across the centuries.
It is said that when the early 12th century Cluniac priory, which was founded close to the site by Roger Bigod, was ransacked after the Reformation, six (or seven) silver (or solid gold) bells were missing from the church as they had been taken from the priory and hidden beneath the mound for safekeeping.
Whether the gold, silver, riches or house is under the hill is unknown – testing the Devil's link to the castle mound is, however, far easier. See you at midnight.
January folklore
As the first month of the year unfurls its pallid wings, let us turn to January—a time when the veil between the seen and the unseen hangs heavy with frost. This is the season of dormancy, when nature sleeps beneath her icy shroud and whispers her most enigmatic secrets to those willing to listen. It is no wonder, then, that January abounds with folklore as brittle and brilliant as hoarfrost upon a midnight branch.
Foremost among these tales is the ancient custom of wassailing—a ritual steeped in cider and song, meant to awaken the orchard trees from their winter slumber. Picture, if you will, a small band of revellers braving the cold, their voices raised in boisterous harmony as they pour libations of spiced ale upon the roots of apple trees.
“Oh, apple tree, we wassail thee,” they cry, imploring the spirits of the orchard to grant a bountiful harvest. Candles flicker in the darkness, shadows leap upon bark and bough, and if one peers closely, might one not catch a glimpse of the tree guardian? For legend tells of a protective spirit who dwells within these groves, a spectral sentinel clad in bark and moss, its eyes aglow with an ancient, green fire. Norfolk, too, has its whispers of such a being, though some claim it is but a tale to keep trespassers at bay.
And what of the eldritch omen of the blackthorn? In January, its skeletal branches may be seen etched against the bleak sky, bearing small white blossoms that defy the frost. Folklore holds that these blossoms are not of this world, but harbingers of strife and change. To pluck one is to invite misfortune, yet to admire their ghostly beauty is to court the blessing of clarity in the year ahead.
The wolf moon also rises in January, casting its spectral glow over the land. Named for the howling of wolves that once echoed through the barren woods, it is said to awaken primal instincts and stir the soul’s deepest yearnings.
On such nights, beware the frost wraith - a fleeting spectre glimpsed only in the corner of one’s eye, said to steal the warmth from unwary travellers.
The latest edition of Shuck
From the whispers of history and the shadows of time, we bring you Shuck 7: Witches.
And what a magnificent collection of treasures it is – learn about witch bottles and witch stones, the very last witch trial in Norfolk (held during World War 2), the Kittywitches of Great Yarmouth and how to make your own witch cake. A warning: the witch cake will require the collection of urine.
There are stories of farmers and witches, a witch’s curse that cast a shadow over a Norfolk village for centuries and see the Witch of East Somerton (we know her name but will not share).
Then we have a map of Norfolk witches, a spell to bring magic to you and your home, we learn of Norfolk’s male witches and follow the county’s first witch trial where two ‘hill hunters’ were accused of enchantment. Then there are familiars, Toadmen, your own paper doll witch and our cover story, that of Monica English, Norfolk’s High Priestess of the Grey Goose Feather Coven who practised until only a few decades ago. Let us welcome you in:
Shuck’s latest creation awaits you HERE: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SHUCKzine
Perchta’s visit on Twelfth Night
In a snow-dusted village nestled in the shadow of the Alps, young Greta sat by the hearth, spinning wool as her grandmother dozed.
It was Twelfth Night, and Greta’s fingers trembled as she worked. “Perchta will come,” the old woman had whispered earlier, “and she sees all…rewarding the diligent, punishing the idle.”
The winds howled outside, and the fire flickered low. Greta’s thread snapped. She scrambled to fix it, but her hands stilled as the room grew suddenly quiet.
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in frost and moonlight. Perchta.
Her form shimmered, shifting between a radiant maiden with hair like spun silver and a gnarled crone with eyes as sharp as icicles.
“Have you worked hard, little one?” Perchta’s voice was both melodic and menacing.
Greta swallowed her fear. “I’ve tried, goddess. But my thread—”
Perchta raised a hand, and the broken thread lifted, mending itself in a golden glow. She smiled, her beauty warming the room. “You’ve spun with care, despite the hour. Such diligence deserves a gift.”
She waved her hand, and Greta’s spinning wheel glimmered. “This wheel will spin the finest thread, faster than the swiftest hands. Use it well.”
Then Perchta turned toward the sleeping grandmother, her form twisting into the fearsome hag. She scowled at the heap of unfinished wool by the old woman’s chair. “Laziness invites misfortune.” With a snap of her fingers, the wool vanished.
As the goddess disappeared into the night, the fire roared back to life, warming Greta’s trembling hands. From that night on, Greta’s golden thread brought prosperity to her family.
But every Twelfth Night, she left a finished skein by the door, a humble offering to the shape-shifting goddess who saw all.
A new series for 2025: places we wish we could have visited in Norfolk
Shipden: the village under the sea
It is the vanishing village that just can't stay silent, a forgotten parish from the Norfolk coast that was swallowed by the sea, the county's own Atlantis just a stone's throw from the famous Cromer Pier. The Domesday Book tells us that Shipden boasted 117 residents, three acres of meadow, 36 swine and four-and-a-half plough teams, a harbour, several manor houses and two churches – one that served Shipden-juxta-Felbrigg and Crowmere, the other the village itself.
Villagers fought hard to save St Peter's from the ravages of the sea in the 14th century, watching helplessly as the graveyard was claimed by the tide and then taking action by building a jetty in a bid to save the building. Their efforts were in vain.
Guidebooks from the 18th century claim that the church was still visible at low tide and this remaining rocky relic from a lost village was named Church Rock, with romantic souls claiming the three bells from the building could still be heard at the pier's edge, carried by high winds.