A home for worries and wishes, handed into the lap of the fairies—hang it on and hurry away.

Ribbons, prescription packets, baby soothers, brassiere, barmbrack ring. A blade of grass tied to a twig. A haven for peace of mind, for answers, for otherworldly intervention. It is the last resort for some and the only resort for others.

Seeing into souls, pondering the whats and the whys. Beauty in the simplicity of the tree, rooted in its sacred space. The playfulness of the fairies. Centuries of wisdom in every gnarl and knot, secrets seen and unseen.

Some go to touch and sit, to smile and give thanks; others to shed tears. Some go alone, some with support, some with curiosity. There is discomfort in the visibility of vulnerability.

A place of worship without congregation. A prayer to all those who have gone before—the generations that embodied the traditions.

Reflecting, facing, handing over—whatever the ritual—there is a simplicity to the traditions of heritage. A wisdom that does not seek explanation—that just is, and always has been.

The Hawthorn. It really is a thing.