This unique programme was filmed and recorded at Craig y Nos Castle, South Wales in the UK. The castle is extrememly busy in terms of ‘spirits’ and has been featured in many televison programmes such as, Most Haunted. A little while ago Jeremy Marsh (Castle Historian), Paul Brandon (genealogist), and myself as a trance channel and medium, undertook a project investigating said hauntings. The result as many know, was the publication of the first volume of ‘Walls Have Ears’ (The history of Craig y Nos Castle 1843-1877) Volume 1, and a first twelve part series on Showboat TV. The book written as a novel, uses the stories shared by those spirits with whom we communicated, whilst the TV serial shares actual footage of channelling sessions.
I felt it was neccesary to examine, understand and share psychic phenomena and those involved like mediums and the like. Subsequently, ‘In the Psychic’s Chair’ was born. The first episode will be launched on Oystermouth Radio at 10pm on 4th June, and the new YouTube podcast on the 10th.
I will be joined by Jeremy Marsh who explains some of the history of the castle and each week we will learn a little more about this fascinating historic place. Our first guest is the very gifted third generation medium, Elaine Taylor. Elaine was born in Cardiff and now lives in Pembroke. She is a working medium and is often seen at Spiritualist Churches, and Mind, Body, Spirit events, and provides private and group consultations. In addition to sharing her life’s journey, Elaine joins Jeremy and I beneath the Adelina Patti Theatre, where some very interesting encounters take place.
If you are intersted in visiting Craig y Nos Castle, more details are available from mosthauntedcastle.com
An elderly man stands on a mountain trail holding a lantern as the sun sets behind the peaks.
In a valley where the river learned the curvature of the stars, stood an old tower, its stones worn white by wind and memory. Atop the tower lived a solitary figure known only as the Lantern Keeper. People from nearby villages spoke of him in hushed tones, not with fear, but with a quiet reverence, as if mentioning him could wake a secret within their own hearts. On a night when the moon hung pale as a moth, a younger wanderer arrived at the tower’s base. Her name was Lysa, an author of maps and stories, who believed every road had a hidden sigh and every landmark a lesson. She carried no torch, only a small wooden lamp carved with the symbol of a star and a sigil she could not name. The Lantern Keeper received her in the doorway with a hand trembling not from cold, but from the weight of what he had seen through many winters.
“There are nights when the world is too loud,” he said, “and the only way to listen is to be still long enough to hear what the quiet reveals.”
Lysa looked past him, up the spiral stairs withdrawing into a circle of darkness.
“I have come to understand the meaning of the Hermit,” she said, though she could not quite articulate what that meant beyond a feeling of distance and clarity.
The Hermit, the Keeper explained, is not a withdrawal from life but a choosing of it with new intensity. The lantern he carried was not for others to see, but for himself, a constant reminder to illuminate the inner corridors where doubt often hides.
“Why a lantern for you, if others need light?” Lysa asked.
“Because light is not to chase shadows away,” the Keeper replied. “Light invites the traveller to see. It asks questions rather than provides answers. The Hermit learns to distinguish the voice of fear from the whisper of truth, and in discernment, solitude becomes a doorway, not a prison.”
That night they sat by the tower’s dusty window, where the world outside moved like a photograph left in rain. The Lantern Keeper spoke little, but when he did, his voice carried the weight of years spent listening to the pace of one’s breath.
“Interpretation is a patient art,” he continued. “Tarot cards assist with that patience. They are mirrors reflect not what is outside us, but what we choose to carry inside. The Hermit doesn’t seek consensus; he seeks inner alignment. The star on your lamp,” he said, turning to the sigil, “is not a guide for others but a reminder to follow your own north.”
Lysa watched the glow of the lamp shift as a draft found its way through the tall window. “And the Hermit’s map?” she asked, her curiosity sharpening the air between them.
The Keeper’s eyes softened. “A map without borders is a map of possibilities. The Hermit’s map is not a place but a practice: to listen before acting, to retire within before stepping forward, to question what you think you know until only the essential remains. Sometimes the essential is merely the quiet courage to begin again.”
In the days that followed, Lysa walked the valley with the lantern’s memory in her pocket. She learned to travel without rushing, to notice the small physics of the world, the way a creek remembers the shape of a stone, the way bark changes colour with weather, the way a solitude can feel like a sanctuary when you stop fighting it.
One evening, a storm gathered like a thought you cannot shake free. The valley’s voice grew loud with rain and wind, but Lysa stood beneath the tower’s shadow, the lantern warm in her palm. She did not seek to illuminate the storm, only to listen to how it moved through her. In that listening, a question formed, not loud, but clear: What truth does this moment ask me to hold?
When the dawn finally drew its pale thread across the sky, Lysa descended the hill with a new map in her hands, a map not of roads, but of choices. The Hermit’s lesson had become a practice: to walk with discernment, to value solitude as a sanctuary for honestly facing oneself, and to let light be a companion rather than a guidebook.
The Lantern Keeper watched her depart, not with a longing to keep her, but with the quiet satisfaction of a gardener who has planted a seed that will one day bear fruit in someone else’s garden. He returned to the tower’s quiet heart, where the lamp’s glow steadied into a steady rhythm, the heartbeat of a life chosen with intention, a life that understood sometimes the brightest wisdom is the courage to walk alone long enough to see clearly what the soul already knows.
And so the Hermit’s meaning lingered in the valley like a soft wind: a reminder that the deepest revelations are not shouted from mountaintops but whispered in quiet rooms where someone chooses to turn their gaze inward, listen intently, and carry the light onward for others who come seeking their own truth.
A rustic wooden Ouija board with a planchette and lit candle on hardwood floor
In a village of a hundred souls, where the streets curled like old rivers and the sunset poured gold across thatched roofs, there was a rumour more steady than the clock in the square: the old Ouija board in Mrs Calder’s attic had never slept since the day it was carved from driftwood after a storm. The day began with a hush, as if the air itself were listening. Children pressed their tiny faces to the bakery window, watching the sky melt into ember-orange and purple, while the adults tended gardens and whispered about the drought that would not end. By dusk, the village gathered in the square, drawn by a rumour that the board, long quiet, might speak again.
Mrs Calder climbed the narrow stairs to the attic, her cane tapping a stubborn rhythm on the floorboards. The room smelled of rain, wax, and the faint sting of old ink. The Ouija board lay on a battered table, its letters faded to pale whispers. The planchette, glossed with years of pressed fingertips waited like a curious animal.
“Is anyone here?” Mrs Calder asked, almost in a breath.
The planchette moved.
Not by hands this time, but by a breath of air seeming to come from the walls themselves. The village, every door, every window, every roof, held its breath as the board spelled a name sounding like wind through hollow reeds: Elarin claimed to be both map and mapmaker, a writer of destinies who never died as much, but forgotten to be quiet. The board’s letters stitched themselves into sentences pulsing with a soft, inexorable warmth. As the sunset stretched its last lace of light across the village, the planchette began to pull. It drew a map on the table top: roads that hadn’t existed since the time of the old families, a river flowing uphill, trees blooming in reverse. Then it began to hum, low and honeyed, a song the earth remembered but the village forgot.
The change was ordinary at first: a window frame squeaked in warning when the wind nudged it, a lamp burned a shade too green, a cat pausing in its nap and watching the corner with eyes knowing more than any human. But the changes grew personal, intimate, and impossible to ignore. A baker found flour that sifted itself into the shape of a sparrow, then flew away with a sigh on its wings. The schoolhouse bell rang at noon, though no child was near, and the chalkboard wrote messages glowing faintly in the green dusk. The well in the courtyard began to murmur, a slow, patient voice offering hints about the village’s past, the prices paid for old secrets, and the names of long-dead villagers who still walked the alleys at twilight.
At first, the changes felt like a conversation with a kindly, mischievous elder. People gathered to listen to the well, to hear the stories etched in its murmur: tales of debts, promises, and the weather’s cruel mercy. But the elder’s tone grew tense, and the stories grew heavy with warning. The sun sank lower, and the colours of the sunset turned into something sharper, closer to fire than light. That night, the village woke to a different rhythm. The ground hummed beneath their feet, not with electricity but with the pulse of something ancient and patient. The village’s map once a set of familiar streets reshaped itself on every surface: walls, doors, the blackboard of the school, even the footprints in the dust on the windowsills. The Ouija, it seemed, no longer needed to speak to be heard. It spoke through the world itself.
The consequences were serious.
People began to forget to eat, not because of hunger but because time itself slowed around them; meals cooled to the colour of pennies and then vanished before they could be tasted. The hundred villagers started moving in concert with eerie precision, as if choreographed by a conductor who never lived. They performed tasks in perfect sequence: early risers brewed tea, others tended gardens, and everyone spoke in a quiet cadence suggesting a shared script they could not see. Weather turned extreme in tiny, intimate ways: the sunset each evening bled into a second horizon of heat wilting flowers, while a sudden rainstorm teased the edges of the village, soaking only the roofs and a circle around the square.
The more Elarin’s influence grew, the more the village began to resemble the map the board had drawn, paths were not paths, doors opening only inward, and rooms appearing where no room existed. People who went into the attic never returned with their whole selves intact; some came back with memories that weren’t theirs, or with a whisper in their mouths tasting like copper and old ink. In the midst of this, a young girl named Mina, who once drew constellations on the back fence with a stick, found a star drawn in the dust on the attic floor. It pulsed with a soft cold light and a single word etched in the center: Help. Mina lifted the planchette by its old worn handle as if it were a key, and spoke in the language that lived in dreams and lullabies: a plea not to stop the sea, not to let the village drown in a map refusing to resemble anything human. The next morning, the village woke to a decision: to seal the attic, to bury the board beneath the roots of the old elm at the edge of the cemetery, and to pretend the wind had never learned their names. But the moment they moved, the town’s life responded in a new, more terrifying way. The planchette influence did not retreat; it pressed outward, pushing the village to confront its own past and the consequences of the promises they made to keep the quiet of the night.
In calculating steps, Mina and a handful of the bravest, including the village’s elder librarian and a carpenter who could hear when a nail spoke to him, made a plan. They would coax Elarin back into the board, where it could be contained, and then seal the attic with a spell of memory, words learned from the village’s oldest diaries and the well’s murmur. It was dangerous, because to seal away such a thing is to seal away part of the village’s own memory of who it had been and who it might become.
The climactic moment arrived at the edge of the cemetery as the sunset bled to a deeper crimson, an almost intangible fire along the horizon touching the tops of the elm trees and turned their shadows into long, patient fingers. Mina stood with the librarian and the carpenter in the circle where the ground remembered every footstep that had ever crossed there. They opened the attic door just enough for a gust of warm air to blow out the lamps and reveal the board, waiting with its patient, unblinking stare.
“We want to speak now, and only for a moment,” Mina said, steady despite the tremor in her hands. “We want you to listen to us as we listen to the land.”
The planchette moved with a gentle, almost affectionate motion, tracing a line toward the center of the board where a symbol never carved but now appeared as if drawn by the wind itself. Elarin’s voice spoke, not as a shout, but as a careful, weathered whisper. It offered a choice: release the village from the map’s spell, or bind it forever to a story in which every sunset carried the weight of a consequence earned by fear and silence. The decision fell to Mina, who knew to deny the village’s past was to condemn its future to repeat, not to learn. She spoke of memory as a living thing, not a chain. She asked if there could be a compromise: a pact that allowed the village to breathe again, to walk its streets without fear of becoming a line drawn in a chart. The pact, once spoken, shifted the air. The odyssey of the map slowed, and the world began to tilt back toward ordinary gravity. The winds softened. The drains stopped echoing with distant footsteps. The sunset, while still glorious, no longer carried the menace of a door that could open anywhere at once.
The village’s life returned, not as it had been but as it could be if they honoured the truth of their own stories. They burned the old letters binding them in fear and left a single message in the square for future generations: Do not let a map become your fate. Remember the land you walk on, and the people who walk with you.
The attic door became a rumour again, and the Ouija board, once a life that breathed through the walls, rested quietly beneath the elm’s roots, not destroyed but sleeping, waiting for a time when the village might need a map again, and with it, a reminder: some power is stronger when kept quiet, and some sunsets are beautiful because they bear witness to what a village survived and what it chose to forget.
The Empress sat beneath a canopy of gold-green vines, her throne carved from living wood, roots curling into the earth like patient fingers. The air carried the scent of blooming orchards and distant rain, a gentle symphony soothed even the bravest hearts. Beside her, a stream braided through a glade, its waters silvered by moonlight, spilling secrets to the stones and mushrooms alike.
Into this sanctuary stepped a traveller, eyes wide with longing and hands empty but for a seed wrapped in cloth. The Empress regarded the seed with a softness that felt like sunlight on bare shoulders.
“What do you carry, child?” she asked, not to pry, but to invite honesty.
“The future,” the traveller replied, “yet I fear my hands are too small to shape it.”
The Empress smiled, and a warm breeze lifted the cloth, revealing the seed: a tiny ember nestled in soil’s embrace. She plucked a fern from the ground, coaxed a green sprout from its heart, and placed the sprout within the traveller’s palm.
“Growth begins where care is given,” she murmured. “Nurture what you plant, and the world will refine itself around your intent.”
She led the traveller to a grove where trees wore crowns of fruit like lanterns. Each fruit glowed faintly with a memory—some of a plate shared with strangers, some of a homecoming long awaited, some of a dream dared and then delayed. The Empress touched the first fruit, and it opened to reveal a scene: a grandmother teaching a child to count petals, a village gathering to mend a torn banner, a garden where laughter grew as surely as tomatoes.
“Abundance is not merely plenty,” she explained, “it is the visible care we extend to every living thing, seen and unseen. When you plant with tenderness, you harvest with gratitude.”
The seed in the traveller’s hand warmed, threads of heat weaving into their skin, a quiet certainty taking root.
“Create,” the Empress said, returning to the traveller’s side. “Create not from scarcity or urgency, but from the quiet persistence of care. When you honour the cycle—the sowing, the growing, the blossom, the rest—you become a conduit for the Earth’s own generosity.”
Night began to settle, and the glade glowed with a soft, amber light. The traveller, now steady and sure, stood with the embers of a new purpose kindling in their chest. They thanked the Empress, who nodded, a reflection of the dawn in her eyes.
“Go,” she whispered, “And tend your seed as if it were a promise you intend to keep.” Then, with a gentle rustle of leaves, she faded into the hush of the forest, leaving behind a trail of tiny luminescent orbs—each one a reminder that nurture, patience, and love are the most fertile soils of all.
The traveller stepped into the night, seed warm in their palm, a clear path unfurling ahead: to nurture, create, and to share the bounty with a world always hungry for a little more light.
In a corner of Wales where the wind remembers every ancient road, there stood a plateau crowned by a stubborn old mountain. Not the tallest peak, perhaps, but one wearing its clouds like a shawl and keeping its secrets tucked beneath mossy stones and bracken that whispered in the rain. On this plateau lived a hermit, a man they called Bryn, though few could swear they’d ever heard him speak more than a few quiet words at a time. The path to Bryn’s dwelling was narrow, carved by the patient steps of seasons. It wound through gorse and bramble, climbed a stair of loose slate, and finally opened onto a small, stone-creaking cabin perched at the edge of the world where the land fell away into a thousand green miles. The cabin had no fancy bells or bright windows, only a single small lattice blinking gold in the sunset, and a smoke-blackened chimney never seeming to stop sighing into the dusk.
Bryn lived alone, but he was not lonely. He kept company with the forest’s patient rhythm: the slow turning of the seasons, the wary glances of deer along the ridge, the sly intrusion of badgers at dusk, and the countless songs of birds nesting in the eaves when the storm blew in from the sea. He tended a garden seeming to grow where it wished, herbs and roots thriving in soil that was more memory than earth. He spoke softly to stones, and the stones, if you listened with your heart rather than your ears, spoke back in a language of weight and time. People from valleys below would sometimes find the path to the plateau, drawn by a rumour of wisdom and a need for counsel. They carried with them the burdens of ordinary life: a quarrel with a sister, a fear of the future, a decision that would bend a life into a new shape. And when they stood before Bryn, they found a man who looked at them with the patience of rivers and the calm certainty of a tree that has weathered many storms.
“Tell me what you carry,” Bryn would say, not as a demand but as a door opened by trust.
And they would begin, slowly, as if peeling an apple grown too old to hurry, revealing the weight inside: a grudge burning like a coal in the pocket, a dream grown stiff with doubt, a plan that had forgotten to breathe. Bryn listened as the forest listened: with a generous stillness that let the speaker feel the full gravity of their own words. Then, without booming judgment, he would offer a thread of truth, sometimes wrapped in a parable, sometimes in a small, practical act. He spoke of rivers that do not hurry to the sea, of mountains that rise not to impress but to shelter, of nights so quiet even the heart could hear its own breath. He urged patience, and offered questions rather than answers, because questions, he believed, were the hatchways to the hidden rooms inside every choice.
On one such day, a storm rolled in from the sea with a beard of rain and a voice like clattering armour. The plateau trembled under the wind, the slate rattled underfoot, and the forest hissed with the warning of sap that might freeze on a moonless night. A young woman, eyes bright with stubbornness, stood at Bryn’s door with a letter clenched in her hand, the letter she dared not send, the one that would either mend a family rift or burn it to ashes.
Bryn welcomed her with the quiet smile of a man who has learned to recognise the exact moment when a storm has become a story and not a danger. He listened as she spoke of kinship and clever plans, of promises made in the glow of the hearth and promises broken in the cold arithmetic of daily life. When her tale ran dry, he pressed a small seed into her palm, a seed that looked, to the untrained eye, like any ordinary seed but carried, in its dry shell, the memory of a hillside that never stopped growing.
“Plant it where the earth remembers your laughter,” he said simply. “Water it with your patience, and answer with your presence, not your justification. If the seed grows, let it teach you where to bend and where to stand firm. If it does not, then you have learned something no letter could teach: what you truly want to carry into tomorrow.”
She left with the seed nestled in the folds of her mind, and the storm broke into a chorus of rain and wind sounding like old trees sobbing with relief. Bryn watched the girl go, the plateaus, the mountains, and the sea beyond them settling into a gentler rhythm. He did not possess tools for every problem, nor did he pretend to. He had something rarer: a way of listening that allowed people to hear the right questions inside their own hearts.
Time in Bryn’s life did not rush. It curled like smoke around the chimney and drifted through the cabin’s wooden bones. The forest grew older with him, or perhaps with him inside it, becoming a book whose margins were carved by the rain. And the plateau, that quiet crown on the Welsh hills, remained a place where endings did not announce themselves with thunder, but with a soft light softening the edges of a life already worn just enough to fit a wiser future.
If you asked Bryn the meaning of wisdom, he would point to the gentle hinge of a door that leads to a room you never knew existed, a room where you can choose a different path without losing your old self. He would tell you wisdom is not a shout or a flame, but a steady breath in the long corridor of tomorrow. And so the hermit lived, not as a figure of mystery but as a patient reminder: that a life kept in harmony with the forest, its rain, wind, and quiet growth can teach us to slow down, listen, and perhaps, just perhaps, choose the path that asks for a little more tenderness and a little less fear.
Lazarus Carpenter - Author 