As I mentioned before, creating something like a magical vinegar is a deeply personal journey, a blend of intuition, experimentation, and tradition. But it’s not a journey you take in complete darkness. There are always clues left behind, remnants of past practitioners’ work that help guide the way. If you’re willing to share your own formulas with me, I may consider sharing mine in return. But for now, I’ll offer you a starting point. One of the oldest recipes for a vinegar steeped in magic and mystery comes from none other than

The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, published in 1747. It reads:

...

Welcome to the official YouTube channel of the infamous Cunning Man, known only as Psychic Villain. Here, you'll find videos on folk magic, spellcraft, divination, and the hidden traditions of the occult, all shared anonymously. Join me as I explore the mystical world through rituals, tutorials, and ancient practices—always keeping one foot in the shadows.

There’s something about the legend of Four Thieves Vinegar that’s always captivated me. I think, more than anything, it’s the perfect blend of history, magic, and mystery. It’s one of those tales that we can’t quite verify—was it true, was it exaggerated? Did these thieves really manage to ward off the plague with nothing more than a simple concoction of herbs and vinegar? That’s the beauty of it: a story lost to time, passed down with reverence, filled with just enough magic to make you wonder. The legend goes like this: during the time of the Black Death, four thieves managed to survive amidst the chaos and disease, looting the homes of the dying without ever succumbing to the plague themselves.

When they were finally caught, their secret was revealed. In exchange for a lighter sentence, they divulged their method—an herbal vinegar mixture that kept the sickness at bay. There’s something thrilling about the idea, isn’t there? The notion that a few common herbs, when combined with intention and precision, could protect against something as devastating as the plague. The line between magic and the mundane blurs in the most exciting way. Here we have a formula, yes, but it’s not just a simple recipe. It’s an act of magic disguised as medicine, a few mysterious ingredients woven together to produce a potion that does something far greater than the sum of its parts.

I’ve always loved this story and the formula that came from it, not just for its intrigue but because it’s a perfect example of what makes potion-making such a deeply creative and personal practice. It takes the would-be student on a journey, teaching them a few fundamental rules while still encouraging creativity and ingenuity. After all, there are so many variations of Four Thieves Vinegar—each one slightly different, each one a reflection of the practitioner who made it. The challenge, of course, is that you’re limited to just four ingredients.

Four thieves, each with their own role to play, each carefully chosen. And that’s what makes it brilliant. So many beginners, in their eagerness, want to throw every herb and correspondence into a potion—every single ingredient they’ve read about that could possibly help. But magic, like good crime, is about precision. It’s about knowing exactly what’s needed and nothing more. When crafting a Four Thieves Vinegar, you have to think carefully. You must choose four ingredients that not only work individually, but also together. There’s no room for excess, no space for chaotic combinations. I like to think of it as assembling a team of criminals for a heist. Each ingredient is a member of the crew. You’ve got the safe cracker, the lookout, the muscle, and the getaway driver.

They might not all get along, but they need to be professional. There has to be honour among these thieves. They need to complement each other, each one serving a unique purpose. One to break through, one to shield, one to soothe, and one to strike. It’s an artful balancing act, and when done right, it’s a perfect symphony of power. The other thing that fascinates me about this formula is how it walks the line between magic and practicality. Vinegar itself is such a mundane substance—nothing magical about it on the surface.

Yet when infused with the right herbs, it transforms into something protective, something powerful. The mundane becomes magical, and that’s the core of what I love about potion-making. Everyday ingredients, handled with care and intent, can become vessels for extraordinary power. Of course, I won’t give you the recipe—not because it’s forbidden, but because it’s a journey each practitioner has to take for themselves. That’s part of the magic. You have to learn how the ingredients speak to you, how they interact, how they come together.

Every witch’s Four Thieves Vinegar will be a little different, because every witch’s magic is different. It’s not about blindly following a formula—it’s about understanding it, living it, and then making it your own. And that, I think, is the heart of why this story endures. It’s not just a legend about survival during the plague. It’s a lesson in magic itself.

The balance between creativity and discipline, the interplay of ingredients, the power of simplicity. It’s a reminder that sometimes, less is more, and that the greatest power often comes from the simplest things—when they’re combined with the right intention, of course.

Secrets are funny things. At this point, I’ve forgotten more of them than I currently keep, which is probably just as well. It’s not just the secrets from other lives that slip away, but even the ones shared in this life. Most of the time, it’s simply a matter of not finding what people have to say all that interesting. The truth is, I’ve kept far more of other people’s secrets than my own. And over time, they blur together into a fog of trivialities and forgotten details—whispers that were once so urgent to someone else, but never quite made an impact on me. It’s odd how some things are so delicate and huge for certain people, yet the very same matters can seem entirely trivial to others. I suppose that’s always been the case.

What weighs heavily on one person’s shoulders can barely graze the next. For me, I’ve always been the stable one. There’s a certain use in that. I can take on more responsibility than most, but there’s a price. The weak tend to cling to stability like a life raft, and I’ve found myself surrounded by those who can’t quite stand on their own. That’s another funny thing about getting older, isn’t it? You notice things about the elderly that start to make sense as the years pass. Patience, for one, seems to go out the window. I’ve seen it time and again. The older people get, the less they seem to care about the trivialities of others’ dramas. It’s as if, after so many years of carrying other people’s burdens, they finally allow themselves the freedom to just stop giving a damn. It’s not that they don’t care about anything, but their tolerance for nonsense?

Well, that seems to evaporate. And I can understand why. There’s a beauty in it, really. Take the old man’s slippers, for instance. Hideous things. But oh, so comfortable. That’s what life becomes about after a while—the comfort over the appearance, the easy over the complicated. We spend so much of our lives worrying about how things look, how they come across, and then one day, you wake up and realize you just want to be comfortable. The fuss, the performance, it all starts to fade. Maybe that’s why old people seem to grow bolder, sharper in their words.

They’ve earned the right to let go of what doesn’t matter, to embrace the simplicity of an easy life. I’m not quite there yet, but I can feel it creeping in. The things that once demanded so much energy—keeping everyone else’s secrets, minding everyone else’s business—don’t feel as pressing anymore. It’s freeing, in a way, though it does leave me questioning what I want to carry forward. What’s worth holding on to, and what can be left behind, forgotten like all those secrets that once seemed so important?

I suppose the real secret is this: you don’t need to keep everything. Some things are meant to slip away, to lighten the load. And the older you get, the more you realize how little you truly need to hold on to.

I’ve always had a gift for seeing the future. It’s never been a question of if, only when. To peer around a corner in time and know what awaits, yet still be forced to wait for it to unfold—that is a special kind of patience. Lately, I’ve felt the stirrings of something big, a turning energy that seems to be growing stronger by the day.

The change I’ve seen looming around 2026 is no longer a distant vision. It’s starting now, here in 2024, with subtle shifts in people, in the world around us. The pieces are falling into place, as they must, for the reality to take shape. This century, the 21st, will be a time of immense transformation. History books will mark it as such, no doubt. But I’m less concerned with the grand sweep of humanity and more with the local, personal changes that are beginning to crack the surface. There is a deep winter coming, one that I believe will last for two long years. Not a winter of snow and ice alone, but of darkness—of hibernation, if you will. The kind of cold that forces everything to pause, to still, while the saplings grow under frost, biding their time until the thaw. I feel this not only in my own life, but in the lives of those magical folk around me.

There’s a sense of contraction, of withdrawal into deeper, more solitary work. Whether we all stay the course together, or if some of us will retreat into our own larger, private workings without confiding in one another, remains to be seen. It’s a personal choice, after all. Magic has always been a balance of the collective and the individual. There is one witch in particular—someone I know well—who has been delaying her great works for too long. Bigger, more dangerous projects she’s pushed aside, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of complacency. But now I sense that her hand is being forced. The spirits will wait no longer. They are patient, yes, but only to a point. If the mundane aspects of her life stand in the way, they will be swept aside. Her journey will continue, whether she likes it or not. The rabbit hole only goes deeper from here, and I believe she knows it. Meanwhile, I’ve noticed a curious interest in magic and the so-called paranormal among the mundanes around me.

It could just be the thinning of the veils—October has a way of awakening that in people. It’s that time of year when the air grows thick with possibility, when those with even the slightest inclination toward the unseen start to sense something. I’ve wondered if any of them will feel the true call and find themselves drawn toward the craft. I had hoped at least two would, but I’ve learned not to place too much hope in others as I’ve grown older. It’s not wise to gamble on whether someone has the guts to go through initiation. There’s always a chance, but more often than not, they fall short.

October has always been my favourite time of year. The air smells different, charged with mystery and potential. But these next two Octobers will be special. I feel it in my bones—a changing of the guard in some of our traditions. New blood stepping into old shoes, some of us stepping aside, and others digging deeper into their power. It’s the way of things, after all. Magic moves in cycles, just like the seasons. I wonder who will stay, and who will leave the path behind. The time for waiting is nearly over. Whatever comes next, I’ll be ready. For now, I’ll enjoy the crispness of the air, the turning of the leaves, and the knowledge that the future I’ve always seen is finally coming into view.