time travel

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to proof read and help solve this issue so you can understand it

Good afternoon, readers—yes, I did suffer a real time slip event in Bideford. In fact, several in North Devon and Cornwall over the years of living there. Even saw a few big black triangles seemingly hovering over the bay near where we once lived.

This is a tongue-in-cheek version—some real, some not—but the core experience? Absolutely valid. The universe has a darkly humorous sense of humour, and it loves to mess with you when you least expect it.

The Long Bridge: Where the Past is a Jerk

Let’s set the scene. You’re in Bideford, a charming little town where the river runs black (because of course it does this place doesn’t do "normal"), and the moonlight plays tricks on your eyes. You cross the Long Bridge, expecting a pleasant stroll, maybe a ghost tour, maybe just the sound of your own existential dread echoing back at you.

But no. The past here isn’t just there it’s active. It’s like the universe’s way of saying, "Oh, you wanted history? Here, have a whole century uninvited."

The Rules (According to the Universe)

1. Don’t Look Left or Right – Because if you do, you’ll see things that shouldn’t be there. Like a man in Victorian clothes standing where there was definitely a doorway five seconds ago.
2. Ghost Tours Are Optional – If you sign up for one, expect the guide to suddenly realize they’re not alone. "That’s impossible," they’ll say, while some stranger in 19th-century garb tips his hat and vanishes like a bad Wi-Fi signal.
3. The River Runs Backwards (Or You Do) – Because why should time flow logically when you could be standing on the bridge arguing with a man who claims you’re the ghost?

A Personal Account of Time-Slip Madness

I was there once. A ghost tour started at half past eight, and I followed the guide like a good little tourist. Then—poof—there were three of us. One with a lantern (very dramatic), one with a phone (very 2023), and one just standing there, waiting to go home.

The guide? Panicking. "That’s impossible."

The stranger? Smiling. "Not according to the bus."

And then because the universe loves irony the fog rolled in, and nobody was there.

The River Knows Your Name

At some point, you’ll hear bells. Not church bells. Midnight bells. At 11:30 AM.

You’ll see a horse clattering past while cars zoom by, because of course they do—this place doesn’t respect traffic laws either.

And then, just when you think it can’t get weirder, some guy in Victorian clothes will stare at you like you’re the one who’s out of place. "Sir, you’ve been standing there since 1892," he’ll say, before vanishing beneath the bridge.

Final Thoughts (Or Lack Thereof)

If you ever find yourself on the Long Bridge, ask yourself: Do I want to see the past?

The answer is probably no. But if you do, just remember—don’t wave back.

Because if they wave first… well. That’s when you know.

You’ve crossed over.

Or they have.

Either way, you’re screwed.

For the Paranormally Curious

"I’m on the Long Bridge in Bideford, and I think I’ve slipped into 1892. What do I do?" Ah, so you’ve finally noticed the time slip? Congratulations, you’re now a main character in North Devon’s most underrated horror story.*

Here’s what to do: 1. Don’t panic. The universe doesn’t like drama. 2. Check your pockets. If you find a pocket watch, it’s either a cool souvenir or proof you’ve been possessed by a Victorian ghost. (Spoiler: It’s the latter.) 3. Ask for directions. If someone in 19th-century clothes stares at you, just smile and say, "Lovely weather we’re having." Then run. 4. If all else fails, blame the bus. (Works every time.)

Final Note: If you ever find yourself on the Long Bridge, just rememberthe past is watching you. And it’s laughing.

(Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, I’m not alone in this.)

sending all readers of the blog peace healing love and light

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)
☣ This Is Not A Blog About MS This Is My Life With MS ☣

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⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly—not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for help.

This weekend was weird. But not in the usual weird for me way this was deeply, spiritually, bowel-wrenchingly weird. The kind of weird where something changes and you just know you won’t be the same again.

Let’s start with the chaos: Sunday morning, 6AM. All hell broke loose internally. After four days of digestive strike action, I finally had a poo. I don’t mean a polite little nudge I mean a full-blown, soul-cleansing exorcism. Two hours. Non-stop. You ever evacuate trauma through your arse? Highly recommend it. I’d been hydrating so much I thought I might grow gills.

Then came the auction. I'd won. I’d actually won what I wanted. And buried among the bits was something that hit me like a metaphysical brick to the forehead: a tiny Southdown Bristol Lodekka FS bus. A toy. A time machine. And suddenly

Bognor Regis, 1970-something.

Me, chatting to bus drivers in that hazy golden glow of childhood. Waiting for the coach to Elmer Sands. That smell diesel, leather, sweat, something comforting. That sound engines coughing awake, drivers shouting to each other, holiday voices bouncing off wet tarmac. And the old Royal Blue coaches too… they’re all there. Memories hiding in plastic and dust, waiting for me to wake up.

And I did. Sunday, something cracked open.

Call it an awakening, a full-on gnōsis moment, a metaphysical “oh fuck, this is real.” My brain fogged, battered, often broken by MS suddenly understood. I reached somewhere I never thought I’d reach. And I didn’t even know I was heading there. It just happened. Snap. Click. And there I was, awake.

That shift followed me right into the dentist’s chair Monday morning. Now let me be clear: I’ve hated dentists since childhood. The smell, the feeling, the loss of control. Usually, it’s a white-knuckle ride of pure panic and bowel tension.

Not this time.

This time, I was calm. No meds. No panic. No sense of doom. Just… acceptance. Even when he said the word “drilling.” Usually, that word makes me want to vanish into the ceiling tiles.

But I just smiled. Said “okay.”

And then he drilled. I felt it, but it didn’t bother me. No sedation, no distraction. I was just… there. I was in the moment. Aware. Free.

I rolled out to the van afterward and couldn’t quite believe it. Something in me has changed, and I don’t think it’s going back. Even the pharmacy run didn’t faze me even when the infernal vending machine tried to hand me someone else’s meds. The world felt possible, even in the drizzle, even under the weight of average speed cameras and crumbling roads.

This storm outside? It’s echoing something inside. Something big. I feel it.

So yeah. This isn’t just a story about a poo or a toy bus or a dentist. It’s about waking up. Remembering. Realising that fear doesn’t rule me anymore.

Elior my guide, my brother helped me see what I couldn’t. Helped me remember what was waiting in the back room of my own mind.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.