Long before it was called Halloween, Samhain marked the turning of the year — a threshold between harvest abundance and the still, reflective months of winter. It was a time when the veil between worlds was said to thin, and when the living might connect with the spirits of those who had gone before.
In Somerset, where rolling hills meet ancient woodlands and stone circles, Samhain traditions were woven into the landscape itself. Fires were lit on hilltops, their flames dancing across the valleys as both protection and celebration. Embers from these bonfires were carried home to hearths, bringing warmth, safety, and continuity through the long winter nights. Locals believed these flames could guide wandering spirits and honour ancestors, connecting past and present in a single, luminous moment.
The rituals of Samhain were as practical as they were mystical. Farmers would offer the last of the harvest — apples, nuts, or grains — to the land and its unseen guardians, asking for blessings on the coming year. In Somerset’s orchards and fields, these gestures created a dialogue between humans and nature, reminding communities of their reliance on the cycles of the earth. Many of these customs survive today, in subtle forms: carving turnips, leaving apples on windowsills, or lighting candles to mark remembrance.
Samhain was also a time of disguise, and villagers used costumes and masks to both honour and confuse wandering spirits — a practice that later shaped modern Halloween traditions. Animal skins, such as fox, cow, or goat were worn to channel the spirit of the creature or to protect against unseen forces. Hand-carved turnips and root vegetables were fashioned into eerie masks, their hollow eyes and jagged mouths bringing a playful yet unsettling presence to the streets.
People also embraced the roles of witches and forest spirits, draping themselves in rags, straw, or feathers, and darkening their faces with charcoal or plant-based dyes. Herbal adornments such as rosemary, mugwort, or ivy were tucked into cloaks or woven into garlands, offering protection while enhancing the sense of magic and transformation. Processions, dances, and storytelling often accompanied these masked gatherings, turning villages into living stages where myth and reality blurred.
A recurring figure in Somerset folklore, the Wild Hunt was imagined as a spectral procession of ghostly hunters racing across the skies, often accompanied by hounds and otherworldly sounds. It was said to appear during Samhain, a harbinger of change and a reminder of the intimacy between the living and the spirit world. Villagers believed that encountering the Hunt could be dangerous, but it was also a moment to honour ancestors and respect the unseen forces of nature. Tales of the Hunt were shared around fires, blending fear, awe, and wonder, and they remain a vivid part of the county’s autumnal imagination.
At its heart, Samhain was about connection. It celebrated community as much as it honoured the unseen. Villagers gathered to share food, stories, and warmth, acknowledging both the bounty of the harvest and the inevitability of winter’s darkness. It was a time to reflect, to honour ancestors, and to prepare for the months ahead.
Walk Somerset’s lanes in late October, and you can almost sense it still: the low-hung mist, the rustle of leaves, and the faint memory of firelight on the hills. Samhain may belong to a distant past, yet its essence remains: a celebration of cycles, of endings and beginnings, of life intertwined with the land and its unseen spirits. Here, we are often reminded that magic lives in the turning of the season, and in the stories we carry forward.