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What are the expectations for 2026 CC Season?

21/4/2026

What are the expectations for the 2026 crop circle season?
It’s a deceptively simple question, one that lingers in the mind like a riddle whispered through wheat. I’ve turned it over more times than I care to admit, and still I can’t offer a definitive answer. But perhaps that’s fitting, speculation has always been the pulse of this phenomenon. Without it, the fields fall silent. So if I’m wrong, so be it. The entire mystery thrives on the willingness to wonder.
The truth is, before we can even imagine what the season might bring, the circle makers themselves need to stop tearing each other apart. The feuds, the grudges, the quiet sniping between camps, it’s become a theatre of bitterness that overshadows the artistry. And worse still, some makers have turned their frustrations toward researchers, past and present, as if exposing the mechanics of the craft somehow threatens the magic. It doesn’t. It never has. But if the bickering continues, the phenomenon won’t be debunked by sceptics, it will simply collapse under the weight of its own infighting, fading not with a bang but with a tired sigh.
Any new formation created this year carries a different kind of risk. Not the old risk of a farmer’s torchlight sweeping across the barley or the distant hum of a patrol car. No, the danger now comes from within the community itself. Rival camps ready to report each other to the authorities out of spite rather than principle. Ironically, the chance of being betrayed by another circle maker is now greater than being caught red‑handed in a field. The old tradition was simple: make it, walk away, say nothing. A code of silence that protected the mystery. So what went wrong? When did silence become impossible?
Part of the answer lies in time itself. The once‑restless, youthful makers are older now. Life has caught up with them , families, careers, health, responsibility. The stamina to trek across fields at midnight. with planks and rope isn’t what it used to be. Many have stepped back, not out of disillusionment, but because their chapter simply closed. And that’s natural. But it leaves a vacuum, and vacuums tend to fill with noise.

If the remaining makers want the mystery to survive, even in its playful, human form, then some kind of regrouping is needed. A ceasefire. A recalibration. A reminder of why this ever mattered in the first place. Because if the infighting continues, the phenomenon won’t be crushed by police drones or sceptics with megaphones. It will be strangled from the inside. And then what? The fields will return to their ancient silence after decades of midnight artistry.
The modern world hasn’t helped either. Employers now run background checks as casually as checking the weather. A criminal damage charge, even one born from creativity rather than malice, can derail a career. That reality alone is enough to make many would‑be makers think twice. The stakes have changed, and the fields feel it.
So no, I don’t have a definitive answer for what 2026 will bring. All I can offer is speculation shaped by experience, observation, and a little sadness. Because I want to report joy, the wonder, the strange luminous experiences people have inside these formations, the same kinds I’ve had myself. I want the phenomenon to breathe, to surprise, to enchant. But that won’t happen unless the community sorts itself out. If the makers don’t get their house in order, then we’re all wasting our time, researchers, enthusiasts, photographers, storytellers, and the makers themselves. The fields are waiting. Whether they remain empty is entirely up to the people who once filled them with magic.

Don't let it become trashed symbolism

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What does the symbol FOj mean?

16/4/2026

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This is old news to many of the long‑timers, but still worth revisiting. A short post, but a fun one. Back in the 1990s, a curious little symbol began appearing beside certain crop circles. At first glance it looked almost like a fragment of hieroglyphics — a compact, angular mark that seemed to hint at something esoteric. But with time, and with enough sightings, the pattern resolved into something far more down‑to‑earth: three letters. F.O.J.
Those initials stood for Friends of Julian.
Julian Richardson was one of the rising talents of the era, a respected, inventive circle maker whose work was instantly recognisable to those paying attention. His assistants, when branching out to create their own formations, would sometimes leave this small signature tucked discreetly into the design. It wasn’t a boast, and it wasn’t meant for the public. It was simply a quiet nod to the community, a way of saying this one’s ours, a marker for those who knew how to look.
In a scene where anonymity was often the default, FOJ acted as a kind of informal calling card. Not a code, not a mystery, just a practical identifier. A wink across the field.
Some things don’t need grand explanations. Most of the time, it’s just a matter of paying attention to the small details, the ones hiding in plain sight.
Now you know.

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Dear Reader

16/4/2026

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I first wandered into Avebury in 1998, drawn by the ancient stone circle like so many others. I expected history, myth, maybe a quiet afternoon. What I didn’t expect was the small crowd gathered in a nearby field, all staring at something with a kind of hushed awe. Curiosity got the better of me, so I went to see what the fuss was about.
There, pressed into the crop, was a perfect circle, crisp, clean, impossibly precise. The lay of the plants was so immaculate it felt almost deliberate in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Visitors whispered theories with absolute conviction: aliens, Mother Earth, cosmic messages. At first, I let myself be swept along by the excitement. Whether it was made by people or something stranger didn’t matter to me; the mystery itself was intoxicating.
So I kept coming back to Wiltshire. Not obsessively, just enough to stay connected to whatever this phenomenon was. Each visit brought new stories: glowing lights, strange movements in the sky, encounters that left people wide‑eyed and breathless. And then, after a while, I began seeing those lights myself, odd, unexplainable, and strangely compelling. They pulled me deeper into the experience, urging me to return again and again.
But what truly made it special were the people. Over the years I met some of the kindest, most open‑hearted individuals you could hope to encounter. Opinions differed wildly, but the atmosphere was warm, curious, and welcoming.
My biggest mistake or perhaps my most important turning point, was spending too much time at the Barge Inn. You couldn’t sit quietly with a pint without overhearing the late‑night bravado of circle makers swapping stories. Eventually, I gathered the courage to interrupt them (yes, I barged in), expecting hostility or secrecy. Instead, they were friendly, generous, and surprisingly intelligent. They held nothing back. They even invited me to join them in making a circle. I resisted for a while… but resistance, as it turns out, has its limits.
From that moment on, every formation I visited became a puzzle. How did they do this? How did they achieve that? Once they explained the different styles and techniques used by various teams, the patterns began to make sense. And for the record, these lads weren’t drunken layabouts. They were creative, thoughtful, and respectful — even when others weren’t respectful toward them.
The fact that humans made the circles didn’t diminish the magic for me. There was something profoundly beautiful about art laid across the landscape, something peaceful about sitting in a formation with good people and fresh air all around.
But over the years, the atmosphere shifted. The bickering grew louder, not so much from from the makers, but from the researchers. I won’t name names, but the infighting became impossible to ignore. At one point, I tried to help the genuine truth‑seekers, and that became my second biggest mistake. I watched good researchers get bullied out of the subject entirely. Many simply walked away. I cannot lie, I did hold a touch of bitterness to the whole thing.
I’m not interested in reopening old wounds, but I will always defend myself and the people I respect. And I’ll say this plainly: those who have kept archives, whether they earned money from them or not, they also deserve respect. They preserved history. Without them, much of this story would already be lost.
Human‑made or not, crop circles still hold a strange and enduring fascination. There’s still beauty in them, still mystery, still community. And despite everything, I still enjoy them to this day. (Mike)