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A controversial figure from the past. A rare but factual interview from 2019. Make your own judgments.
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All the 2026 crop circles as they are reported Remember, it’s not about who makes it — it’s about the intention and thought that goes into the act of creation. 1st Crop Circle of 04-04-2026 - Illchester - Somerset
2nd Crop Circle Avebury & Silbury Hill 29-04-2026
3rd Crop Circle - Jacks Castle Plantation 8th May 2026
4th Crop Circle - Kingweston, Somerset 10-05-2026
5th Crop Circle -White Sheet Hill, Mere, Wiltshire - 22-05-2026
6th Crop Circle Ditcheat Hill, Somerset 31-05-2026
7th Crop Circle Grovely Wood nr Wilton Wiltshire 15-06-26
8th Crop Circle Furze Knoll 12/13th of June 2026 - Unconfirmed.
It appears that this crop circle at Furze Knoll - Bishops Cannings - Wiltshire - the farmer got there first before any images could be taken. Please see article by following the link.... Category: Why Do Farmers Cut Out Crop Circles - Canvas Of Gold 9th Crop Circle Kingweston, Somerset, 21st June 2026
10th Crop Circle Etchilhampton Hill, Wiltshire 24th June 2026
11th Crop Circle, Zürcher Weinland, Switzerland 23rd June 2026 12th Crop Circle Poirino/Turin (Piemonte, Italy) 13th June 2026 2026 crop circle had been created in Poirino/Turin (Piemonte, Italy) by Francesco Grassi and his friends at night on June 13, 2026.
Francesco Grassi Crop Circles: Signs of Intelligence 13th Crop Circle Hackpen Hill (Commissioned ) 28th June 2026
Please note: This crop circle has been commissioned by Sky History Channel - presented by Bradley Walsh 
14th Crop Circle Journet France - 29th June 2026
Made in a wild flower meadow It appears that this crop circle was made by Dene Hine in connection with his exhibition in South/West of France. Hopefully we can bring you more details, when available. meanwhile follow this link: Blog - Melusine's Workshop 15th and 16th Crop Circle - Alfreds Castle - Bishopstone Oxfordshire 3rd July 2026
17th Crop Circle - Monument Hill - Etchilhampton - Wiltshire |
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18th Crop Circle - Zeals Knoll nr Mere Wiltshire 5th July 2026
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19th Crop Circle - Maccoombe Down Wiltshire - 7th July 2027
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I rarely comment on crop circle designs but this one has to take some credit. The design is simple but yet very complex in construction. The intended dimensional effect is clearly visible, the measurements look precise. Well done circle makers for constructing something different, which in my opinion is perfection.
20th Crop Circle - Roundway Hill Devizes Wiltshire 11th July 2026
 |  Getting the feeling this is a new team of circle makers. |
21st Crop Circle - Milk Hill Alton Barnes Wiltshire 12th July 2026
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I’ve said this more times than I can count, and I’ll say it once more with absolute clarity: I am not bothered about who makes crop circles. Truly, I’m not. I know the answer, I’ve known it for years, and yet I refuse to waste another hour — let alone days — wrestling in endless debates with people who cannot see beyond the narrow horizon in front of them. Those arguments have grown stale, repetitive, and at times painfully rude, especially toward the very people who actually understand the origins of these formations. I understand the longing to believe in something otherworldly. I once stood in that same place, looking up at the stars for answers. But time has a way of softening illusions and sharpening truth. With patience — and sometimes a stubborn amount of commitment — you eventually climb that hill that once felt impossible. And you do it not through arguments, not through negativity, but through quiet openness. I learned that the hard way.
And here is the beautiful part: even when you finally discover how and who makes crop circles, the magic of stepping into one never fades. That feeling — that quiet hum of wonder — stays with you. It lingers in the back of your mind like a warm echo from a past belief. The feelings don’t die. Don’t let anyone kill that feeling through pointless conflict.
These days, there aren’t many circles being made. But if you are lucky enough to find one, sit in it. Breathe. Let the countryside wrap around you. Appreciate the effort, the artistry, the intention behind it — a gift created for you to experience a moment of stillness and connection. Some circle makers genuinely see their work as an offering to humanity, a gentle nudge to open yourself to belief, to possibility, to wonder.
So stop feeding the noise. Stop diving into the nonsense that drags people into rabbit holes and ruins reputations on forums. As long as crop circles exist, the same old arguments will rise again every summer — recycled theories, recycled outrage, recycled confusion. It’s a loop with no end.
Do yourself a kindness: step out of the loop.
Enjoy the circles in peace and tranquillity. Let them be what they were always meant to be — a moment of calm, a breath of wonder, a quiet reminder that not everything needs to be fought over. You will gain far more from sitting in a field than from sitting behind a screen arguing with strangers who will never change their minds.
Choose peace. Choose presence. Choose the circle, not the conflict.
Namaste.
And here is the beautiful part: even when you finally discover how and who makes crop circles, the magic of stepping into one never fades. That feeling — that quiet hum of wonder — stays with you. It lingers in the back of your mind like a warm echo from a past belief. The feelings don’t die. Don’t let anyone kill that feeling through pointless conflict.
These days, there aren’t many circles being made. But if you are lucky enough to find one, sit in it. Breathe. Let the countryside wrap around you. Appreciate the effort, the artistry, the intention behind it — a gift created for you to experience a moment of stillness and connection. Some circle makers genuinely see their work as an offering to humanity, a gentle nudge to open yourself to belief, to possibility, to wonder.
So stop feeding the noise. Stop diving into the nonsense that drags people into rabbit holes and ruins reputations on forums. As long as crop circles exist, the same old arguments will rise again every summer — recycled theories, recycled outrage, recycled confusion. It’s a loop with no end.
Do yourself a kindness: step out of the loop.
Enjoy the circles in peace and tranquillity. Let them be what they were always meant to be — a moment of calm, a breath of wonder, a quiet reminder that not everything needs to be fought over. You will gain far more from sitting in a field than from sitting behind a screen arguing with strangers who will never change their minds.
Choose peace. Choose presence. Choose the circle, not the conflict.
Namaste.
If memory serves, the last time a crop circle featured prominently in a major blockbuster movie was Signs. Now, with the full formation in Disclosure Day soon to be revealed — perhaps within days — one can’t help but wonder: will it reignite belief that crop circles are the work of something otherworldly? Could it draw in a new wave of believers, rekindle curiosity, and breathe life back into the mystery?
And the biggest question of all — will it appear, somewhere out there in a quiet field? We wait, with bated breath.
And the biggest question of all — will it appear, somewhere out there in a quiet field? We wait, with bated breath.
 |  The Disclosure Day Movie Crop Circle (Please note - not to scale but the design hopefully is correct) |  |
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The Barge Inn 1925
I have sat in The Barge Inn at Honeystreet for more years than I can easily count, and I’ve certainly consumed more pints than I’d ever dare to admit. It was never just a pub to me — it was a place where time loosened its grip, where the Vale seemed to breathe a little slower, and where the world outside the chalk hills felt very far away. So it felt fitting — almost necessary — to write a small piece about it. A tribute, really. Not to the beer or the building, but to the years, the people, and the strange, beautiful mystery that wrapped itself around that pub like mist rising off the canal at dawn.
There are places in the world that don’t just exist on a map — they exist in memory, in myth, in the strange overlap between the ordinary and the extraordinary. For the crop‑circle world, that place was The Barge Inn at Honeystreet. A pub sitting quietly beside the Kennet & Avon Canal, surrounded by the rolling chalk downs of the Pewsey Vale, it looked unassuming enough from the outside. But inside, and in the fields around it, something far stranger was unfolding.
The Barge was never just a pub. It was a gravitational centre. A crossroads. A magnet for the curious, the eccentric, the brilliant, and the downright unhinged. Anyone who came to the Vale during the 1990s and early 2000s — whether they were researchers, circle makers, sceptics, believers, or simply wanderers drawn by the mystery — eventually found themselves here, pint in hand, pulled into the ambience of the place.
The Landscape That Made the Legend
To understand the Barge, you have to understand the land around it. The Vale is a bowl of ancient chalk, carved by time and weather into sweeping curves and soft horizons. Milk Hill rises behind the pub like a sleeping giant, and on its flank the Alton Barnes White Horse stares out across the fields — a chalk guardian watching over centuries of stories.
It was in these fields that the modern crop‑circle phenomenon erupted. Perfect circles, spirals, fractals, mandalas — patterns that seemed to appear overnight, as if the land itself were speaking in geometry. And the Barge Inn, sitting right at the centre of it all, became the unofficial headquarters of the mystery.
The Croppies’ Bar
Walk inside the pub during the 1990s and you stepped into another world. The Croppies’ Bar was unlike anything else in rural England. The walls were covered in murals — swirling galaxies, alien faces, stylised crop circles, and psychedelic landscapes that seemed to pulse under the dim lights. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense, and the low hum of arguments that had been going on for years.
You could sit at one table and hear a physicist explaining plasma vortex theory. At the next, a dowser would be tracing invisible lines across the table with a pendulum. In the corner, a filmmaker would be interviewing someone who claimed to have seen lights over Milk Hill. And somewhere in the room, quietly nursing a pint, a circle maker would be listening to their own handiwork being described as extra-terrestrial. It was chaotic, electric, and utterly unique.
Nights in the Garden
On warm summer evenings, the real magic happened outside. The canal‑side garden filled with people from all over the world — Germans, Italians, Americans, Japanese researchers with cameras, locals who’d seen it all before, and newcomers who’d arrived wide‑eyed and hopeful.
The conversations drifted across the grass like smoke:
“Did you see the formation at East Field last night?”
“There were lights over the ridge at 2 a.m.”
“I swear the circle wasn’t there at sunset.”
“I heard Doug and Dave are back.”
“No, this one’s too perfect — no way humans did it.”
The canal reflected the last light of the day, narrowboats drifting past like slow‑moving shadows. The downs glowed gold, then purple, then black. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, another formation might already be taking shape.
The People Who Made the Place
The Barge was a crossroads of personalities. You had the researchers with their notebooks and theories. The mystics who spoke in riddles. The sceptics who came to debunk but stayed for the atmosphere. The circle makers who slipped in and out like ghosts. The locals who watched the whole circus with a mixture of amusement and affection.
And then there were the friendships — unlikely, intense, fleeting, or lifelong. The pub had a way of dissolving barriers. You could arrive alone and end up in a midnight debate with a stranger who felt like an old friend. You could walk in with a theory and walk out with it shattered, rebuilt, or transformed.
The Turning of the Years
As the 2000s rolled on, the scene changed. Ownership shifted. The pub modernised. The crowds thinned. The arguments quietened. But the spirit of the place never fully disappeared.
Even today, if you sit outside at dusk with a pint and watch the light fade over Milk Hill, you can feel it — that old, magnetic pull. The sense that the land is alive with stories. That something extraordinary once happened here, and might happen again.
The Barge Inn remains a living monument to that era. A place where the boundary between the real and the unreal blurred, where strangers became companions, and where the mystery of the fields found its voice.
It is, and always will be, the heart of the Vale.
There are places in the world that don’t just exist on a map — they exist in memory, in myth, in the strange overlap between the ordinary and the extraordinary. For the crop‑circle world, that place was The Barge Inn at Honeystreet. A pub sitting quietly beside the Kennet & Avon Canal, surrounded by the rolling chalk downs of the Pewsey Vale, it looked unassuming enough from the outside. But inside, and in the fields around it, something far stranger was unfolding.
The Barge was never just a pub. It was a gravitational centre. A crossroads. A magnet for the curious, the eccentric, the brilliant, and the downright unhinged. Anyone who came to the Vale during the 1990s and early 2000s — whether they were researchers, circle makers, sceptics, believers, or simply wanderers drawn by the mystery — eventually found themselves here, pint in hand, pulled into the ambience of the place.
The Landscape That Made the Legend
To understand the Barge, you have to understand the land around it. The Vale is a bowl of ancient chalk, carved by time and weather into sweeping curves and soft horizons. Milk Hill rises behind the pub like a sleeping giant, and on its flank the Alton Barnes White Horse stares out across the fields — a chalk guardian watching over centuries of stories.
It was in these fields that the modern crop‑circle phenomenon erupted. Perfect circles, spirals, fractals, mandalas — patterns that seemed to appear overnight, as if the land itself were speaking in geometry. And the Barge Inn, sitting right at the centre of it all, became the unofficial headquarters of the mystery.
The Croppies’ Bar
Walk inside the pub during the 1990s and you stepped into another world. The Croppies’ Bar was unlike anything else in rural England. The walls were covered in murals — swirling galaxies, alien faces, stylised crop circles, and psychedelic landscapes that seemed to pulse under the dim lights. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense, and the low hum of arguments that had been going on for years.
You could sit at one table and hear a physicist explaining plasma vortex theory. At the next, a dowser would be tracing invisible lines across the table with a pendulum. In the corner, a filmmaker would be interviewing someone who claimed to have seen lights over Milk Hill. And somewhere in the room, quietly nursing a pint, a circle maker would be listening to their own handiwork being described as extra-terrestrial. It was chaotic, electric, and utterly unique.
Nights in the Garden
On warm summer evenings, the real magic happened outside. The canal‑side garden filled with people from all over the world — Germans, Italians, Americans, Japanese researchers with cameras, locals who’d seen it all before, and newcomers who’d arrived wide‑eyed and hopeful.
The conversations drifted across the grass like smoke:
“Did you see the formation at East Field last night?”
“There were lights over the ridge at 2 a.m.”
“I swear the circle wasn’t there at sunset.”
“I heard Doug and Dave are back.”
“No, this one’s too perfect — no way humans did it.”
The canal reflected the last light of the day, narrowboats drifting past like slow‑moving shadows. The downs glowed gold, then purple, then black. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, another formation might already be taking shape.
The People Who Made the Place
The Barge was a crossroads of personalities. You had the researchers with their notebooks and theories. The mystics who spoke in riddles. The sceptics who came to debunk but stayed for the atmosphere. The circle makers who slipped in and out like ghosts. The locals who watched the whole circus with a mixture of amusement and affection.
And then there were the friendships — unlikely, intense, fleeting, or lifelong. The pub had a way of dissolving barriers. You could arrive alone and end up in a midnight debate with a stranger who felt like an old friend. You could walk in with a theory and walk out with it shattered, rebuilt, or transformed.
The Turning of the Years
As the 2000s rolled on, the scene changed. Ownership shifted. The pub modernised. The crowds thinned. The arguments quietened. But the spirit of the place never fully disappeared.
Even today, if you sit outside at dusk with a pint and watch the light fade over Milk Hill, you can feel it — that old, magnetic pull. The sense that the land is alive with stories. That something extraordinary once happened here, and might happen again.
The Barge Inn remains a living monument to that era. A place where the boundary between the real and the unreal blurred, where strangers became companions, and where the mystery of the fields found its voice.
It is, and always will be, the heart of the Vale.
The Barge Inn as seen to this very day.
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.
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
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.
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.
Steve Alexander (C) 1998 Temporary Temples
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)
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)
Avebury, August 1998 Image Steve Alexander (C) 1998 Temporary Temples
Hi - It seems you’ve spent too long trampling crops at night that you’ve started confusing your own footprints for facts, perhaps you have overdosed on pesticides. Easy mistake, I suppose, when you’re out past midnight with nothing but a plank, a headtorch, and a vivid imagination, reality can get a bit wobbly.
I’m not here for “beef,” mainly because I don’t know you well enough, and also because I prefer my drama without mud on my shoes. But judging by the creative fiction on your malicious and fictitious website, you’ve got me confused with someone from whatever fantasy novel you think you’re living in.
So let me clear this up — briefly, because honestly, I don’t need to explain anything to you. I stepped away from the crop circle circus years ago. Then I visited one or two of your… artisan agricultural vandalism pieces in 2025, and it reminded me of the days when I ran most of Cropcirclewisdom — about 80% of it, if we’re being precise.
After bumping into Andrew, I asked if he fancied reviving a site. His answer was a solid, unshakeable “No.” I asked if he minded me doing it. His reply? “Do what you like.” He even offered his archives, notes and hundreds of images, which was very kind of him and very inconvenient for your conspiracy theories.
So here we are. Some content from old PDF files revived with the ability to cut and simply paste from one file to another- it saves time you know and even some new material of my own, and to be frank with you I have absolutely zero interest in wrestling with trolls like you who spend more time flattening crops than checking facts.
If the accuracy of this site interferes with your nocturnal hobby of tiptoeing through farmers’ fields at night, well that’s unfortunate. And illegal. Very illegal.
So maybe give the rumours a rest. Try saying something true for once. You might even enjoy the novelty and who knows, it could be a refreshing change from being the most disliked circle maker in Wiltshire, Hampshire and Dorset - possibly even Berkshire and Warwickshire.
As a circle maker you could add so much more positivity to the subject and be more respected by the community. It is a shame that you have chosen to be the one and only outcast. Change your ways it might do you some good.
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One of the few remaining archives of crop circles
Lucy Pringles Photo archive
Archive in diagram style
Andy Pyrka's OWN website. Released a fascinating book. A must read.
