There is a point in landscape practice where simply walking attentively is no longer enough. Once we have become familiar with the basic phenomenology of a place, with its paths, boundaries, changes in atmosphere and the way the body responds to them, we can begin to alter the manner in which we perceive the landscape itself.

One of the simplest methods is to slow everything down.

Instead of walking at the ordinary pace of someone who is going somewhere, we move so slowly that the habitual organisation of attention begins to loosen. At the same time we stop using vision in its usual, strongly focused way. Rather than looking directly at objects, we allow attention to spread towards the edges of the visual field.

This is especially effective around twilight, when the sun is setting and the landscape gradually loses some of its sharpness. Central vision remains clear enough to orient ourselves, but the periphery becomes more prominent. Colours, small movements and changes in contrast may become noticeable there that would normally pass unnoticed.

The exercise begins while walking. Move slowly and keep the gaze relaxed, looking ahead without fixing on one particular object. Let attention widen until you are aware of as much of the peripheral visual field as possible.

After a while, begin to turn very slowly.

There is no need to decide beforehand where to stop. Continue turning while remaining attentive to the whole visual field and to the body at the same time. At a certain orientation you may notice that the movement naturally loses momentum. The body slows and comes to rest.

The important thing is not to interpret this immediately. We are not assuming that the body has detected an invisible current or that the chosen direction possesses some special power. We are simply learning to notice that orientation can arise before conscious reasoning has formulated a preference.

This is one of the more subtle ways in which the body participates in landscape perception.

Once you have stopped, remain still and keep the gaze soft. Continue looking forward while paying particular attention to what happens towards the edges of vision. There may be slight changes in colour or contrast. Some contours may appear more mobile or less sharply defined. Occasionally colours seem to surround objects or shift in intensity.

Such phenomena need no immediate explanation. Peripheral vision functions differently from central vision, particularly in diminished light, and some of what appears will certainly belong to normal visual physiology. The purpose of the exercise is not to decide too quickly whether something is physiological, psychological or unusual, but to become capable of observing it precisely.

The same broadening of attention can then be extended to hearing.

Begin with the obvious sounds around you. Wind, birds, insects, distant traffic, leaves moving against one another, perhaps the sound of your own clothing or breath. Instead of following any one sound, allow hearing to widen until the entire acoustic field becomes present at once.

Then listen towards the furthest audible layer.

There is often a strange change when we stop asking what we hear and begin listening to the space in which sounds appear. Hearing becomes less a succession of identifiable objects and more a surrounding field.

At this stage vision and hearing begin to work together. The landscape is no longer experienced mainly as a collection of separate things to be recognised and named. It becomes a more continuous field in which the body itself is included.

Now introduce a very small movement. Allow the body to make slow circular motions, perhaps beginning in the pelvis and spreading gently through the torso. There is no need to exaggerate this. At the same time, become aware of the breath and let it deepen naturally.

As movement, breath, vision and hearing settle into one rhythm, the ordinary division between observer and surroundings may become less pronounced. Attention becomes quieter and less selective. This is where the practice begins to connect with what we have called the Witness.

In The Inner Laboratory, the Witness is the capacity to observe without immediately becoming entangled in what appears. A perception can arise without our instantly naming it, judging it or reacting to it. The same capacity is useful in the landscape. We notice a colour, a change in atmosphere, a bodily sensation or an unexpected image, but we do not need to turn it immediately into a theory.

The Witness creates the space in which experience can remain experience for a little longer.

From that position the Operator can eventually become active. The Operator is the part of the practice that introduces a deliberate act: a question, a gesture, a sigil, an invocation or another intentional intervention. But in this exercise there is no reason to do that yet.

Remain receptive.

This is more difficult than it sounds, because magical practice easily becomes a search for phenomena. Once we expect colours, presences, energies or beings, we begin to select the very perceptions that confirm our expectation.

Here the discipline is the opposite.

Nothing needs to appear.

The change we are interested in is already taking place in the organisation of attention. By slowing movement, widening vision, listening beyond the nearest sounds and allowing the breath to deepen, consciousness begins to operate differently from its usual goal-directed mode.

This altered organisation of perception is one of the entrances into what I call the ultra-subjective hyperspace, the USH.

The term does not refer to a second physical world concealed behind the visible landscape. It refers to the experiential field in which sensory perception, bodily state, memory, imagination, emotion and meaning come together. Normally this field is dominated by practical cognition. We identify objects, follow paths, avoid obstacles and move towards destinations. When those habits are deliberately slowed, other aspects of experience become easier to notice.

A landscape may then seem less object-like and more atmospheric. Direction can become more important than destination. A particular tree, stone or opening may acquire an unexpected intensity. Images or associations may arise that were not consciously invited.

Whether any of this should later be understood psychologically, physiologically, imaginally or magically is a different question. At this stage it is enough to observe how the experience develops.

That is also why twilight is useful. The landscape remains recognisable, yet certainty is slightly reduced. Edges soften, peripheral vision becomes more active, and the mind is given less sharply defined material to organise. The result can be a subtle change in consciousness without any need for elaborate ritual or deliberate visualisation.

The whole practice can therefore remain remarkably simple.

Walk more slowly than usual. Let the gaze become broad rather than fixed. Become aware of the peripheral visual field. Turn slowly until the body naturally comes to rest. Remain there for some time. Listen to the whole acoustic environment and then towards its furthest edge. Allow a gentle circular movement to enter the body and let the breath deepen. Continue observing without searching for a particular result.

Afterwards, record what happened before discussing it or trying to explain it.

The value of the exercise does not depend on seeing unusual colours or sensing a presence. Its purpose is to discover how much our normal experience of landscape depends upon the particular way in which we move, look and listen.

Change those habits, and the landscape may begin to appear differently.

At that point nothing has yet been evoked and nothing has been imposed upon the place. The practitioner has simply become quieter, slower and more receptive.

For Landscape Magick, that is already a significant step.

Landscape Magick is the ‘external’ part of the project, the internal loboratory.