Faeries, Folklore and Environmentalism

Once upon a time, the forest was not empty. The forest belonged to more than woodland creatures and wispy oak trees. Long before the Evil Humans came in with our bulldozers and chainsaws, there were whispers of certain mystical beings that lived beyond the edge of the woods. They were called faeries, though modern animation films often misrepresent them as loving, benevolent creatures. In traditional folklore, faeries often appear in children’s bedtime stories as mischievous tricksters who are strangely territorial and volatile. To step into their grounds is to enter a domain governed by rules that are alien to the human mind.

Faeries are unassuming entities of eerie splendour. With soft skin as pale as moonlight, and garments spun from dew and shadow, they gleam with an otherworldly presence. Their movements are precise, almost aristocratic, as though they belong to a court that humans can neither see nor understand. To encounter them is to sense that you have intruded upon something ancient and sovereign.

Across folklore, faeries resist a simple, one-dimensional reading. Have you ever encountered a ring of mushrooms in the woods? Superstitions foretold that these ‘faerie rings’ are traps set by faeries to toy with humans. Stumble into one, and you find yourself succumbing to a certain madness, either cursed with ill health or forced to wander the land of faerie forever. Whether these tales are warnings or explanations, their meaning remains elusive.

Even seemingly innocuous places in nature, like a flowing river or a lone hawthorn tree, can be brimming with energy. In some traditions, faeries dwell in hollow hills, beneath water, and in others still in the roots of ancient trees. They are beautifully grotesque; capricious and cruel, often within the same story. Ultimately, what unites them is their unwavering connection to nature.

These stories did not emerge from nowhere. They are superstitious maps of Mother Earth, a kind of emotional and ethical instructions on how to move through the world without destroying it.

Consider the quiet prohibitions embedded in folklore. We are warned to leave their natural habitats in peace (a warning that has clearly not been heeded in the present day), to take from nature only what we need. These are rarely framed as environmental guidelines. Instead, they are warnings: Do not stick your nose into where you are not welcome.

Fear then becomes a kind of internalised governance carried in the imagination. It is easy, from a modern vantage point, to dismiss such stories as superstition. But in their structure, they regulate human behaviour in relation to fragile ecosystems. Flora and fauna and everything in between are left alone in fear of retribution and misfortune.

Across cultures, similar figures emerge through certain presences embedded in bodies of nature; spirits of trees and guardians of rivers alike. They are not identical to faeries, but they do operate through the same principle–that the natural world is relational, a give-and-take between the world and its inhabitants. And when too much has been taken away, the faeries become enraged.

Somewhere along the line, the world has become disenchanted because nature ceased to be understood as anything other than a resource. Trees became timber, and the natural land became property to be owned. The invisible presences that once complicated human access to these spaces were dismissed, and with them, an initial layer of hesitation before acting upon nature. Without the sense that someone might be watching, there was little to restrain extraction beyond what was economically or legally enforced.

It is tempting to argue that the loss of faeries has nothing to do with deforestation, that industrialisation would have proceeded regardless of belief systems. And yet, belief shapes behaviour in ways that are difficult to quantify. When the world is stripped of its agency, it becomes easier to act upon it without pause. Even metaphorically, when it is perceived as alive, the threshold for what is acceptable environmental harm shifts.

Perhaps this is why we are seeing a return of the enchanted. Not necessarily in the literal belief in faeries, but in aesthetics and sensibilities that gesture toward them. With a renewed interest in folklore, the rise of ‘Cottagecore’ and ‘Fairycore’ promotes the proliferation of stories that reimagine nature as sentient and reactive, as attempts to reintroduce meaning into a natural world that has been milked dry of every last drop it has to offer.

Naturally (pun intended), there is a risk in romanticising this return. Of course, there is a risk in romanticising this return. The figure of the faerie can reinforce fear of the unknown, framing nature as something alien or hostile rather than interconnected with human life. This kind of fear can distance rather than nurture care, encouraging avoidance instead of responsibility. If nature is perceived only as something to be feared, it may remain untouched but also misunderstood, kept at arm’s length rather than thoughtfully engaged with.

Myth alone cannot resolve environmental crises driven by global industrial forces. Science explains the damage, while policy attempts to regulate it. Instead, what myth offers is a shift in perception, a way of seeing the world as a responsive entity that can be harmed and can, in turn, respond.

Perhaps that is not the role of faeries. Science can tell us all about the damage being done to our natural world, and policy can attempt to regulate it. What myth offers is a shift in perception, a way of seeing the world as a responsive presence with real, disastrous consequences for all its inhabitants should there not be steps taken to protect the Earth.

Faeries might just be understood not as beings to be believed in, but as metaphors we once needed and may always need again. They embody a kind of ecological consciousness that is difficult to articulate in purely rational terms. They reintroduce the possibility that we are not alone in the landscapes we inhabit. And if anything endures from their stories, let it be this: not everything is ours to touch.