On certain nights, after a good day’s racing, as the scent of distant tyre smoke fades but there’s still a whiff of Castrol R on the breeze, when the roar of highly tuned engines is gradually fading in the twilight and our heartbeats are returning to normal, we slump around the hearth and the idle fireside talk begins.

Some of us have heard the baying engines as we’ve ridden through the night. Others have only seen the lights flash across their bedroom ceilings as they cower beneath their blankets. We have all been touched by the Wild Hunt and lived to tell the tale and some of us have even joined in the mechanical bacchanal.

All over this land, we tell stories, stories of the Wild Hunt, the Horsepower Wars and of Wild Hunters - the skirrows - who understand engines so well they can whisper up horsepower itself.  And on occasions such as these, it  won’t be long before the subject of Nick Hob arises - Nicholas Eldritch Hob, a legend in his own lap time - whose tales of derring-do are claimed by some to rival even hose of the Great Smith himself.

This is the home of the Wild Hunt, Anarchadia, a temperate archipelago off the north west coast of what was once called Yerp but is now Post Unification Euphobia. The Horsepower Wars power Anarchadia’s economy and unlike any other place there is no one within these Wayward Islands to stop the Wild Hunt from running or the people from enjoying themselves.

Heads of state and governments have been trying to keep it secret for centuries. Even the idea of peaceful anarchy terrifies them. Compliance of the populace must be maintained at all costs.

It's late and there's an early start for home in the morning. Outside, engines that have fallen silent slowly grow cold. Inside, our faces redden with the warmth from the fire. The weary fall into a deep and untroubled sleep while those of us still awash with adrenalin talk on.

We might slump lower in our chairs but some of us are not meant to sleep tonight.

In Anarchadia we just want to feel good about ourselves. The majority of the human race is like that but there is a minority who cannot bear to see anyone enjoying themselves, especially if the see humans racing, pushing themselves to the limit of speed and time. And by stopping us from feeling this way they seek to control us. They spread fear and guilt and war and famine. They create enemies for us, claiming to protect us from them, and create security cages for us out of ignorance and hate.

Well, the soulless Grey Ones can try that with the rest of the world. It won't happen here.

Anarchadia proves that they are not needed. So they keep it quiet.

And - credit where credit's due - they've done a marvellous job. You won't find it on any map and any references to it in literature or folklore have been assiduously erased.

But the Grey Ones know Anarchadia is out here. And as well as being a seditious hotbed of self-determination and automotive hedonism, Anarchadia is - worst of all - a state of mind.

If the Grey Ones had the imagination to dream they would have nightmares about it. What can spread beyond physical boundaries has to be kept secret.

For if knowledge of Anarchadia was ever to spread to lands reduced to order, the world would never be the same again.

So now that you have found it, whisper its name.

Play along with the Grey Ones for now.

In the meantime, if one knows where to look, evidence for Anarchadia can easily be found. Odd scraps of language, turns of phrase and Wild Hunt idioms fire the imagination and free the spirit. As photons burst inexplicably out of nuclei, as the Wild Hunt bursts out of Wayward Islands, Anarchadian states of mind surge through the consciousness of individuals.

Once that happens the Grey Ones and their controlling ways will be routed for ever.

Where the Wild Hunt runs strongest

It leaves a trail of disorder across the highways of the world. Occasionally, strange cars or motorcycles appear fleetingly in the coastal regions of Yerp, Consumerica and the other trading blocks, piloted by wild eyed or black visored ne'er-do-wells. The local citizens deem it prudent to avoid the Wayward Islanders and their Anarchadian ways. They leave them to make their way back home as inconspicuously as possible after the wildest of Wild Hunts.

Throughout Euphobia and Consumerica you have to be quick to see the spent rubber on the roads. The authorities clear away the signs of a good time before their compliant citizens can notice. In Anarchadia, there is no-one to stop the Wild Hunt

Anarchadia cannot be controlled. It does its own thing.

The Wild Hunt bursts out of Anarchadia

Feared by The Grey Ones

Too rad for some

Still curious?