For most of the villagers of St Sigfrith it would be inconceivable for hedge-witches to no longer live at Bishop's End.

Love it or hate it, the Winthrop witches are as much a part of the town as are Avery Walpole's award-winning marrows, or the annual celebration of Olaf's day where everyone sets fire to a reproduction Viking longship and the winner of the "best beard in town" is announced.

The house is named Bishop's End because of the corrupt medieval bishop who met a gruesome death there while trying to assault one of the Winthrop ancestresses. Well, that is the story told by Honora Winthrop anyway.

Honora's mother, Felicity, has an altogether racier tale, in which the bishop does not die, but is found running through the village streets with his clothing missing and his "end" on full display. It is the more entertaining of the two, but probably just as much of a load of bollocks.

Since hedge witches were wise-women living outside the boundaries of the town: beyond the hedge, it is likely that their house was built on the fringes of the parish too. It would have been the very literal end of the bishop's district.

But stories don't have to be true to serve a purpose, do they? And the purpose of both Honora and Felicity's stories is the same. Don't mess with the Winthrop women.

It is five-thirty on a Wednesday, and Maya, Honora's daughter and the youngest member of the Winthrop family, has her hand rested on the weathered wood of the lychgate that leads into Bishop's End. School finished over two hours ago, but still she stands there, reluctant to enter.

The house was certainly never a churchyard, and the gate is an arts and crafts addition from a hundred and thirty years ago. It was built for decoration, not for sheltering bodies before their burial. But perhaps in its own way, the gate does function like a church lych - a sort of barrier between the ordinary outside world and the mystical space within.

It is May, and the front garden is wild and magnificent. Early roses peep tentative blush heads from the shrubbery and late forget-me-nots race through the gooseberry bushes. Spires of mauve delphinium thrust themselves from amongst the nettles and the cracked stone path is riddled with violets.

Among this profusion rises the grey stone cottage with its multiple red-brick chimneys, storybook windows and dovecote built into the roof. Over the ridge of the roof extend the tips of fruit trees in the back orchard.

Maya takes the steps of the porch at a jump, noticing a small, glazed bowl of black salt resting alongside the front door. It is combination of blended crystal and rock salt, mixed with ashes of sage, charcoal and black cauldron scrapings. It is supposed to absorb toxic energy. It's clearly been placed there for her benefit.

My bloody mother! She thinks.

It really is hard not to be toxic with the level of crazy that goes on in her house. Everyone at school thinks she is bonkers.

Maya grabs the black iron doorknob and bursts furiously into the living room, all ready to confront her mother with renewed ire about the injustices of her life, but she doesn't get very far. She is stopped in the doorway by the sight in front of her. Her mother, her grandmother and some of their women-friends from the neighboring villages are assembled on the couches and comfy chairs of the central lounge area. All of them are stark naked.

''Oh, hello darling!" calls Felicity, waving affably from the deep-buttoned, purple velvet armchair. Her spiked silver hair, long neck and over-plucked eyebrows give her a vague resemblance to a secretary bird.

"Mom? Gran? What the...?'' Maya is mortified.

''Oh, I am sorry darling,'' Felicity continues, lowering the mirror she is holding. ''Your mother was convinced that you wouldn't be interested in our feminine divine tantra workshop today seeing as you are not sexually active.'' This last bit is said from behind her hand in an exaggerated stage whisper.

Since Maya is standing on the far side of the room, everyone can hear her.

Maya's face pulls into something resembling a death grimace. "Look now, Nora," Felicity chides her daughter, "she is upset. I told you we should have included her.''

In front of the fireplace, stands a statuesque woman Maya doesn't recognize. Her loose, greying hair undulates all the way down over her dimpled buttocks. Although Maya is grateful for the little cover it affords, she will still have to poke her eyes out later.

''That is a common misconception, Felicity,'' the woman intones in a pretentiously melodic voice. Maya imagines she is aiming for the illusion of deep inner peace. "Even for the most inexperienced lovers, the benefits of tantric self-pleasure should never be under-estimated.'' With that, she casts a meaningful look in Maya's direction.

Honora twists around from her cross-legged position on the sofa and tosses a chunk of curly dark hair over her shoulder. Her substantial body is blissfully screened from Maya's view by the sofa arm.

''You are more than welcome to join us now if you would like to, Maya,'' she says.

''No mum. No!'', Maya says with decisiveness. "In fact, can we please take the subject of my virginity and masturbation practices off the table for group discussion completely. Just take 'em right off.'' She makes a wiping motion in the direction of the Rubenesque tantrika as she disengages from her position by the door and crosses the room. ''Now, I've had a really hard day at school, and I was hoping to find my home possibly less-full of naked strangers, so if you will excuse me ladies ...''

As she makes her way up the cramped, dogleg staircase to her bedroom, her mother's voice drifts up to her:

"I am sorry Gwyneth. I just don't know what to do with her at the moment. I wonder if my bowl of black salt got spilled?''

''You see Nora, this is exactly the kind of stubborn energy blockage I was talking about that can be released if you just rub..."

Maya runs the last few steps so she doesn't have to hear the rest of the sentence and slams the door to her tiny bedroom forcefully. Then she plummets face-first onto the bed.

For Maya, this is not an isolated event; a single rotten afternoon. Although it's not always this bad, it's the sort of thing that happens more than she cares to admit. The women of the Winthrop family are hedge-witches you see: healers and herbalists, midwives and mediums going back since time immemorial.

They are not all the same, but each has at least dabbled in what Honora calls 'the wisdom of the hearth', those mystical and domestic arts that come to women through study and tapping into their deepest instinctual natures. Honora is a doula and a counsellor, and the women in the village know her as someone who can help them "make things happen" through her specially-prepared meals.

As for Felicity, well, who say exactly what Felicity ever did – but it was probably something illegal involving herbs. She was the archetypal flowerchild in her youth, and while you may take the girl out of the sixties, it appears that you can't take the sixties out of the girl.

And Maya? Honora says she hasn't yet realised her unique talents, although Maya is unsure why her mother is so certain she actually has any.

Maya's bedroom is in one of the oldest parts of the house. Small windows built into the meandering eaves look out onto the property on either side. To one side, the front garden and lych gate, to the other, the orchard, vegetable garden and the converted cowbarn that serves as Felicity's apartment and art studio.

While it may look haphazardly charming, the design is actually the result of centuries of careful refinement. Every herb, every flower, every tree has been selected for its contribution towards the family trade, reaching new heights of productivity under Honora's competent care.

When old Martin Evans the postman has a flare up of piles, he knows to stop immediately in at Honora's house for a mug of "hemorrhoid tea", and when the conservation researchers out by Higgins' field get stung again messing with the buff-tailed bumblebee hive, it is Honora's salve they reach for first.

And here is Maya - the only Winthrop daughter of her generation. Without her, it would likely all fall to ruin, clients would be left wanting and mysteries forgotten. And herein lies the problem, because right now, Maya is not at all sure that what she wants in life is to be a hedge witch in the village of St. Sigfrith.