"I don’t recall inviting you to my table."

The Elasticity of A Metaphor.

It all started with a tree. It was a very old tree which had grown from a nut dropped by an even older tree (and so on and so on) until, one might surmise, one had reached the ancient proto-ancestor of the tree. It was a peculiar and towering tree native to one region of the world, later introduced to countless others. The tree was in danger of being struck down and burnt, and beloved as it was someone elected to cut it down gracefully. They sawed the trunk into great planks and spread the planks amongst the people who loved the tree. From these planks were made tables.

One particular table stayed in one very small community, passed on and around between generations. Until, well, the story of the Table had all but been forgotten. Someone had put a heavy varnish on the once breathing wood, and that was that - the line of family who had cared for it all but died out. So, the last person remembering the tale gave the table to someone outside of the community. They hoped that the desperate act would keep the table's story going for another few centuries.

The new keeper had modern sensibilities, and did not like the "savage" woodgrain. So they painted the table white - white for purity and innocence and never once doing anything naughty, EVER.  They never saw the grain of the tree again, nor felt the texture of it's natural surface. The ribald undulations of wild wood were, thus, buried.

Later on they passed the table on, and the next person did not like the high-gloss white, and instead painted it a matte black. Black's the color of night, and dark things. And just looks -classy-. But in time they grew tired of the table and passed it to someone else.

And then someone spraypainted it. And then someone else did a faux wood finish. And then someone else did decoupage with Vishnu in the middle surrounded by Christian saints. And then someone looked a the hulk and said "I wonder what's underneath it all? I wonder how it was made so I can just make my own, the way -I- want?"

If Talk Be Bothersome To Ye...

If even seeing a photo of ritually anointed bread causes you to recoil and make snotty comments? Maybe you're not invited to their table. They have bloody bread on that table.
If the idea that somewhere, someone, killed something for their faith sends you into paroxysms of rage? Maybe you're not invited to my table. I have ritually slaughtered meat on my table.

The irony is that there are sources of information on true, deep, old, witching lines. Unbroken enough to be likely candidates for the shennanigans at Saveock Water - but if "seekers" balk at a photo of bread lovingly smeared with menstrual blood, I think they'd balk a lot harder at anecdotes like: "And so I had ritual sex with my high-priestess while her moon flowed. And those co-mingled fluids were then used to rim the wineglass from which the rest of the covine drank." Even if it's VERY Traditional, and VERY potent stuff... it's just not for everyone. It's not their table, and they're not invited, anyway.