It was the ears that told me. I am under surveillance as I walk a gentle Norfolk footpath on a crisp March morning – so say those black-tipped periscopes that rise from the bright spring green of an arable field mapped by humans, planted with sugar beet by humans.
Hare, a deeply wild creature whose mere presence in Britain is a legacy of people, critiques me across the newborn crops through exquisite eyes of polished topaz. The muscles under black-flecked fur turned gold by the sunshine threaten an explosion of speed should I cross a certain, invisible line. I continue my walk with caution; the hare resumes its meal of beet.
Taking from humans, giving to humans: hares run a jerky course between these personas, cast both as our foil and as quite dependant on our favour. Foremost, ofChristianity’s most important celebration. It is true that eggs were painted at Easter long before the Osterhase – literally, the Easter hare – crossed the North Sea from Protestant districts of Germany, but in its own country, children were already alert for this magical animal that hid eggs in herb gardens. Oddly, the Leicestershire village of Hallaton independently acquired an ancient hare-related tradition of its own: what it calls a hare pie – which never contained any hare – was flung to a riotous crowd as an annual scramble on Easter Monday.
