The Elusive Golden Hare of Rathlin Island

by Katie Isham (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

“Puffins haven’t arrived yet,” my unofficial tour guide Jennifer explained as my face dropped, “but if you’re lucky, you might catch the Golden Hare.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment at missing my favourite birds, but an impromptu jaunt to a largely uninhabited island off the coast of Northern Ireland might just introduce me to an unexpected quirk of nature. Rathlin Island had gleamed in the Easter sunshine, enticing me from my wanderings in Ballycastle so I boarded the next ferry. Once ashore, I’d decided I could cover more ground on two wheels so visited the “bike hire”. And so, this lovely grandmother of a lady lent me a bike from her garage as well as dispensing maps and local advice. “Mind you, a film crew came for four days last week and he scarpered.” I didn’t like my odds. Rathlin has a hefty population of Irish hares and within this outpost, they have a special mutation. The ‘golden gene’ has infiltrated this community and been passed down the generations, producing a light, almost luminescent hare. Contrasting sharply with the harsh moorland, he should be easily recognised, yet few get to glimpse this fabled creature that nature has gifted us. Thanking Jennifer, I hoofed my backpack on and launched my new hare-spotting mission I was unexpectedly invested in. My bike shook beneath me as I thundered down the slopes past the loughs. The winding paths worked their way up and down the undulations making it a perfect bike course. Mercifully, sheep were my only company as, for the first time since I had Spokey Dokes on my bike, I let out a 'Weeeeeee!' as the wind rushed past me on the downhill leg. They looked up briefly from their grass buffet to roll their eyes at the trespassing human. Once I ran out of road, I ditched the bike, continuing on foot. I’d been worried when Jennifer told me to leave the bike anywhere, but I soon realised there was nobody around to even think of stealing. A comforting feeling. My feet took me down a gravel path that led out to a green, cliff top pasture with a ramshackle stone building. Or what still remained. The walls had crumbled and the roof was long gone. A thick layer of salt-fertilised green grass became a carpeted entrance. My feet squished the soft flooring as I explored. I gave a yelp as a ram bleated and darted out a hole in the wall. Honestly, I don't know which of us was more shocked by the presence of the other. I paused, surveying the scene below. The sea was calm and the tide only partially covered the jagged black rocks at the water’s edge. Seals hypnotised me as they basked in the shallows and barked conversation amongst themselves. But I had a mission. Back on my bike, I headed towards the old coastguard lookout. I pushed my legs to cycle up the increasingly steep hills. Path became farmland and again I ditched the wheels, albeit more confidently, and stomped on. Through a gate, I navigated a vertical track that bore ominous hoof prints of stampeding cattle. Yet apart from some birds, I hadn’t seen another living thing for over an hour since leaving the sheep and seals. Atop the slope, a stillness settled over. The birds that’d followed me disappeared. No sound. I caught my breath from the effort of the incline and looked around. Gorse scattered hills led to the cliff edge pointing to the shimmering sea beyond. I looked up to see where my companions, the birds, had gone, but there was only blue sky. The silence was deafening. And then, I saw a flash at the edge of the field. I stopped. I daren’t breathe. I waited. He moved again, skipping through the grass. The Golden Hare. Nibbling his foot. He stopped, as if to greet me. And then he was gone. If you’d have told me when I stepped off the ferry that I’d be excited about a split-second moment with a small animal, I would’ve laughed at you. But here I was, heart pounding, tears pricking my eyes and glowing with triumph, all over the Rathlin Golden Hare.