A movement catches her eye. In the field below the garden a large brown hare lollops silently into view. Tilda gasps and her hand flies to her mouth. It has been so long since she has seen it, and now that it is here again she is taken aback by how happy she feels. The hare nibbles at the new shoots of grass beside the path. Before she can be stopped, Thistle has bounded over the wall and races toward it.

Dylan sees her. ‘Thistle, no!’ he shouts instinctively.

But Tilda puts a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It’s okay.’

As they watch, the hound circles the hare before crouching down in front of it, ears flat, tail wagging, an open invitation to play. The hare regards the lurcher thoughtfully for a few seconds and then leans forward. The two sniff, nose to nose, one set of twitching whiskers, one bristly moustache. And then they start to run. They tear around the meadow, this way and that, along the hedgerow and back across the grass, down the steepest part of the hill, and back up alongside the path. The hare easily keeps ahead, but sometimes she twists and jinks back so quickly that Thistle ends up in front and it appears she is the one being chased. It is a sight both comical and marvelous.

Then, as quickly as it started, the game stops. The hare turns to look up the hill, up toward the garden wall, up at Tilda. She looks down into the bottomless depth of the animal’s ancient, knowing eyes, and feels a pang of longing and of love.

Hello Seren. I’ve missed you.

The hare sits a moment longer, then flips around, bounding for the hedge, and is lost from view. Thistle returns to lie panting at her mistress’s feet.