Sometime back now, a group of vagabonds decided to spend time in our territory. They picked the wrong place to settle down. The Vale of Elmet appears such a beautiful place with its crystal clear streams and soft wooded banks. There are crayfish and trout, whilst on the land grows a wonderful wild harvest of herbs and berries. She who leads the wanders, sent the children to tickle the trout, whilst the adults cut wood and built shelters. They did not see us hunched down in our scrapes. Protected from the wind we watched as they settled down for the night. We had grow strong in numbers and wanted the valley to ourselves. As their camp fire sputtered then died, we started our drumming: no one’s sleeps in our territory. We created such a tidal wave of noise, that soon had the wolves joining in. A perfect storm of noise, for no one sleeps in this Vale. Tomorrow if they stay, we will call Ostara to fetch storms. Signed O’Hare.
An ancient poem offers seventyseven old English names for the hare. The poem can be found in the “Rattle Bag” edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes.
Hares are great watchers and have many links with past English mythology. I count myself as lucky to see hares dancing in the valleys of Elmet.