The black rabbit of my childhood was a semi-mythical being as shadowy as the dusk. We’d set out to find her, combing darkening edges between farmland and wildwood – every pore, hair and muscle attuned and alive and alert. In memory she is most often seen near the old iron gate, the brackeny back entrance to the caravan site. Only the rarest glimpse of her flitting, liquid form and we’d head back exultant, glowing with the mystery.
The Black Rabbit Diaries 