A man climbed slowly up to the top of the hill, leather walking boots slipping on heavy dew which coated the long grass. The legs of his worn jeans were damp. It was early, chilly. A thick sweater filled out his green jacket. At the top of the rise he stopped to get his breath, lifting the peak of his dark cap to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He looked down on a narrow valley which had been turned into a gently rolling golf course. It was knee deep in a blanket of early-morning mist. About to descend to the springy green turf, he stopped and listened to the distant clamour of crows and magpies, upset by something. Squinting, he pulled his cap down and scanned the horizon to locate the noisy creatures. There they were, occupying a small stand of old rowan trees on the opposite side of the valley. He could see nothing unusual, but was curious to find out the cause of the commotion.
Going down the hill, he almost lost his balance. Choosing a diagonal pathway which was longer but safer, it took him almost twenty minutes to reach the base of the hill. Immediately he felt the chill of the mist as it crept up his legs. On the flat turf, he lengthened his stride and made for the rowan trees with their noisy tenants, about three hundred yards away. Half-way there, a slight breeze across the flat land suddenly turned the bank of mist into a heaving grey sea. He stopped as the waves engulfed him. Fifty yards to his left he glimpsed a dark shape through a gap in the mist, like a badly focused snapshot. The gap closed again as the breeze abated and the waves subsided.
Slowly, almost gingerly, he approached the spot where he thought it might be – whatever it was. He hoped it was just a pile of rubbish, or a sack of old leaves. He noticed that the magpies had fallen silent as he got closer. Did they know something he didn’t, but was about to find out?
Suddenly his right boot struck something solid, startling him. He instinctively bent down to investigate, hand shaking as it disappeared in the layer of mist. Waving his cap he tried to disperse the mist, and saw that he had kicked a wooden marker peg. His heartbeat slowed down with relief.
Gradually the mist thinned enough to reveal suds of greyish-white fur spread out in a circle near the marker, like clouds in a summer sky. Heartbeat accelerating again he took a couple of strides beyond the marker and bent down over a figure stretched out on the ground. It was a big, fine hare lying on its side, neck twisted as though broken, eyes staring up at the sky. Two bloody craters gaped wide where the hare had been ripped open, at the side of the hare’s chest and on one muscular rear haunch. The hawk was gone, the hare abandoned, leftovers for the scavenging magpies and crows.
Kneeling down on the wet turf, he felt a great sadness in his soul. He leant forward and stroked the fine grey fur. The hare was still a little warm, not yet wet from the dew. It had not been lying there very long. Lifting his hand he accidentally brushed against the hare’s belly and a thin line of blood trickled down his hand onto the grass. The body smelt of fresh blood, death was so close. The hairs on his neck quivered, standing on end. He had rudely interrupted someone’s breakfast, a Goshawk who had retired to wipe blood stains from curved beak and pointed talons.
Taking a step backwards he directed his camera at the scene and the victim, like a police photographer. Feeling quite sick after his intrusion into the animal world, he made to leave. The magpies and crows were getting impatient and nature must take it’s course.
The sun was beginning to warm, quickly dispersing the remaining mist. About twenty yards away he turned back for one last view of the hare, a silent sign of respect. Standing there, he felt he was not alone. Turning around he saw a movement by the wall of trees which marked the boundary of the golf course. A young, dark-haired woman wrapped up in a quilted jacket and with green rubber boots, was sitting on a fold-up beach chair. She was making notes in a pad on her knee. Taking a thermos flask from her rucksack, she poured some steaming liquid into the lid, and carried on with her notes. She made no sign that she had seen the man. No acknowledgments were made, no words spoken. The man resumed his walk, looking forward to his morning coffee.
Author’s Note: When the events which inspired this story occurred, I wrongly assumed that the perpetrator of the deed was a fox. Simply because I had recently seen a fox on the golf course. Reading Helen Macdonald’s book “H Is for Hawk”, it now dawned on me that it was the work of a Goshawk.
For those of faint heart, or stomach, I have not included the man’s photographs from the scene. If you wish, you may choose to view them here: Golf Course Victim