4/14/2004. Denis' Easter card

What did the Easter bunny bring me this year? Well, first you need to know just who my Easter bunny was. Then what he brought me will make more sense. The E.B. was none other than Denis, whose latest animalian exploits may be read about a couple of postcards back, under 'Marabout'.

First, the E.B., hopping around the house, found a bird's nest. Nestled (appropriately enough) in the branches of the giant lavender plant that is clambering skywards in the tangle of the huge climbing rose on the corner of the house, the next was occupied by the mother bird, while papa stood guard in the rose branch nearby. When the rather large (although very gentle) E.B. got a bit close, the birds obligingly flew off, allowing the E.B. to photograph their about-to-be offspring in all their bluegreen eggshell splendor.



I had to agree with the triumphant E.B. that those were the prettiest Easter eggs I'd ever seen. Don't you agree? And the best part is, you don't have to eat them.

But an E.B.'s work is never done. Just because he 'gave' me the prettiest eggs ever didn't mean he could take the rest of Easter Sunday off. So, he got into his car and took off on further adventures while I went to work in the potager. Now, I happen to know that this particular E.B. loves to hop along the beach, admiring the seascapes that have inspired so many painters, feeling dreamy, and even getting his paws wet in the surf. I didn't expect him back for several hours.

Imagine my surprise when, just as I was tucking into a particularly obnoxious patch of weeds, I saw the E.B.'s car pull into the drive a scant half hour later. The car stopped halfway down the drive, and the E.B. emerged carrying an opaque plastic bag behind his back. He walked straight out to where I was in the garden and handed me my digital camera. "Turn on your camera and fiddle with your settings," the E.B. mysteriously commanded. "Focus there," he added, pointing to a spot on the ground in front of us.



The E.B. then gently emptied out the contents of his plastic bag on the appointed spot.
What tumbled into my field of vision appeared to be a very large, prickly, and altogether strange Easter egg indeed. It was perfectly round and covered densely with handsome brown and cream quills. I was looking at my first live hedgehog.

Only my fear of scaring the little creature into an even tighter ball kept me from squealing with delight. Hedgehogs are almost mythical animals for me. My Swiss mother had given me adorable (and completely anthropomorphic) hedgehog stuffed animals (from Steiff) when I was only three or so, and one of my earliest book memories is of a beautifully illustrated picture book she used to read me called Igelwelt ("Hedgehog World"), in which a hedgehog family gather stores for the winter and perform other homely tasks. In fact, now that I reflect on that book, its images of a well-stocked larder of apples and hazelnuts powerfully influenced my activities in later life.

In real life, hedgehogs are omnivorous, but eat a lot of bugs and slugs, and so are greatly appreciated in the garden. It had long been my dream to get one to stay in our potager, where, I imagined, he could safely dine on organic slugs and the occasional raspberry, while affording me occasional ecstatic glimpses into his Igelwelt.

But in spite of my providing all the amenities, no hedgehog had ever had the sense to stay with me. Rather, they seemed to prefer crossing the road to get to the other side, and getting squashed in the process, because the only hedgehogs I'd ever seen were dead ones.

Once, we received a call from a farmer who knew we were looking for a hedgehog to adopt. He had one! I was so excited, but as luck would have it, this happened just before we had to leave on a trip. We phoned Denis' nephew Thierry, who sweetly and obligingly not only went to pick the hedgehog up, but made a nest for him in one of our open outbuildings, complete with bowls of cat kibbles and water. By the time I got back out to the house, the hedgehog had vanished.

I promptly made a nest for this new arrival. In a little 'valley' between two giant piles of grass clippings by the compost pile, I piled a heap of twigs and branches that were left from the trimming of the hornbeam hedges, leaving a tunnel beneath them. This, according to the animal rescue center where we took our oil-begrimed seabird a few weeks ago, was what hedgehogs liked to live in.

But before I moved the hedgehog into his new abode, I got as close as I could to him to take the photo below. I hope you can discern his extremely cute little snout peeking out from the quills behind the tuft of grass. Will he stay? Only time will tell if he has the sense to book a permanent room at my hedgehog hotel.

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