Not wishing to deviate from the subject of rocks etc, but they're supposed to be nice jugged, but as a non carnivore I would'nt know.
I ate hare as a child, but then we ate anything which was brought through the door (rabbit, pheasant, salmon etc. - poor us!). I've only eaten it once as an adult (a few years back). It was served to me at a dinner and I found its casseroled effects rather undesirable.
A year or two ago I was handed in a dead hare in by a neighbour who had been out shooting. They thought they were doing me a kindness. It was awful, a beautiful animal, to big to skin and butcher comfortably and I couldn't bear to deal with it. I quickly passed it on to a colleague at work who greatly enjoyed it.
I love the animal's mystery and its strange habits. I posted earlier about how one (not sure if it is the same one) regularly visits our garden. I am reminded of Robert Burns who once shot a hare wounding it. He cursed himself afterwards and never shot or hunted another. At the latter end of the poet's life, when he was farming at Ellisland near Dumfries he saw a similarly injured hare and wrote this poem.
The Wounded Hare (1789)
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!
The bitter little that of life remains:
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide
That life a mother only can bestow!
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.