Somehow, somewhere along the way, we bought into the concept of the Easter Bunny. As this was not a feature of our own childhoods, we should’ve had more sense. Blindly, unquestioningly, we let the Easter Bunny in. We let him take over. We failed to distinguish between the bunny and ourselves, so each year the bunny does it all. The surprise eggs that await them, carefully selected and laid out. One large, one medium, one bunny, a hen and a few mini eggs are laid. As we celebrate Easter in the Wild West each year, the bunny has to conceal these for the journey. No mean feat with seven of us cramped into a jeep. Then he has to stash them – paws crossed that they remain intact and unmelted after the long journey – until the day. Then sneak around undetected laying the magic out. The kids wait for one another in the morning and go downstairs together to see if he has been. I wait in the sidelines for an appreciative glance. A little thank-you. But as the bloody Easter bunny has done all this they don’t have to remember their manners.

The industrious Easter Bunny has also set up another annual tradition. The highlight of the day. All they talk about when they talk about Easter. All they remember. Come rain, hail or shine, the Easter Bunny sets up an egg hunt on the glorious Mannin Bay. This is where some real magic takes a hold. Where it is possible to believe in anything you choose. Rollicking grassland, white sand and dunes, rocky outcrops, the magnificent bay in the shadow of the Twelve Pins. Rabbits, hares, sheep, cows and ponies. Wild rustic magic.

The kids are keen to get to the bay early lest some other family beat us to it. Marque 1 is co-opted to go ahead with the father to ‘check’ if the bunny has left a hunt for us this year. The rest of us de-camp at the first beach and meander the half mile across the headland. We reach the jeep to be told that he has indeed been. Multi-coloured foils glint and wink at us in the sun. They hide in rocks, grass and sand. The clever bunny has managed to hang some from twigs in the dunes. My heart beats a little faster as I spot one and I have to stop myself from leaping on it and claiming it. Whoops of joy come from all of us when marque 5 spots one. The father has to restrain himself from pointing out where the bunny might have left some more. We are child-like again with our children for this special part of the day. Hats off to the Easter Bunny. Where the hell was he in the 70s?

Ellen Kelly