Sharon and Andy Longhurst’s kitchen isn’t a gateway to a dining room, but to a world of tiny, desperate lives. It opens directly into what they affectionately call “the ICU”—a garage transformed into a haven for hedgehogs, filled with the gentle hum of heated incubators, the gleam of microscopes, and the quiet struggle of twelve prickly patients fighting for survival.
“Never in a million years did we expect this,” Andy admits, a sentiment echoing the sheer improbability of their current reality. Three years ago, their home in Fife, Scotland, became an unlikely hospital, a sanctuary for a species quietly slipping away.
They’ve taken in over 622 hedgehogs, the vast majority arriving in critical condition. Both maintain full-time jobs – Sharon as a school crossing guard, Andy as a bus driver – yet a profound sense of responsibility compels them to dedicate every spare moment to these vulnerable creatures.
“We give 100 percent to every single one,” Sharon explains, her voice filled with unwavering commitment. “Even if the odds seem impossible, we fight for them.”
The European hedgehog, a familiar sight in British gardens and woodlands, is facing a silent crisis. Urban sprawl and changing landscapes have pushed them onto the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s “near-threatened” Red List, with populations plummeting by over 30 percent in just a decade.
Sharon remembers the moment that sparked their dedication. “I thought, ‘Oh my gosh, there’s all these hedgehogs and nobody can help them.’ Something had to be done. They were all suffering.”
It began in 2022 with a single, ailing hedgehog discovered by the roadside. A call to the Scottish SPCA yielded a disheartening response: no one could come. The Longhursts made a 50-mile round trip to a wildlife center themselves, a journey that would unknowingly alter the course of their lives.
Two weeks later, another sick hedgehog appeared. Another trip to the wildlife center. It was then they realized the scale of the problem. “People aren’t going to make that journey,” Sharon concluded. “They just aren’t.”
A hedgehog seen in daylight is a stark warning sign. It signals illness, injury, or desperate hunger. “If a hedgehog is wandering about in the day, it’s probably dying,” Sharon states plainly, a message they tirelessly share with their community.
Habitat loss, traffic accidents, invasive species, and dwindling food sources all contribute to the hedgehog’s decline. But a more insidious threat is emerging: climate change. Milder winters disrupt their natural hibernation cycles, leaving them vulnerable and depleted.
“Hedgehogs should really be hibernating, but they’re not getting the consistently low temperatures they need,” Sharon explains. “The U.K. is simply too mild these days.”
The Longhursts sought guidance from a retiring hedgehog rehabilitator in St. Andrews, absorbing decades of knowledge and acquiring essential equipment. Their spare room became the first iteration of Burntisland Hedgehog Haven.
They completed a hedgehog first aid course, consulted with wildlife hospitals, and networked with rescues across Britain. “We learned a lot, very quickly,” Sharon recalls.
Word spread, fueled by local publications, and the trickle of patients soon became a flood. They secured a license to care for 25, then 40, hedgehogs, transforming their home into a complex network of care stations. The garage became the intensive care unit, the garden a maternity ward, and a dedicated shed a rehabilitation center.
Nights are often spent feeding orphaned hoglets, a demanding task that requires constant vigilance. “It’s pretty intense,” Andy admits with a wry smile.
Their family, accustomed to a menagerie of pets, embraced the new mission. But caring for hedgehogs was unlike anything they’d experienced before. Each arrival begins with a microscopic examination of their feces, searching for potentially fatal parasites.
They collaborate with a local veterinarian for medication, X-rays, and treatment of severe injuries. “You get them coming in with broken pelvises, just dragging themselves along,” Sharon says, her voice heavy with empathy.
Approximately 65 percent of the hedgehogs they treat survive, a statistic that represents countless individual battles won against overwhelming odds. “It is a race against time,” Sharon emphasizes, adding that they always ask those who find the animals to give them a name.
Once recovered, each hedgehog is released back into the wild, near where it was found, having reached a healthy weight and parasite-free. “Our hope is that they go out, stay safe, reproduce, and keep the species going,” Sharon says.
The Longhursts have discovered that each hedgehog possesses a unique personality. “They’re such characters,” Sharon laughs. “You get the cheeky ones, the placid ones, and the huffy ones that ball up. Each one is different, and they’re funny creatures.”
Despite their prickly exterior, Andy notes, “some are quite soft. They’re fluffy underneath.”
A dedicated team of 24 volunteers and a network of drivers – affectionately dubbed the “hogbulance” – keep the rescue running, responding to calls at all hours. The Longhursts are immensely proud of their work, a testament to the power of compassion and community.
“We never dreamed it would get this big,” Sharon reflects. Andy adds, simply, “Think of how many hedgehogs we’ve saved that wouldn’t be here today. It’s just an amazing feeling.”
