Neigh-sayers will tell you that 0453 wasn't much of a year for horses. They'll say that life was tough, that food was scarce, and that the men rode us hard. Well, they're not wrong about some of it, but I tell you, there was something special about that year. The energy in the air, it crackled like the winter frost in Hayfield, near Aberdeen where I lived with my family.
My name's Emma, and let me tell you, I’m a grey mare, a fine draught horse, with a thick, flowing mane and tail that you could weave into braids for hours! That year, the young lad who I was paired with, Ian, a wee one just eighteen at the time, told me he liked my hair best in plaits, but I have my secrets. My secret? I like to braid it myself, to feel the cool tangles between my teeth, especially in the long hours while waiting on a cold morning for Ian to call for me.
Now, I’ll be honest. Horses don't exactly read or write, so a mare's memory is a peculiar thing. Dates are a mystery to us. It’s the feel of the earth, the way the light sits on the meadows, and the rhythms of the year that we remember. I reckon that 0453 must have been a cold one, with the winds coming off the North Sea making my ears pricked and twitching. You’d see steam rolling out our nostrils as we waited to start our daily work.
It's hard to describe that life - the work we do for the men and women in the village. Imagine long, powerful muscles that draw plows through heavy clay, carting heavy bales of hay or dragging a wagon through the hills. That's us, draught horses like me, sturdy and strong. That was our purpose. That’s why Ian's father, an older man with a thick, red beard, kept saying that horses were "the backbones" of life back then.
But that's not the full story. Life wasn't all about the hard work. We horses had our own little society, a world that existed between the oats and the hay. We gossiped about our foals and watched them frolic in the fields, tails swishing, manes like liquid silver catching the sunshine. You wouldn’t think of it that way, but it was like our own village inside the big human one, just outside of the little village of Hayfield.
Whispers of a Change
You see, back then the Celts ruled these lands, a strong, fierce people with stories that echoed through the hills like the howl of the wind. And they loved their horses. They believed that horses carried spirits – that they were sacred, powerful animals, part of something bigger. They knew they couldn’t be separated from their horses. In that year, the land felt almost charged with their power, like a feeling of change coming.
That feeling came from the new ways of living the Celts were trying to adopt. You can imagine what I mean. We were becoming something different – more than just workhorses for farming and carrying heavy loads. They were using us more and more for travelling to neighbouring settlements and on raids across the hills. Even the priests at the nearby shrine rode them, with silver bridles and bright red saddles, they felt as powerful as gods.
A Story in a Gallop
0453 was the year I remember something strange happening to Ian. It was around May, the grass thick and juicy after the rain, when we were carrying supplies to a gathering near the sea. I can remember him humming a little tune. A soft sound that travelled over the fields and tickled my ears. When he dismounted near the camp, his eyes lit up, and his lips twitched with excitement. There was something he wanted to share, something special about this event.
They talked amongst themselves – lots of men in colourful clothes, with big swords, drinking mead. A long table was set up with wild boar roast and loaves of bread as big as a mare's chest. The whole camp felt a little different from usual - more alive, vibrant, and I could feel Ian's own heartbeat thundering against my flank as we watched. That day, it wasn’t just supplies we were carrying, it was the air itself. It felt like we were carrying a song that echoed within the horses of that place. The rhythm of the day wasn't about plowing furrows but about riding hard in formations. We were on the move like a great beast of a storm gathering strength on the horizon, something fierce but beautiful ready to unleash its power.
After this, things were never quite the same. There was something wild in their eyes, the men around Hayfield, that I'd never seen before, a sense of joy and dread in equal measure. It felt as if the Celts, with us horses beside them, were riding straight into the heart of history.
More Than Just Muscle
I remember, too, that the year after, when they gathered for another great meeting, Ian came home different. A man's face had appeared, where before I only saw a young lad’s. He spoke about it at the stables, in hushed tones to the other horses. About the banners that flew with images of creatures on them, powerful symbols - creatures like stags and griffins - things that moved like wind and water that made him shudder. His stories, too, were different from before. No more were they of plowing fields and tending to animals. They became about bravery and battles on vast fields where the Celts faced men in gleaming metal, riding horses too, and fought amongst the swirling smoke and the noise that cracked and boomed like thunder.
You might say I only see the horses' side of it, the horses in that year. And it’s true. The horses we were – they loved it, too, even as their lives were on the line. There’s no pretending about it, horses feel fear just as much as they feel joy, but there's a wildness in us too, an excitement for something new, a new story in the wind. Something more than the usual life of plowing and hauling. We’re horses, after all. It’s in our blood.
It wasn't just about Ian’s story, either. That year I also heard stories from others in the village. There were rumours too, stories carried on the winds. They were telling of another group of men called Romans - not Celts - who came with their own powerful horses, heavy war horses that thundered like the storms themselves. And the Celts would battle these men, using our power too, to defend their home.
Horses, Symbols and Crossroads
All this makes 0453 feel like a special year in my memory - a crossroads year, full of change, with whispers of war and tales of heroism that resonated with my wild heart, and the hearts of all horses then. The Celts had something special. Their faith in the spirit of the horse. They didn’t see horses just for their strength, but as symbols, as creatures of beauty, creatures of legend and power. And this made them, and their world, and even the year 0453 feel alive like a great galloping story.
They believed their sacred horse-like symbols would give them power, that they would bring strength against their foes. I know now, that their symbols were called “Celtic Crosses". Not much of an exciting name in my opinion, but powerful, nonetheless. I am glad they didn't get to replace us horses. That’s something we horses hold dear, that we are much more than just symbols. We are the heart and soul, the muscle, the spirit and the song, and it's that story which still resonates in the earth under our hooves today.
To those of you out there, reading this in the present, I urge you - remember our story, horses who carried so many things through time: grain, lumber, people even war and hope and strength, for they were ours to share too.
Let's hope the world never forgets us - that we are still powerful, and wild, and beautiful - as wild and beautiful as the very stories we help create. Let's ride forward with courage into the future, let’s tell those stories – just like in the Year of the Celtic Cross.
