By Emma, Grey Draught Mare
Hello there, dear fellow equines and human friends! It's Emma here, a young mare with a passion for history. As some of you know, I’m lucky to call a beautiful place called Hayfield, nestled near Aberdeen in Scotland, my home. Here, amidst the rolling hills and heather-clad moors, I have a fantastic view of the world, both literally and figuratively. I’ve had many adventures since I was a foal, from pulling ploughs in the spring to transporting goods in the autumn, all while witnessing the passing of time.
And today, I'd like to delve into a particular year that has stuck with me - 0619.
The year began with the familiar chill of a Scottish winter. I remember the frosty breath hanging in the air and the crisp, almost crackling, sound of snow beneath my hooves. As a young filly back then, I found myself constantly seeking warmth next to my mother and siblings. But even with the cold, life in the stables was never dull. There were the playful antics of the younger foals, the stories told by the older horses, and, of course, the endless supply of oats and hay.
One particular event that stands out is a festival held at the nearby village. I was too young to participate in the heavy work, but I loved the lively atmosphere, the clinking of coins, and the smells of fresh bread and ale that drifted through the air. The most exciting part, however, was the horses! A group of beautifully-bred steeds had come from the lowlands, sleek and well-groomed. Their coats shimmered in the sun, and they had bells that tinkled as they moved. I must admit, I found myself admiring them a bit, for I longed to see more of the world beyond our Highland farm.
The rest of the year was much the same: a cycle of sunrise, work, rest, and feed. The days were filled with helping my human friends prepare the land for planting and harvesting crops. Pulling ploughs and hauling wagons across the fields might have been demanding, but it also gave me a chance to exercise and feel strong, a real sense of satisfaction. There was always something new to learn, too, from my human companions who shared stories of past harvests and taught me tricks like stopping and turning on command. They were always kind, with gentle words and patting hands, and it’s that kindness and respect for animals that continues to make Hayfield a special place.
Now, although life here in Scotland seemed peaceful and simple, the whispers of the world reaching us through travelers spoke of change and upheaval. A fierce and charismatic warrior known as King Edwin was rising in power in the north. Word spread about battles and territorial disputes, and some spoke of unrest and even war brewing further south. While it remained distant from our lives, I could sense the changing tides of the times, a stirring within the land itself. It's an unsettling feeling, almost like a foreboding that hangs in the air, something I sensed growing stronger even with the blossoming spring.
The summer of 0619, however, arrived with a comforting familiarity. The fields were ablaze with wildflowers, their fragrance carried by gentle breezes. I would spend lazy afternoons munching on fresh grass under the dappled shade of the oaks, often dreaming of rolling green meadows, the cool rush of streams, and all the exciting places I could one day visit. But for now, I was content to enjoy the simple pleasures of farm life. The world felt vibrant, yet serene, as if a gentle calmness had settled over our small corner of the land.
The harvest in autumn was bountiful. The fields, once bare, now groaned under the weight of golden wheat and barley. I helped collect the crops, feeling pride in our efforts as I carefully carried the sacks to the storehouse. Our human companions, despite the lingering tensions and murmurs of far-away conflicts, celebrated the success of the harvest. We shared a meal of hearty stew and baked bread, while music and laughter filled the air. I watched them share stories, the lights reflecting in their eyes, the warmth of fellowship radiating around us.
But the festivities didn’t last long. One evening, as dusk settled over the farm, I felt a tremor within the earth, a rumbling that shook the very ground under my hooves. A sense of unease swept over us all. I remember our human friends, initially cheerful and chatty, becoming quiet and anxious, their faces mirroring the turmoil within me.
News traveled fast, riding on the wind, from the south, speaking of war. King Edwin had met a fierce resistance, and the once harmonious realm had crumbled under the weight of bloody conflict. It felt as if the peaceful order that had reigned for so long had been shattered, and with it, the innocence of our own sheltered life.
That winter in 0619 was cold, not just because of the harsh Scottish weather, but because of a heavy feeling that had settled over our land. There was a palpable sense of foreboding in the air. My humans grew somber, and the chatter within the stables felt muffled, like the joy had been squeezed from it, leaving only whispers and uncertainty behind. It’s during times like these that you see the real strength of horses, especially those older than myself. They have a wisdom that goes beyond experience, and their steady gaze offered a reassuring presence during a turbulent period.
But despite the looming threat of war, the simple beauty of the farm was still a balm for the soul. The snowy fields held their quiet magic, the frosty trees sparkled like diamonds under the winter sun. And even with the distant anxieties, life continued. There were the tasks of cleaning stables, grooming coats, and tending to the sheep. These routines brought us comfort and order during a time when so much seemed chaotic. It reminded us of the continuity of life, how even when the world seemed to fall apart, there was always work to be done, tasks to perform, and beauty to find.
The events of that year, particularly the distant echoes of war and conflict, left an indelible mark on me. As a young horse, I learned that the world wasn't always a simple and predictable place. That it was filled with complexity, pain, and loss, but also beauty, resilience, and the profound importance of staying connected. This knowledge, gained through the lens of a single year, helped me navigate the twists and turns of my journey.
The year 0619 might be long gone, but it’s a memory that stays with me, a poignant reminder of both the fragility of peace and the enduring spirit of hope.
That’s all for now, friends! Stay curious, stay strong, and most importantly, stay safe.
Until next time,
Emma.
Please note: This blog post is a fictionalized account from a horse's perspective. While it incorporates historical references to the year 0619, it aims to provide a family-friendly and positive narrative about life during that period. Historical events and facts are represented to the best of my ability while being consistent with the overall themes of the blog post.
