Hello, fellow equines! It's Emma, your friendly neighbourhood grey draught mare from the rolling hills of Hayfield near Aberdeen. You might think it strange to see a post about the year 0639 - we don't have clocks or calendars quite like yours down here on the farm. But the old man, he has his records, and that’s what tells me what year it is. He says this one, 0639, is important because something big happened then, and it did involve horses.
Now, as you all know, the life of a working horse is not always glamorous, but it’s honest. There’s something deeply satisfying about the work, and I’m grateful for my sturdy legs and kind heart that lets me do what I do best - pull plows, carry heavy loads, and even bring joy to young children on a sunny afternoon.
But the past few years haven't been easy. We've had hard winters, with not enough hay for all of us. The men have been anxious, and I've seen their faces pale when the frost bites too deep. The farmer always said, “If the winter comes hard, spring will be bountiful”.
Well, the spring of 0639 felt as if it was being held hostage by the lingering frost, but the men still pushed onward. They knew we couldn't rely on just our meagre supplies of barley and oats to feed our families, so they plowed and seeded the fields with a mix of wheat and barley, something new to our land.
There were so many horses like myself back then, each with our own story to tell. And the year 0639 saw our world start to shift a little, but you'll need to keep reading to understand why.
I was born in 0619, in the small village of Hayfield, nestled amidst the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. Back then, there weren't many humans in this part of the world, but the ones who lived here treated us horses well, for we were their most precious companions. My parents were the village's strongest horses, a black stallion named Orion and a dappled grey mare named Lily.
From the moment I could walk, I was treated as part of the family. We shared our meals, slept under the same roof, and learned from each other's stories. The humans called us “the workhorses of Hayfield”. They'd whisper to each other how much stronger I was becoming. You could tell by their gentle smiles they were proud to have a horse like me on their land.
Growing up in a small village had its perks, but there were no other horses my age. So my closest friend was the shepherd’s dog, a bouncy collie named Finn. He would often try to join in on our games, with his floppy ears and wagging tail, but he always ended up getting a scolding from the shepherd for trying to get too close. He understood that a horse like me and a dog like him weren’t meant to run together - it was too risky.
We'd race across the fields as the sun peeked over the mountains, our hooves churning the soil. I remember feeling my legs becoming stronger with every run, and with it, I gained confidence. The men used to laugh and tell each other that Finn was "getting more and more used to being outrun". But what they didn’t know was that Finn was always learning to run just as fast as I did. The years spent growing up with him cemented a friendship between us that was stronger than the pull of my cart, or the biting winter frost.
As I matured, I started helping with the daily chores, learning the intricacies of hauling, carrying, and plowing alongside my mother. My grey coat became tinged with a silver sheen, a sign of my strength and the life I’d led. Every sunrise brought with it the promise of new tasks and experiences, from transporting goods from the village to the larger city in the east to pulling the plough across the fields in preparation for the autumn harvest.
However, 0639 was an unusual year. The harvests had been thin in the past few years. We hadn’t received enough rain for the crops to thrive. But, the men from the larger villages came to Hayfield to share some of their bounty. They brought barley, and oats, and their men with their long swords brought knowledge about different ways of farming the land. And, as the men traded stories and meals under the clear blue skies of Scotland, the world outside our Hayfield felt closer, and the humans spoke of people coming from across the lands, all looking for ways to share their knowledge and their harvests to make sure that none of them would starve.
With the men came stories, and they spoke of what lay beyond our small village: of wars, of trade, and of how humans are bound together through a web of alliances that stretched far and wide, stretching even to places we had never imagined, places so far away we could only dream of them. They spoke of how the humans from other places relied on us, their horses, as they moved around their lands and conquered others. It made me wonder about what lay beyond our small hills, what adventures lay just out of sight.
However, the arrival of those men, with their tales and strange traditions, was only a minor disruption to our peaceful lives in Hayfield. What changed everything was something that came at the end of the summer.
It was a strange and unwelcome change - a wind blowing from the East, so cold it seemed to sting, carrying whispers of danger and uncertainty. A rumour that started slowly in the villages to our South made its way across the Highlands: a sickness, called the plague, was spreading across the land. This plague brought death to men and animals alike, taking the strength from them and leaving behind the ghost of what had once been.
Suddenly, there was panic in the village. Men began to build barriers to protect their families and homes, The men, who just months before shared stories and trade, became isolated and distrustful. And though we horses could not comprehend the fears of the men, we felt it as our own. It was in the tightening grip on our reigns, in the hushed voices, and in the way the humans began to avoid eye contact.
That's how I found myself caught in a dilemma that has resonated throughout history. Our farm was the last bastion of peace in our valley, but the disease crept ever closer. It was as if a black shadow fell across the land. The men said we could only find hope in the North.
I stood with Finn by my side as the humans packed our horses with as much food as they could, making plans to leave Hayfield behind. The air was thick with a heavy stillness, and my own hooves seemed to thud heavier as we followed the trail, the men leading us on towards the North.
My mother, a stout mare with wisdom etched into her grey coat, was forced to leave my father behind. We all knew the sickness was swift and brutal. A cruel trick of nature that was as deadly as it was inexplicable. Our journey towards the North was a somber one, filled with heavy silence and anxious whispers about the illness and the uncertain future that awaited us.
And then one day, after several weeks of travelling through harsh terrain, the land slowly started to change, and it became colder. A new beauty descended on the world, one that carried a tinge of fear. We saw large forests of pine trees and mountains with snowcapped peaks rising in the distance. It felt as if nature had gathered us in her arms, trying to shield us from the cruelty of the plague. We passed a village called The Croft. I would remember that name for years to come. The people welcomed us with open arms, offering shelter and kindness to the men and their horses, allowing us to rest, feed and sleep soundly.
My legs were weary from our journey, and my grey coat had turned to a shade of dust brown, the dust of the plains now forever imprinted into its grain. But my spirit was high. We had escaped the clutches of the plague and had found refuge among kind strangers. There, amidst the snowy peaks and tall, graceful pine trees, the plague could not find us.
Life went on in The Croft. New routines were born, and a sense of cautious normality replaced the fear of the past few weeks. In those forests, the cold nights had a strangely reassuring feel to them. As the stars peeked through the branches of the pines, I felt myself growing accustomed to this new world. I knew, though, that this life of peace wouldn’t last forever. We horses had been fortunate, finding a haven, but others hadn’t.
There were horses like me all across the land, pulling their carts, carrying their loads, fighting in the battles that humans engaged in. The plague wasn't confined to our small valley. It was a shadow across the world.
But with each day that passed, with each breath I took, the hope for a new life flourished. Hope, for a time when we wouldn't fear the wind, hope for a future when the lands were not shrouded in grief and sorrow.
I am writing to you all, you fellow equines from the far corners of the world, from a place I still haven’t truly called my home. This new place feels strange and alien. But what has made my life rich, despite all this hardship, has been that the bond I have with Finn, my friend, and with the humans who have shown such courage in these difficult times has grown even stronger. It’s been an unexpected adventure, this 0639.
Maybe you think you know how horses were viewed in this year in history - you may even read the tales in history books. But in those stories, I'm a mere footnote, another grey horse hauling grain, just another victim of plague or battle. I'm a simple animal. I can't talk. I can’t write. But if you believe what I've written here, and let it guide your understanding of this year, maybe one day it’ll be known as more than just a simple grey horse doing simple tasks, hauling goods or pulling ploughs. Maybe it will become the story of how even in the face of tragedy and loss, there was love, friendship, and hope to be found - not just for us horses, but for everyone. And this blog is just one step on that path.
Emma, the Grey Draught Mare from Hayfield.
