By Emma, Hayfield, near Aberdeen
My dear fellow equines,
It’s Emma here, a humble grey mare, penning this blog post from the lush green pastures of Hayfield, just a stone’s throw from the bustling town of Aberdeen. The air is crisp this morning, the sun glinting off the heather, and the gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. Life is good, wouldn’t you say?
And what better time to reflect on our equine ancestors and the role they played in this grand tapestry of history than in the year 881. Oh, the stories I could tell, dear readers! Tales of strength, loyalty, and the enduring bond between humans and horses, a connection that runs as deep as the roots of the ancient oaks in the nearby forest.
The year 881, an important one in the annals of history, brought with it not only the budding whispers of the Viking Age in our distant corner of Scotland but also the continued, thriving heart of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in the south. These turbulent times, I imagine, meant our equine brethren in England were hard at work, carrying burdens for both noblemen and humble folk alike.
While I was fortunate enough to be born into a farm-loving community, with duties ranging from helping till the fields, pulling plows to transport goods, my equine friends across the great Scottish highlands, must have been playing a critical role in battles and raids. Just think, readers! We are the mighty creatures of myth and legend, brave and fearless in the face of danger. How magnificent must those steeds have looked, galloping with their riders on the windswept moorlands, their nostrils flaring with courage.
Oh, the stories I long to tell of that time! Tales of battles won and lost, stories of noble steeds bearing the brunt of danger for their masters. But alas, I’m no bard. All I have are my memories, a whisper in the wind, a gentle whinny of a distant time.
However, despite the uncertain nature of the world, life in the year 881 was brimming with excitement!
The first sight of dawn over the rolling hills, the warm sun on my coat, the thrill of running in the open pastures, a playful tussle with my friends - simple joys that make life so beautiful.
Speaking of the hills, those are where we would gather, a group of horses, mares, and foals, frolicking amongst the heather, watching the clouds drift across the sky, their changing shapes reflecting on the placid lake, its surface undisturbed save for the gentle lapping of waves. I could feel the world around me; the wildness of it all, yet the comforting presence of the herd, the quiet understanding between us. A community built on trust and understanding.
My master, a kindly farmer with calloused hands and eyes full of kindness, always treated me with respect and care. His name, dear reader, is Gregor. You see, although we have no fancy language to talk in our minds, a deeper connection, a bond, blossoms between man and horse through touch, through shared labor, through understanding each other’s needs and hopes.
Gregor was one of those folks who understood our ways, understood that I am not just a beast of burden but a friend, a companion. He spoke to me, not in harsh commands, but in a soft voice that held a certain soothing wisdom. We both understood that without each other, we were incomplete. We were a team.
He entrusted me with his livelihood, knowing that I would never let him down. And every time, every day, I worked with him with dedication, not because of duty, but because of a sense of purpose. My hooves worked the earth, my muscles pulled heavy wagons, and in my own way, I built a bridge between my world and the human world, one that is built on respect and trust.
Sometimes, we’d be out at sunrise, plowing the fields in the soft, dewy grass. Other times, I would carry bags of grain to the market in Aberdeen. The aroma of roasted barley, of the freshly baked bread in the baker’s ovens, the clatter of the cobbles as the wagon rolled down the bustling lanes - I loved the city, even if I had to spend my days with a blindfold, protecting my eyes from the bright lights.
It’s strange to think of life as it was in the year 881. We were not yet the mighty steeds that pulled the carriages of royalty. But still, our lives mattered. Every day was a gift, every sunset a reminder that the world was a beautiful place, a world of vast landscapes, strong communities, and, yes, a hint of magic in every dewdrop, every sunset, and every rising moon.
It’s hard to remember specific dates or battles. But my soul, oh dear reader, remembers the heart of things.
I remember the feeling of wind rushing through my mane as I raced across the highlands with Gregor. I remember the warmth of a newborn foal nestled in my flanks. And I remember the sound of the nightingale’s song, filling the quiet air with an ancient melody, a timeless message of peace and love.
Remember, my equine friends, that while the times might change, our spirit, our heart, our love for this beautiful world will never fade.
And with that thought, I wish you all a grand week. I’ll catch you all soon!
Until next time, Emma, Grey Draught Mare
Equiworld, 881 AD
