A Greying Mare’s Tale: A Look Back at a Busy Year
Hello, dear readers! Emma here, your friendly grey draught horse from the rolling hills of Hayfield, near Aberdeen. Welcome back to my little corner of Equiworld! Today, I’m sharing a little slice of life from the year 0979, a time not too far gone, but with plenty of adventures in horse-kind.
I'm nearing twenty now, a ripe age for a working mare, but my white mane and tail still shimmer under the Scottish sun. I can still haul the biggest cart, and I know every inch of the farmland, the paths through the forest, and the whispers of the wind across the heather.
The year 0979, much like any other, saw me and my fellow horses busier than a farmer’s beehive. We are, after all, the backbone of any community. This past year was no different, filled with the rumble of cartwheels, the rhythm of our hooves, and the familiar comfort of well-worn harness.
The fields have been bountiful, bringing forth the golden wheat, the succulent oats, and the plump barley that nourish us all. It's a true symphony of harvest. The days have been long, filled with hauling carts loaded with bounty to market, and then returning, muscles sore but heart content. The farmer, good Mr. MacAlister, is a fine man. Kind, strong, and with a smile that could melt the iciest frost. We've a good understanding, you see, me and Mr. MacAlister. We work hard together, but we know it's for the greater good. There's nothing finer than a good working relationship, and I must say, I am blessed to be in his care.
The farm is buzzing with new life - several foals this spring, gamboling about with an infectious joy that puts a pep in the steps of the most jaded horse. I saw two born under a sky so bright it was as if the world was reflecting back our pure joy. I remember feeling a little of their glee myself, a warm glow remembering the thrill of being a youngster, those days filled with the scent of new-mown grass, playful nips, and boundless energy.
There's been more to life than the fields, however. Our village held its annual harvest fair, and I had the pleasure of being part of a grand parade, with the best cart in all of Hayfield. Mr. MacAlister, he takes great pride in the look of his carts and always adorns them with the finest, bright straw, with a flourish of ribbons on the horses' harnesses. You should see them. It's quite a sight. I stood proud and tall in the lead, my grey coat shining with sweat from the effort, yet feeling the warmth of the cheers and admiration from the village folk. It's a grand thing, that.
There's also talk of the new King, you see. They say Alfred the Great of Wessex has been doing wonders. He built bridges, fortified his kingdom, and kept those Viking chaps at bay. There are even stories of horses like us, brave and swift, helping to protect the realm, delivering important messages across vast distances. Imagine that! Me, helping with the safety of the whole country!
But our lives are grounded here in Hayfield, where the sun sets over the moors, where the sheep bleat softly in the evening, and the village fire sings a lullaby of peace. It is good here. And it is here I find my happiness.
So here’s to another year, my dear readers! Here’s to the simple joys, the hard work, the companionship, and the constant reminder of our special bond with humankind. May our days be filled with strong hooves, steady hearts, and the enduring knowledge that we are an important part of this magnificent, breathing world.
Until next time, my friends. May the breeze carry you forward on a path of smooth, soft earth.
With hooves and heart,
Emma.
