Hello, my fellow equines! Emma here, a 20-year-old grey draught mare from the beautiful, rolling hills of Hayfield, near Aberdeen, Scotland. Today I want to whisk you back to a time that may seem ages ago, 1113 AD. This was a year of change, but also of familiar rhythms and a shared life between horses and humans, like a timeless thread woven through the tapestry of time.
Now, I wouldn't consider myself a particularly wise mare, though some say I possess a steady temperament and a gentle disposition. I've spent my life pulling plows in the fields, transporting supplies to nearby villages, and pulling wagons laden with hay to feed the sheep in the winter. Life is hard work for a mare like me, but fulfilling in a quiet, understated way. But lately, something has been brewing - a new excitement in the air, so to speak! Let me share it with you...
The Echoes of War
Firstly, there was a new unease settling upon the land. We felt it as much as our human companions, a kind of low humming, an echo of war reaching even to the serene landscapes of my home. I could hear it in the voices of the men as they huddled by the fire after a day's work, their faces etched with worry. It was in the clatter of the blacksmith's hammer, working late into the night to mend broken swords and armor.
The King of England was preparing to sail to France, a land of great beauty I hear, to engage in a battle over control of a little duchy in Normandy, a place quite unlike our wild moors and rolling meadows. This King Henry, they called him, was quite young, only in his early thirties, yet he seemed to command such power and drive.
You may be thinking, "Emma, why is this of interest to us horses?" Well, dear readers, I've learned that wars and the needs of a war-bound king often turn their focus to us, horses. As the King and his knights gathered in Winchester, a flurry of activity filled the air. Every available horse was needed for transport, for scouting, for carrying provisions and hauling heavy artillery. I understand that they call those massive catapults that fling giant rocks “trebuchets” – it sounds rather alarming.
Though the murmurs of war reached us here in Hayfield, thankfully, the echoes of battle did not follow. For us, the rhythm of our work remained mostly unchanged.
A Year of Transformation:
However, even within the familiar cycle of seasons, a wave of transformation rippled across the land, reaching us in Hayfield. This year, the young blacksmith, Rowan, who usually mended our worn shoes and saw to the well-being of the other farm animals, came back with a tale of great innovation.
He had visited the village of York and returned with a most impressive invention, something called the "horse-collar." Now, my readers, this collar, a simple loop of wood and leather, did a simple yet monumental thing: It re-directed the power of our shoulders and chest directly onto the harness, instead of the older and uncomfortable system of straps squeezing against our throats. This simple change meant we could pull heavier loads without strain. This, I was told, allowed farmers to till the soil deeper and plant a greater variety of crops, improving their harvests. It sounded like a big change, this "horse-collar," even if the humans around us hadn't fully grasped its potential.
Change Within the Stable:
As you know, we are creatures of habit, but even amidst these changes, one thing stayed constant: the bond we formed with our human companions. I've grown very close to my own stable mate, a bay gelding named Finnigan, who came with us from a neighbouring farm. He has a certain stubborn streak, always wanting to test his strength against anything that crossed his path.
He often nudges me with his nose and asks me to "race," although he is careful to never try to outrun me, knowing that he has no chance. But Finnigan and I are two of the lucky ones. We know where we are going to be for the remainder of our lives, safe and loved within our own stable. There are others, those still untamed and young, that wander the countryside with a wild spirit in their eyes, but to them, the stables we call home must seem like an endless dream.
The news coming through Hayfield says the King's crusade continues, and I see a weariness on the faces of our young human companions who now share the news of new losses. This war feels endless. Will it ever stop? I do not know.
The nights grow longer, the days cooler. The aroma of woodsmoke hangs in the air, warming us as we wait to go back to our stall. It's time to settle in for the night, the stable creaking softly around us, a familiar tune that promises a night of restful sleep and the chance of a new, hopefully less turbulent dawn.
I look back on my journey this year and I realise it has not been an uneventful one. Change, be it political or mechanical, reaches even into the heart of Hayfield, touching our lives in a quiet, but powerful way. But through it all, our bond with the human beings who rely upon us endures, a reminder that the rhythm of life, like the beating of a horse’s heart, goes on.
Until next time, my dear equine friends, stay safe, stay strong and may your feed always be plentiful.
Yours truly,
Emma
(P.S. If any of you are in a stable near a major road or crossroads, do keep an eye out for travelers with strange beasts of burden. They look quite curious...almost like giant hairy dogs with big horns. They say their owners came from the Far East. The stories, the rumours about these strange creatures, their strength and endurance are almost legendary...they might just be a sign of more exciting change to come!)
