Neigh-hello lovely equines and fellow horse enthusiasts! Emma here, writing to you from the verdant fields of Hayfield, just outside Aberdeen. I've been pondering on how best to share my thoughts this month and settled on a little jaunt back through the annals of equine history.
1140 AD, that's the year we're diving into today. It was a rather turbulent year in human affairs, but for us horses, well, it was much the same as always.
I'm guessing many of you might be picturing 1140 as a time of knights in shining armour, of valiant steeds charging across battlefields. Yes, that definitely existed! But the world of horses in 1140 was much more varied than just those flashy chargers.
My ancestors in Scotland were working horses, sturdy and powerful breeds designed to pull the plough and cart the harvest. We were integral to every aspect of rural life. It was a simpler time, without fancy saddles or ornate bridles. We were loved for our strength and resilience, plain and simple.
Our days were spent working alongside the humans who cared for us. We’d trek across the moors, dragging carts laden with peat to warm homes in the harsh Scottish winters. Or we'd pull the heavy wooden ploughs, turning over the soil for a bountiful crop.
Evenings found us in the cool shade of the farmhouses, munching on barley or oats. We'd stand close together, listening to the rhythmic drumming of the human fingers on the stable doors, each sound a comforting lullaby against the twilight stillness.
This year, however, felt different. The whispers in the stable were not about the coming harvest but about the Highland Fair. Every five years, this enormous event drew together farmers, merchants, and families from every corner of Scotland. A grand festival dedicated to the gods, it promised bountiful food, spirited celebrations, and, of course, competitions – and those involved horses.
The air thrummed with anticipation. My stall-mates, mostly strong and handsome greys like me, fidgeted nervously. Would we be selected for the competition? Would we showcase our strength and prove our worth in the harrowing tug-of-war? Would we earn the accolades of the crowd and perhaps, just perhaps, even earn the prestigious honour of pulling the "chief's carriage" in the grand parade?
The journey to the Highland Fair was a breathtaking spectacle. We traveled in a long line, hundreds of horses, all adorned in brightly woven straw, our manes braided with flowers. Each horse was a work of art, moving as a singular, beautiful organism.
I remember the sounds clearly: the echoing neighs, the human shouts encouraging us on, and the rhythmic thump-thump of hooves on the cobblestones of the long road. The sights were equally breathtaking – emerald green hills dotted with flocks of sheep, quaint cottages tucked between hills, and rivers that glistened like silver snakes.
When we reached the heart of the festival, the world was transformed. An endless expanse of stalls, colourful banners, and an even bigger number of horses than our own train filled the air with a symphony of sounds: bartering, laughter, music, and of course, the distinctive whinny of horses.
My owner, the sturdy yet kind farmer William, and his strong daughter Maggie, had prepared me well. We practiced each morning for months, perfecting my turn and my steady pace, pulling a specially-constructed wooden cart laden with bags of grain.
Maggie’s touch was gentle, but firm, and I felt her confidence growing as our routine tightened. We were a team, an unstoppable force.
On the day of the competition, the atmosphere crackled with electricity. As my turn came, I could hear William's encouraging words, "Steady now, girl. Remember your training. You can do this."
And then it began. My hooves hammered against the solid ground, my breath puffing out in clouds of steam as I hauled the weighted cart against the resistance of another equally sturdy team. The tension stretched across my back as I held my ground.
Maggie's soft whispers encouraged me as I braced myself, my powerful muscles flexing beneath the strain. With each heave of my shoulder and each pull of my legs, I knew that not only was my own strength on display, but also the generations of horses that came before me, each contributing to our breed's power.
We won, of course. The crowd erupted, chanting and clapping as we returned to our stall. The judges proclaimed my strength and spirit unmatched, a victory we both relished.
The joy wasn't in the winning alone. It was in the shared sense of accomplishment, of being recognized for my unwavering dedication to my role.
That night, while William, Maggie and I munched on delicious oats under the bright stars of the Highlands, the Highland Fair transformed into something magical.
I remember the joy of the community, the warm glow of bonfires, and the joyous dances performed under the stars. I watched with fascination as the dancers spun in dizzying patterns, and their laughter echoed under the wide expanse of sky.
Later, we huddled around the bonfire, the flames flickering on the faces of the farmers and their families. William recounted tales of horses, of brave battles and arduous journeys, of loyal companions. The tales were told and retold, passed from generation to generation, the bond between humans and horses strengthened with each shared experience.
It was then that I truly realised the importance of our role, beyond strength, beyond endurance.
We were more than just beasts of burden; we were companions, protectors, and partners in life. We carried humans on their journeys, we helped them grow their crops, and we witnessed their triumphs and hardships, silently and faithfully by their side.
As I drifted to sleep, the embers of the bonfire casting their flickering shadows, I knew the spirit of 1140 would forever remain within me, in every step I took, in every load I hauled, in every act of service.
It wasn’t just the year of the Highland Fair, it was the year my family and I felt the true essence of our purpose. We were the backbone of Scotland, the beating heart of our community, and, as much as any brave knight in shining armour, we were worthy of the respect and gratitude we received.
And as I doze off, under the star-dusted Scottish night, I'm reminded that we horses may be humble and quiet, but our story is filled with an unwavering love for the humans who call us friend.
Stay safe and remember to enjoy your adventures on your next trail ride. And please, be kind to horses like me. We do our best!
Love, Emma
www.equiworld.org
