Post #1171
By Emma, Grey Draught Mare from Hayfield, near Aberdeen, Scotland
A crisp, autumn wind rustles through the heather as I munch on my morning oats. My coat is sleek and shining, the sunlight highlighting my white mane and tail, which flows like the silver of a Highland river. Another day, another sunrise. Another day to feel the strong ground beneath my hooves and to work alongside my fellow horses, our muscles straining together as we pull the plough, cart, and carting wagons.
Life as a draught horse in 1171 isn’t easy, but it’s good. I wouldn't trade it for anything. The air here in Hayfield is clean, the views sweeping. We work hard, it’s true, but there is an earthy satisfaction in knowing our labour is vital.
As I think back to my youth, I recall my mother telling tales of battles, and kings, and brave knights riding upon their steeds. Back then, horses were revered and needed in wars and skirmishes. However, these days, wars are a bit further away. We still need horses for battles, but in England, the king, Henry II, is busy taming his land, bringing the Scottish rebels to heel.
We do, of course, still have our part to play in those matters. The other day, I heard the villagers speaking about the King's horses being sent to England, but as we are mostly used for agricultural purposes here in Scotland, it seems like those wars aren't our concern.
Here in the peaceful Highlands, where the winds whisper through the ancient pine trees and the sound of running water is a constant companion, our focus is on more earthly concerns - bringing in the harvest, transporting goods, and aiding in the daily chores of life. This morning, my team and I were tasked with carrying peat from the bog for our master's fireplace. The boggy terrain makes the work gruelling, but I'm a grey, a strong grey with a solid build. We are renowned for our stamina and strength. I took my turn at the front of the cart today, feeling the weight behind me and the steady pull as I led my team forward. It is a rhythm I have known all my life - a constant, almost hypnotic rhythm.
I imagine life must be different for my cousins in England, particularly those who reside in bustling cities. A dear friend, Matilda, was sent down to England as a foal. When we used to talk, she told tales of bustling markets and carriages clattering along cobblestone streets. The people she served wore silks and velvet. I cannot even begin to imagine such luxury! But we, the horses, share a bond wherever we roam, and the life of a horse, however it may vary in detail, remains rooted in the same essential rhythms: the sunrise, the feed, the work, the companionship.
Life is a cycle for us. We are born, we are trained, we work hard, and we enjoy our time as mothers and grandmothers, watching our young ones grow up. A filly, only a few weeks old, was born to our mare Rose, earlier this week. She is tiny, black as night with white feet and a blaze upon her forehead. I watched with a mother's heart as she explored her first steps and began her suckling, with a mischievous spirit already alight in her bright eyes.
It's all part of the circle, a constant flow of life, of work, of nurture and new beginnings.
Today is market day, and soon, my team and I will be pulling a cart filled with goods, down the muddy, yet picturesque, lane towards the market. It will be busy with carts laden with food, animals, and even a few noble folk, heading there on horseback, or on their grand, slow carriages. I always love the scent of roasted nuts, and the excited, energetic atmosphere. As I walk by the shops, I feel the thrill of it all. We work, we serve, we bring people together.
Being a draught horse, it's not about winning races or chasing down foxes, but it is about bringing life's necessities to those who need them, carrying loads that make a difference, and enduring the relentless rhythms of life, with unwavering fortitude and grace. And for that, my friend, I am proud to be a grey draught mare in 1171. I'm ready for another day of adventure, another step into this beautiful world we live in, knowing that with every hoofbeat, I leave my mark on history, just like the generations before me, and those who will come after.
