Greetings, fellow equine enthusiasts! It’s Emma here, your trusty grey mare from Hayfield, near the bustling town of Aberdeen. The wind is whistling a tune through the fields, and I’m enjoying the warmth of the midday sun, munching on some juicy hay, my thoughts drifting back to the year 1211…
As the sun rises and sets over the Scottish hills, I find myself reflecting on a time that feels almost like a dream, yet deeply embedded in the memory of my kind. It was 1211, the year I was born, a year that began under the banner of hope, but was punctuated by hardship, yet ultimately filled with the strength and resilience of our kind.
That spring, as I entered the world, everything felt fresh and new, the air a sweet mix of grass and blossom, the earth still soft under my hooves. Mother was the best, she nuzzled me often, her grey coat shimmering like moonlight. My own coat, though not yet fully grown, already showed the distinctive sheen of a grey that would become a badge of my kind – a sturdy, dependable draught horse. I was strong, healthy, and I learnt fast – my father, a handsome chestnut, would have been proud! My family was small, a sister born later, but my bond with my mother was something special. We grazed together, played under the watchful eye of our gentle old stallion, and snored in unison beneath the clear night sky.
Those were simple days, filled with the rhythm of nature - the warmth of the sun on my coat, the soft grass under my hooves, and the gentle melody of the wind through the trees. Our days were spent working the fields, pulling plows, and helping to gather crops – vital work for the humans. I enjoyed my role – we were important to the lifeblood of the farm, a steady and dependable work force, admired for our strength and gentle nature.
The world beyond our farm felt big and uncertain, even though, by the end of that year, it had reached Hayfield, whispered on the wind and brought by weary travellers. There was a young king in England, they said, a boy, called Henry. He was still a lad, only 17 years old. But he was bold, even reckless some said. He had come to the throne not so long ago, and even the talkative sheep and chattering magpies told of him trying to secure his land and rule. It was, we all knew, a dangerous time.
Yet despite the tensions, and some even speaking of unrest in France, the year went by peacefully for us in Hayfield. Our days were full of hard work but contentment. The scent of hay filled our nostrils, the rhythm of the work was familiar and reassuring, and our hooves beat a steady tempo as we moved across the fields.
It was then, in 1211, that I witnessed the power of horses. We were a force to be reckoned with, we helped farmers till the soil, and brought people together. In every corner of the world, people relied on us for their survival and prosperity, a vital part of every day life.
The people in our community, however, did mention news that filtered down from the world beyond Hayfield. Talk of another land – the Holy Land – filled with conflict and religious wars, was reaching our little corner of the world. Knights and armies, all with fine horses, were travelling there on long and dangerous journeys, but this felt far away to me.
It was hard to imagine the harshness of those foreign lands, so different to my life here in the rolling hills of Scotland. The people, who relied on us, were hard working, and strong - despite the wars that raged in the far-off corners of the world. There was always time for laughter and songs by the fire in the evening, when our days work was done.
But as the summer drifted into the crisp days of autumn, I realised, the world outside our little haven did touch even our lives here. One day, in October, news came on the back of a traveller – one of those travelling traders who, with their teams of horses, came to sell their wares in Hayfield. A new church, was being built on the lands of the wealthy Lord Gordon, just on the edge of Hayfield. He had even brought horses and carriages, pulled by big grey teams – like me. And he had promised them a fine, strong stable!
That very month, we were visited by men of the cloth, who came and went as often as the clouds across the sky. We sensed it in their manner - these men carried a seriousness and a responsibility within them, a dedication to their task, a focus beyond just everyday needs, a sense of destiny that inspired even us. There were also carpenters, masons, blacksmiths - all travelling with horses - a steady flow, a whole community moving to and fro, working hard to create something grander.
From this day on, our farm’s tasks involved taking part in the project. The human's spoke of “God's house" with respect and humility. It meant working extra hard, but, it was also rewarding – we were a part of something bigger than ourselves. It reminded me how connected we were to humanity - and the humans were just as connected to us, they needed us for so much, just like we needed them to provide for us.
And so, with a great deal of hard work, with each dawn bringing more sunshine on our flanks and the rumble of cartwheels echoing across the farm, the church began to rise above the land. It felt powerful and majestic, even the sheep, on our high meadow grazing area, had changed their tune to an appreciative baa-baa-baa instead of their normal bleats.
Even now, the sight of the church - now so familiar on the hill - reminds me of this time. But it is 1211, a turning point for many horses, that remains etched in our collective memory - in 1211, another important building, a great palace was built by the king, he was building his strength and influence. Not a church, but an imposing stone palace!
And as a team, I pulled carts of stone, with so many other horses and sturdy oxen, a rhythmic dance of strong backs and willing hearts – our strength mattered, and the journey felt filled with purpose. There was something uplifting about all of us working as one. We were part of an unfolding future for the young king - helping to establish his reign.
The year 1211 closed with the arrival of new foals - and our meadows were filled with playfulness as we welcomed them with gentle nudges and friendly whinnies. But also with the sadness that death often came alongside life in those times, a powerful lesson, we learnt young, even though we felt it in our hearts – my grandmother passed away and we stood in mournful silence alongside the other old horses as they buried her.
Life carried on - the work on the palace continued with unwavering intensity and there was the usual winter hardship - but even the coldest days were a welcome rest from our tasks.
The world changed in that year - and yet it remained constant. There were people working together, families enjoying the warmth of each other, and we, horses, carried the burden of human endeavour with grace and dignity. My spirit remained bright. It was a reminder of the enduring power of unity, in our own horse families and in the hearts of humankind, who relied on us. We had found strength and beauty within ourselves, just as we had found strength and beauty in the world.
We kept working the land, keeping up the pace and we kept being there - dependable and true, the faithful companions to humanity - for as long as they need us.
Until next time,
Emma
Hayfield, Scotland
www.equiworld.org
