Greetings, dear readers, and welcome to another instalment of Emma’s EquiWorld Blog! It’s been a while since I last put quill to parchment, what with the long, chilly winter and the busy season of spring planting just finishing. Now that summer is upon us, and the sun warms my coat even while I graze peacefully in the meadow, I have a mind to share with you my observations of the world around me – from the perspective of a humble, but rather observant, grey mare named Emma.
Today, let's travel back in time, to the year 1254. Now, I am quite the seasoned mare, having been born in the year 1234, in the village of Hayfield near Aberdeen. In human terms, that makes me eighteen years old, but as horses, we mature slower, so you could say I'm in my prime. This year, 1254, marked the twenty-year anniversary of the arrival of my parents at Hayfield from a far-off place called Flanders – another word for what humans call Belgium, apparently! They brought with them a bit of their world, stories about busy cities, cobbled streets and mighty cathedrals. The village elder, a grizzled grey stallion named Arthur, said they also brought with them a peculiar strain of sturdy horse, well-suited for both farm work and battle. I can't say that was ever a life I desired for myself, mind you.
Anyway, 1254…where do I begin? Well, there is always something to keep a horse occupied on the farm. From tending to the vegetable patches and carrying grain to the mill, my days are filled with simple pleasures. The scent of freshly turned soil after a spring rain is almost intoxicating! And the sight of fields teeming with crops, green as emerald, fills me with a quiet joy. There's also the gentle rhythm of my hooves pounding the cobblestones of the nearby town, a journey I make regularly to help carry goods to the market. It’s the perfect chance to stretch my legs, get a glimpse of the world outside the farm, and greet my equine companions.
Speaking of my equine companions… well, this year was a bit of a change in the usual social scene. The new king, Alexander III of Scotland, is a man with a passion for hunting. That’s all very well, you might think, but it’s a rather rough time to be a young colt or filly. As we trot through the meadow, the old mares whisper stories about the dangers lurking in the dense forests that surround us: the roaring of lions, the clash of swords, and the relentless pursuit of hounds – the terrors of the chase! These stories often come at night, after a day of toiling under the sun, and while the older horses know these stories are for amusement rather than true events, I can't help but feel a shiver down my spine! Fortunately, the young horses that join the royal hunts tend to be bred specifically for their strength, speed, and stamina. Those of us who remain on the farm, like myself, can sleep soundly knowing we're far from the hounds and the battles of kings!
It’s not all grim tales, of course. This year has also seen a beautiful addition to our village. The blacksmith, a stout fellow called Angus, built a brand-new stables. The sturdy oak walls and the soft hay lining the floors bring a touch of luxury to our otherwise simple life. And I, being a kind and generous sort, even found myself sharing my own bed of soft straw with the new foal, a delicate chestnut mare called Fiona, whose mother sadly couldn’t stay to care for her. Fiona is still a bit clumsy, her little legs stumbling as she attempts to find her footing. She loves the feeling of a good, warm, maternal muzzle against her flank, and my warm coat offers her the perfect safe haven. I, for one, enjoy the feeling of motherhood, and I am finding great contentment in watching her blossom. Fiona, dear child, will learn that our life on the farm, although hard at times, is a blessed one.
Then, there's the exciting news of the "Crusades"! While most of my news about the world comes from passing traders and the occasional traveller, this year the entire village is abuzz with stories of these grand journeys to foreign lands. The stories are all a bit conflicting, some calling the Crusade a grand religious war for Jerusalem and some whispering that it is merely a conquest for land and power. What I do know is that horses play a central role in these expeditions – hundreds upon hundreds of strong, sturdy horses being sent from various countries to take part in these journeys. Though the thought of riding such distances across strange lands with unknown horses seems both thrilling and daunting, I’m very content with my life in Hayfield. Here, in this small corner of Scotland, I have all the adventure I need in my everyday routines – and let’s be honest, the grass in Hayfield is some of the sweetest you’ll ever find.
Our life in the year 1254 isn’t without challenges. I can recall the grim sight of a band of weary horsemen arriving from a distant, unnamed land, their mounts lean and worn, their faces shadowed with exhaustion and sorrow. Word went around that they were victims of an awful plague that swept through the lands of those they travelled through, a sickness that could claim lives as easily as a cruel wind steals a bird from the sky. I hear these horses, mere skeletons compared to my plump and well-fed companions, are now housed at the royal stables near Edinburgh. This incident brings home the fragility of life, and we're all mindful of the danger that these mysterious, powerful forces hold over us, and how lucky we are to live in a relatively calm, prosperous corner of the world.
But even amidst challenges, life for a mare like me in the year 1254 feels simple and peaceful. Life is measured by the rhythms of the seasons – the planting, the tending, the harvest – and there's an unhurried, almost ancient sense of contentment in each passing day. I work, I graze, I nap under the shade of a tall oak tree. I have the comfort of my herd, the gentle guidance of the older mares, and the tender affections of Fiona, my little protégé. It’s a life well-lived.
So there you have it, dear readers – my little glimpse into life as a horse in the year 1254! As I end this blog post, the evening sun paints the meadow in a symphony of orange and gold. The air is filled with the chirping of crickets and the soft mooing of cows, returning to their stalls. The aroma of dinner – steaming oats and barley – invades the air, beckoning me back to the stables.
Until next time, may your hooves find steady ground and your heart be filled with contentment. May your stable always be warm, your water cool and sweet, and your meadow filled with the tastiest grasses, dear readers!
Emma of Hayfield, signing off!
