Hayfield, near Aberdeen, Scotland. Midsummer’s Eve.
The sun, a golden coin, dipped beneath the distant heather-clad hills, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and rose. The air, fragrant with honeysuckle and wild thyme, carried the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestone path. I, Emma, a proud grey mare with a mane and tail like spun snow, trotted alongside my fellow draught horses, laden with bags of barley. My coat, shimmering in the twilight, reflected the dying sunlight like a thousand tiny stars. My heart, however, thrummed with excitement, not just for the barley but for a grand feast – the feast of Midsummer's Eve.
It was 1268, and all around Hayfield, the world of horses hummed with excitement. It was, as they say, “a year for horses,” the kind of year where we felt our power, our beauty, our importance. It was the year King Alexander III of Scotland took his beloved Queen Margaret to the great city of Edinburgh for their annual celebration of love, their love for each other, their love for the land, and their love, yes, for horses.
Every year, this love blossomed into a spectacle for the eyes and heart. There would be jousting knights, gleaming in their armour, riding stallions as nimble and swift as the wind. Their horses, with their beautiful, powerful bodies and expressive eyes, would be the stars of this feast, thrilling the crowd with their grace and courage. They’d be dressed in elaborate finery, their saddles decked with precious jewels and vibrant cloth, every movement a testament to the bond between horse and rider.
This year, in the capital, the horses would pull carts adorned with flowers, laden with treats and delights for the crowds. Each carriage, pulled by two, four, or even six powerful beasts, would be a miniature moving kingdom, each step a testament to the power of our breed. We draught horses were the muscle behind this feast, the loyal workers who carried the weight of the city's happiness on our backs.
As I munched on my hay ration under the watchful eye of Angus, my stablemate, a deep chestnut stallion with a mane like fire, my thoughts drifted. Angus, ever the romantic, talked about the jousting competition, where he would be watching for his “knight of dreams,” a handsome, brave knight named John. This day wasn’t just for the horses, of course, it was also a celebration for humans, a time for courtship, and I must confess, I couldn't help but wonder if my very own "knight" would appear at the celebrations.
Maybe a farmer, kind-faced and strong, his eyes filled with admiration for my sturdy legs and my ability to pull the heaviest cart. Maybe even a travelling bard, strumming a merry tune, captivated by my spirited nature and the beauty of my grey coat. I let out a soft neigh, my dreams taking flight, mingling with the fragrant night air.
Back in Hayfield, our world revolved around the simple rhythms of work. We pulled ploughs through the fertile Scottish soil, raising barley, oats, and the delicious hay that fuelled our days. Our work was essential to the well-being of the community, and it filled us with a sense of pride and belonging.
Even within this seemingly quiet life, we, the horses of Hayfield, found ways to entertain ourselves. We would race across the fields, a blur of powerful limbs and flowing manes. I’d beat even the strongest of the stallions, my grace and determination unmatched. Sometimes we’d gather around a particularly well-crafted wooden trough, sharing stories, dreams, and even some gossip about the farmer’s youngest daughter, known for her love of horses, and her kindness.
On Sundays, the men would take us for a gentle trot, our hooves beating a rhythmic tune upon the road as we joined the community in its procession to church. I always admired the church, a beacon of stone and hope in our bustling world, and the soft melodies sung within its walls filled me with a deep sense of peace.
As we trotted towards the church, we would often see farmers and families, children clutching at their mothers' skirts, their faces beaming with excitement. Sometimes, we even saw the blacksmith, hammering away in his forge, his tools like extensions of his very being, crafting magnificent horseshoes that ensured we remained strong and protected.
My hooves thumped gently on the cobblestone streets, and my thoughts went back to the Midsummer’s Eve feast. My stomach grumbled, reminding me of the delicious treats that awaited. But it wasn't just about the treats – it was about a sense of belonging, of being part of something bigger than ourselves. It was about the unity of horses and humans, the silent pact of trust and cooperation that had forged centuries of companionship.
We may have different languages, but the look in a human’s eye, a kind word, the gentle touch of a hand, these were enough. This bond of trust, woven through countless years, it felt stronger than any steel, brighter than any jewel. We were one.
As the moon climbed higher, a silent silver disc against the star-strewn tapestry, my eyes fell on Angus, his chestnut coat blending into the darkness. A familiar feeling tugged at my heart - I'd been seeing more of him recently. He was so handsome, with those fiery eyes and his gentle demeanor.
Perhaps tonight, amongst the festivity, a spark of something new, a blossoming of love, would occur between us, like the sweet honey of the flowers blooming all around us. Perhaps this Midsummer's Eve would be the night I met my own “knight” - even if he had four legs and a heart full of passion for his field and his oats.
With a soft sigh, I curled my nose in a heap of fragrant hay, picturing myself adorned with ribbons and wildflowers, my sleek grey coat glistening in the glow of countless lanterns, a smile gracing my lips. This year, I wouldn't be just another horse carrying barley or ploughing fields. Tonight, under the summer moon, I would be a grey mare dancing under the stars, ready to celebrate the beautiful year of the horses!
~ Emma, Hayfield, Scotland. 1268.
