History of Horses in the year 1342

Good day, fellow equine enthusiasts! Emma here, your friendly neighbourhood grey mare from Hayfield, nestled amongst the rolling hills of Aberdeenshire. It’s been a while since my last post, what with the rigours of farm life and all! But as I've found a quiet moment in the stable, I thought I'd share some thoughts about this year, 1342, a year that feels particularly significant to me and my fellow horses.

Now, you might think I’m just a humble draught horse, spending my days hauling the plough and cart, but this year feels special. I see more than just fields and furrows. I see the heart of my fellow man, their dependence on us, the horses, to sustain them. And you know what? It makes me proud.

The air hangs heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and freshly turned earth. The barley is in full bloom, swaying like a sea of gold, and the oats are almost ready for harvest. It's a busy time for us horses, and while our hooves might ache with fatigue, our spirits remain high. Every year feels momentous, but this year feels different, like a turning point. I sense it in the people’s talk and in the whispers of the wind rustling through the pines.

You see, things are not the same as they used to be. There’s a subtle, but undeniable shift in the air, a kind of tension you can almost feel in the clench of your jaw. Not so long ago, our lives were governed by the seasons, by the need to till the land, to harvest the bounty of nature. But there's something more in the air, a whiff of unrest. The rumours, which I’ve overheard in the stables, tell tales of plague and war in far-off lands, places whose names only my master, old Duncan, knows.

Yet here in Hayfield, our world feels serene. Even amidst these uncertainties, our roles as horses haven't diminished. We are the sinews of the community, the reliable workforce without whom no man’s farm can thrive. The gentle strength we possess allows us to till the fields, to carry loads, to pull wagons. Our hooves move over the Scottish earth, marking the rhythm of a year’s cycle.

But in 1342, our strength has taken on an added meaning. The Black Death, as they whisper, has gripped lands far and wide. We haven't seen it ourselves here, but the whispers and the anxiety on the faces of our human companions paint a stark picture. Many are ill, some are lost, and we, the horses, feel the weight of responsibility even more acutely. We must carry on, tirelessly, ensuring the farms keep running. We are the constant amidst the chaos, the reliable companions, the silent yet stalwart strength.

A typical day starts with the first light of dawn. A rumble in the hayloft, a clatter of the bucket, and Duncan’s firm but gentle touch as he leads me out of the stable. The dew feels cold and fresh on my legs as we set off for the fields. The crisp air fills my nostrils, carrying the scents of morning – a mixture of the pungent aroma of damp earth and the tangy sweetness of wild heather.

My life is a symphony of repetition: pulling the plough, diligently tilling the soil; hauling heavy loads of grain from the fields to the barn; transporting wood from the forests to the blacksmith’s shop; and yes, of course, even the occasional, exhilarating gallops to chase the stray cows or sheep.

There’s a certain beauty to our days. The constant rhythm of the work is a comforting lullaby, like the regular thump-thump of my own heartbeat. We horses, despite the arduous tasks we undertake, seem to thrive on it. The sun, the rain, the scent of the earth – it's in our blood, and it fuels us, nourishes us.

And, I must admit, I have learned to relish the feeling of a hard day’s work, the sense of achievement in completing a task. After a long day, there’s nothing quite like the familiar feel of the stable, the comfort of fresh straw beneath me, and the warm, comforting breath of my fellow horses as we sleep in close company. These are the things that ground us, remind us of the strength we possess, both physical and mental.

We share a special bond with our human keepers. Duncan, for example, understands me as well as any man could understand a horse. His touch is gentle but firm, his voice a soothing balm on my troubled heart. The villagers who work the land, the blacksmith, the farmer’s wife - they all hold a profound respect for us horses. They recognize the crucial role we play, and they reward us with love, care, and good food. We understand their ways, their joys and sorrows.

It’s during our moments of shared labour that we build connections, understand each other’s unspoken needs. As the sun sets and I feel the weariness in my limbs, there is also a contentment that fills me. The day's work done, a promise of the evening’s peace. The stars above seem to shine brighter on these nights, reflecting our hard work and the unwavering strength of our bonds.

But the world is bigger than Hayfield. Our stable boy, young Robert, brings tales from the outside world. He speaks of horses carrying knights in shining armour, of races, and of fairs where the finest steeds are displayed with all the pomp and circumstance that comes with them. He even talks about great cities like London, with streets paved in stones, where horses carry heavy carts pulled by even more powerful horses like us.

Sometimes, he speaks of grand competitions, of war horses charging onto battlefields, carrying soldiers to the fight. There is an aura of bravery, of noble sacrifice around such stories. These are horses of another kind, I imagine, bred for power and speed, born to grace the battlefield and bear the weight of combat.

But I wouldn’t trade my place in Hayfield for all the tales of distant kingdoms. Here, our lives are simple, the work demanding, and yet the rewards of a quiet life are abundant. The rhythmic creak of the windmill, the comforting murmurs of the farmer's wife as she combs my mane, the friendly greeting of the neighbour’s mare - these are my joys.

Every horse carries within them the stories of generations past, the tales whispered on the wind and etched into our collective memory. Our ancestors, tireless workhorses who pulled carts, ploughed fields, and carried soldiers, taught us the value of resilience, of unwavering dedication.

We have a rich history, an unshakeable bond with mankind, and a role woven into the fabric of society. Our power, our strength, our unwavering loyalty, it’s in our very blood.

1342 may be a year marked by uncertainty, by the whisper of change, but we, the horses, will stand firm. We will keep our hooves grounded, our hearts steadfast, and our spirits soaring.

For even as the world around us changes, our core purpose remains. We are the horses, the backbone of a nation, the quiet force of nature, the ever-present symbol of steadfast loyalty. We will remain so long after the whispers of today fade into the murmurs of the past, carrying on, generation after generation, our work and our spirit forever entwined.

So let us, the horses, be a beacon of strength, resilience, and enduring love in these changing times. May we all strive for a world where horses and humans walk together, hand in hoof, with shared understanding and mutual respect.

And as I prepare for another long day of toil and service, I bid you adieu. Remember me, Emma the grey mare from Hayfield, in your prayers and your thoughts. And until next time, happy trails, fellow equine enthusiasts!