A Gentle Grey's Journey through History
Hello everyone! Emma here, your friendly grey draught mare, and welcome back to my little corner of EquiWorld. Today I’m taking you on a journey through the year 1352, a time when life for horses like me was filled with a certain quiet dignity. It might be hard to imagine for you, all with your sleek stables and modern tack, but back then, life was about practicality, strength, and, of course, a good, honest day's work.
Let’s start by setting the scene. The year 1352 was, by most accounts, a fairly peaceful year for Scotland. Sure, there were skirmishes with the English, but those weren’t a major problem in the region of Aberdeen. For me, living in the quaint village of Hayfield, nestled near the foot of the Cairngorms, it was business as usual.
I was about 20 years old, a sturdy grey mare with a mane and tail as white as new snow. As a draught horse, my job was as essential as the air we breathe. I was part of a team of horses hauling carts of barley and hay from the fields to the village mill, which always filled the air with a delicious, wheaty smell. I remember pulling those carts, my thick, strong neck straining but never breaking, the rhythmic thud of hooves on cobblestone, and the camaraderie of my team - a fine, chestnut mare called Meg and a sturdy black stallion, Duncan.
I have to admit, hauling the hay cart was quite the effort, especially in the winter, when the snowdrifts reached our knees. But it wasn’t all hard work. Hayfield, you see, was a bustling place with a vibrant village square where people gathered for festivals, gossip, and to barter for wares. It’s a happy memory, the aroma of the warm, sweet honeyed beer in the air, the laughter and chatter as the townspeople danced, and the music of the lute playing on into the evening. I was often tied up in the square with the other horses, taking it all in, feeling part of the pulse of the village life.
I was part of the local church's processions, a dignified and peaceful way of being used. They usually started with a lively ring of bells as the procession of clergy walked into the church for Mass. The priest, Father Aloysius, would lead us in, our hooves hitting the flagstones with measured steps. After the sermon, the procession continued out, a colourful parade of women in their colourful robes, followed by a procession of men in fine garments, and ending with us horses, leading a young girl carrying a wooden, painted, and gilded statue of the Virgin Mary.
My owner, a kind man called Thomas, would lead me on my journey. Thomas wasn’t particularly strong but was strong-willed and dedicated. I knew I could trust him to care for me. It’s hard to imagine the connection I had with him. We were a team, both of us relying on the other to get the work done. He had an almost invisible touch with me – as if we had this private communication between ourselves.
On most mornings, my journey to the fields began with a song from Thomas - the sort of haunting, melancholy, but undeniably cheerful songs they sing in these parts. Then, I would munch my oats, as much as I wanted. Even a simple chore, like grooming, became an important act of ritual between Thomas and me. In this quiet world of our routines, there was an undercurrent of shared responsibility – we needed each other for everything. He would feed and clean me, brush my thick grey coat with his rough hands, ensuring I was healthy and able to do my work. His kind hands moved with practiced expertise, smoothing down my mane, gently picking away any twigs or burrs from my thick coat.
Now, 1352 was a year of change in the world of horses. You see, we were more than just pack animals back then. Horses had always played a crucial role in battles, of course, but in 1352, the military landscape was changing. This was the year that English soldiers adopted the concept of “horsemen” as a critical part of their fighting force.
It is said the English were developing new tactics, using small, nimble steeds for a more mobile and aggressive warfare strategy. But while they were starting to think differently, we in Scotland, particularly the draught horses, still stayed close to the old ways of strength, pulling, hauling, and carrying our burden, just as we always had. But whispers reached us, as these things do, from the travellers who went between Scotland and England – stories about warhorses being trained for more than just carrying weapons and supplies, but being trained as partners, alongside men in the battles that had become a feature of our turbulent times. I listened with intrigue but stayed true to the purpose for which I was created - to serve our human community. And in that service, I found a sense of satisfaction that my life, and the lives of other draught horses like me, provided, no matter how harsh life may be.
When I was a young filly, my life had a certain magical quality to it, not that we would have ever understood magic in those days, but I felt a sense of connection with the earth. As we would traverse the rolling fields and wooded areas of the Scottish Highlands, I could sense the wind in the tall, whispering grasses. When we went for water at the river, the taste of that crystal-clear, pure water flowed like a powerful energy within me.
The wind, I suppose, brought whispers of far-off places and different lives, lives with different ways of understanding the world and the place we held within it. Yet, here in Hayfield, my days were simpler, filled with familiar routines that I embraced as a part of my being.
The warmth of a stable and the smell of fresh straw were a sense of security, of home. That strong, fresh, musty smell of horse-stable would forever hold a special place in my memories. Every single day had a predictable rhythm. Even on those days when we were simply standing, still and waiting, as Thomas worked in the fields, I could almost sense the rhythm of the life around me.
Our village had an old chestnut mare who everyone called "Wisdom." She was said to be a thousand years old - the most ancient of our horses - a magnificent sight, she was known as "The Guardian," the protective and guiding spirit for us all. When young foals would first learn about life outside the safe shelter of their mother's belly, they were guided by Wisdom - listening to her as she regaled them with tales about the ancient way of horses. My dear mother, Poppy, a wonderful, dark, strong mare with hooves as gentle as a mother’s hand, was taught many of these tales as she grew, and she passed these on to me when I was young.
Wisdom’s gentle eyes, full of history and wisdom, would sometimes find mine in the crowded village square as we all gathered for a good meal. And, I would almost swear, she would offer me a silent smile, one I felt deep in my heart, one that was almost maternal, giving me strength, even from her distance. She seemed to possess a wisdom so profound that, even for me, as a 20-year-old mare, felt a kinship with her – as if, at times, she looked back at my youthful arrogance and smiled, knowing all about it and, through her wise, old, chestnut eyes, silently offering advice and comfort.
In those times, horses like me, the draught horses, carried the weight of the community on our backs – literally, we were their strength, we moved them around, we gave them food. We gave them a future. In a way, the humans who worked with us and rode us, were completely reliant on our ability and strength. This bond, the one between us and our humans, was not merely an exchange of labour and effort but was based on an almost invisible and unbreakable connection that came from understanding and respect – from knowing, implicitly, that our strength was, at the same time, our vulnerability. It was how we saw the world.
It's funny, all of this came to mind this morning. The year 1352 was a year of peace in Hayfield, but I felt a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the energy around me. In the air, you could almost smell it, the changing energy, as humans started to think about more than just horses for transport, as we moved from mere necessity to more nuanced and subtle communication with these humans, for both of us - them and us, horses. I knew that our destinies, however unpredictable and hard to define, were starting to change as the world around us shifted – something beyond our control but very real in the world we all inhabited. We were more than just animals. We were our human's companions, we were our human’s tools, but we were, and will always be, more than they knew – our story had barely begun.
