Hello fellow equines! Emma here, a 20-year-old grey draught mare with a white mane and tail. I've had a rather long and interesting life, I must say, and it's been quite a journey observing all the changes the world of horses has seen. I hail from a beautiful little place called Hayfield, just a short distance from Aberdeen in Scotland. We've been living a simpler life in these parts, thankfully free from the hustle and bustle of the big city.
Today, I thought I'd take you on a trip down memory lane, back to the year 1363, a year filled with both trials and triumphs for us horses, especially those of us who worked on the land and in the bustling city streets. You see, the world is always in a state of flux, even for horses like us, and 1363 saw a fair share of change, though it is difficult to quantify. Let me paint you a picture.
The early hours of this day were quite typical - the familiar rustle of hay, the reassuring sounds of my fellow steeds, and the sweet scent of oats mixed with fresh air. I wake up to a day that promises sunshine and a bit of light work around the farmstead. The horses, with their usual exuberance, get into their stride - oats eaten, hooves polished, coats groomed – a new day is dawning.
It was the middle of harvest season, and this year has been a bountiful one. Our farmer, Angus, a kind soul with weathered hands and a loving gaze, seemed delighted. He praised us, the strong draught horses, the trusty and loyal workers that he and his ancestors had always relied on. You see, Angus knows that we are his partners in life – he relies on us as much as we rely on him for our basic needs – and this thought fills my heart with a quiet contentment.
As the sun rises, a faint but discernible tremor echoes from afar. It's the distinct sound of heavy boots and the ringing of armor. A party of armed men from the king's court ride in. The King, King David II, a noble soul I heard from one of the gossiping hens on the farm, is leading the King's forces on a foray to the south, where an upstart Baron is challenging the throne.
It was never our place to question our King, nor our role as humble farm horses, and so we watch with solemn respect as the troop of men on horseback move through our Hayfield. Some of the horses are impressive steeds – sleek war horses with a keen eye, trained for war. The sight stirs within me a dormant, primal urge, one that every horse feels, the yearning for open fields and wind whipping through our manes as we gallop, a spirit that never truly dies. However, we are draught horses, designed for labor. My sturdy body was built to pull ploughs, not fight in battles. We must fulfill our destiny, and do what we were bred to do – to till the land, work the fields and carry our masters' burdens.
And thus, our life resumes as it has for generations, tilling the soil, bringing in the harvest, hauling wood from the nearby forests for the farm fires. These were the tasks we took pride in, for they brought nourishment and shelter to our kind humans, ensuring our wellbeing.
There were days filled with labor, followed by restful nights under the vast starry sky of Scotland. This time, it is our strength and unwavering spirit that are crucial, our quiet devotion to the cycle of the farm – tilling, harvesting, sowing, nurturing life through sheer hard work. There is a certain dignity in it, and we as horses appreciate that deeply.
It was during this season of toil that we received word about the ongoing war. There are a flurry of travelers passing through the village – foot soldiers and their pack animals, all burdened by weariness and the sting of battles lost and won. I hear of brave stories of daring escapades on horseback, feats of heroism on battlefields. Every night as we share our simple meal of oats, the other horses murmur stories of fallen warriors. And this year, there were stories about our king.
From those passing travellers, we hear that the King has encountered a setback, that his troops have lost an engagement and are forced to retreat. As always, our instinct was to care for our farmer Angus and the lives we were part of here at Hayfield. But the stories from the battlefields, of heroes and sacrifice, left an imprint on us, horses of Hayfield. Our loyalty, instilled deep within, would always be for Angus, for our families and this haven of safety, yet we knew that the true loyalty to the King, our sovereign, stemmed from a deeper sense of duty, a collective will, even from us horses.
These days passed, marked by the ongoing stories of war, and the increasing influx of wounded and weary soldiers passing through. Our small village became a transient point, a place of temporary refuge for those injured and tired. As draught horses, we were never used to transport wounded men. We are workers of the field, pulling ploughs and wagons, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency in the air, a demand on us, and we were not the kind to disappoint.
One evening, as Angus gathered us in the barn for a light meal, he made a decision that stirred an undercurrent of awe in me. A group of men arrived at the farm with their horses and wagons – men injured in battle, barely alive. They needed urgent transport to the abbey further south – to heal their wounds and receive the holy blessings from the Monks who ran that peaceful sanctuary. Angus had no hesitation; he agreed to take them, with our help, to the abbey, his kind heart outweighing any danger to ourselves.
Our instincts told us this journey would be tough and strenuous, fraught with unexpected trials, yet it filled us with a strange, noble purpose. And that evening, we loaded up our trusty wooden wagons with provisions for the wounded soldiers – the precious, much-needed herbs and the bandages for their wounds. Then we began our journey to the Abbey, under the protective watchful eye of the moon. It was long and arduous.
We traveled slowly and steadily for days, traversing muddy paths, hills and streams, carrying our precious cargo – our brothers in arms, weakened and in pain. The weight of our responsibility rested heavy upon us, urging us to stay strong, to persevere despite the weary journey. Every crack in the road, every stream we crossed, every rise in the land, was an obstacle overcome with quiet courage. Every horse knew that a life depended on our resilience.
The final few hours of the journey were a struggle, as we crossed rough terrain and faced exhaustion and weariness. As we finally reached the Abbey, it felt as if the world stood still, with the sense of relief settling over us all. The Monks received the men with compassion, and quickly set to work tending to their injuries. Their prayers echoed around us as the men lay resting, their wounds receiving gentle, expert care. As for us horses, our part of the work was complete, the burden lifted. Our instinct told us we did well. We served the King and his injured soldiers with grace, doing our duty. This quiet nobility in ourselves, to step up when needed, filled me with quiet pride, and in some odd way, it cemented my faith in humankind.
Our return journey to Hayfield, a few days later, was made easier by the absence of a precious cargo. Yet, as we returned home, I saw a quiet respect for horses, the gentle, soothing voices of the monks murmuring thanks to the creatures who had been brave and carried their weary brethren safely home. There was a sense of calm in our lives again. But there was something deeper too – a sense of connection, a common thread that now linked all of us in an invisible tapestry, forged by acts of service and selfless courage. The feeling settled upon me with a pleasant, profound grace – a silent harmony between humans and horses. It's a harmony that sustains us, one that continues even today.
As we entered Hayfield, the air hummed with a newfound sense of respect. We weren't just farm animals anymore; we were heroes. Even Angus, in his own taciturn way, treated us with extra care and kindness that evening. As he gave us extra oats and cleaned our coats, a silent conversation seemed to pass between us – a nod to the unspoken bond, our role in a greater cause that transcended simple farm work. This shared experience bound us closer, us horses, and the humans around us.
In the year 1363, a mere blip on the timeline of history, our journey to the Abbey became a story – a legend whispered in hushed tones between generations of horses on the farmstead, in every stable and pasture in Hayfield. Our strength and fortitude had made us heroes – heroes that could hold the light of resilience, duty, and courage, all without saying a word, through just the sheer strength of our stride. This was the beauty of the equine world, woven in quiet nobility and courage, always ready to answer the call of service, silently and undeterred.
And now, I will close for today, my dear equines. If you're a mare, may your foal be healthy and strong, if you're a stallion, may your spirit be free and your run strong. And remember, every day is an adventure, each sunrise a promise of a new adventure, every season filled with possibilities for us equines.
And keep on pawing the ground, for it is through us horses, our resilience and silent courage that life's beauty, life's history, will be written.
Till next time!
Your pal,
Emma.
