My dear fellow equines, welcome back to my blog! Today, we're taking a trip back in time to 1372, a year filled with adventure, hard work, and yes, a little bit of gossip, as I, Emma, your grey mare from the windswept hills of Hayfield near Aberdeen, tell you all about it.
The wind whipped through my mane, carrying the tang of salt air and the familiar scent of the moorlands. The year was 1372. In Hayfield, we were a small but spirited community of draught horses, tasked with the heavy responsibility of farming and transport.
My days were long, but filled with a comforting routine. I was just 20, in my prime, strong and capable, with my long, silky white mane and tail swirling around me like a storm cloud on a calm day. Each morning, I'd feel the weight of the plough biting into the earth as I pulled it, helping the local farmers prepare their land for crops. The feeling of sun on my coat, the crisp air of dawn, and the gentle, rhythmical movement of my stride filled my days with contentment.
But the year 1372 wasn't just about work. It was also a year for community, for family, and for sharing tales of adventure. I had a dear friend named Skye, a spirited mare with a coat as black as night. We would often steal moments in the fields, enjoying a bite of grass together or exchanging stories about the horses in neighbouring farms. We'd often gossip about the arrogant chestnut stallion from Dunvegan, who boasted of his racing prowess, or the spirited little ponies that roamed the rugged glens, always up for mischief.
However, the real drama of 1372 began when word reached us about a major tournament happening in Stirling, just a day's ride south of Aberdeen. Now, you see, tournaments in 1372 were grand affairs. Knights in shining armour, jousting for glory, lords and ladies watching from grandstands, and, yes, us horses - the heart and soul of the entire affair. It was the knights who held the limelight, but we, the horses, were the silent, steadfast warriors behind them.
Imagine the excitement! It wasn't just the sight of so many horses gathered together, a majestic spectacle of muscle and power, but also the stories of knights and their noble deeds that filled the air. Whispers of the king's son, the Prince of Wales, leading the tournament with his famed charger, whispered promises of glory and feats of horsemanship that echoed throughout the camp.
The tournament was more than just spectacle, though. It was a chance to showcase our skill, our strength, our very essence. Even though I wasn't selected to participate in the grand events, it was a thrilling time for us all. I stood in the stable, my mane and tail braided with flowers, my hooves cleaned, watching with pride as my comrades prepared for their duties. Some were war-horses, their chests proud and necks strong, trained for the gruelling battlefield. Others, like myself, were bred for hauling and carrying, with sturdy frames and enduring strength, tasked with carrying dignitaries and serving as palfreys for the ladies.
We weren't merely tools in this grand spectacle. We were integral to the success of the event. Without our speed, our strength, our obedience, the knights and ladies wouldn't have been able to create such an extraordinary spectacle.
Of course, every good horse, every good family, has their worries. My dear friend Skye's foal, a filly with the same velvety black coat as her mother, had been battling a stubborn cough. Our community, horses and humans alike, shared their concern and knowledge, working tirelessly to care for her. Seeing the tenderness in the human eyes, the quiet hope in their whispers, reinforced the deep bond that existed between humans and their steeds. It was this shared bond, this unwavering loyalty, that held the whole system together.
Despite the exciting events of the tournament, the life of a draught horse never truly strayed from the rhythm of farm life. In the bustling days, we carried loads, turned the fields, and even delivered messages to the bustling port of Aberdeen. This simple life, with its predictability, felt almost calming against the background hum of events like the Stirling tournament.
Life, for a horse like myself, was an ebb and flow of activity, punctuated by quiet moments of reflection under the endless blue Scottish sky. In 1372, like any other year, I learned that while the grand spectacles may come and go, the core of our lives as horses, as members of this community, remained steadfast. We pulled the plough, carried the weight, and offered companionship. We remained true to our essence, each hoofbeat echoing the silent harmony of the human world around us.
As we approach the close of this blog post, let me tell you, 1372 was a year of remarkable change in the world of horses. With the echoes of the Stirling tournament still ringing in our ears, with the familiar call of the farm beckoning us back, we knew we weren't just working animals. We were the pillars of a strong society, carrying not only the weight of loads but also the weight of the traditions and hopes of a nation.
So until next time, my dear friends, stay strong, keep your hooves steady, and remember, in the world of horses, every day holds its own adventure.
