Post #1561
Hello my lovely readers! It's Emma here, a twenty-year-old Grey Draught with a heart full of history, a coat the colour of the finest storm clouds, and a mane and tail as white as the snowdrifts of the Highlands. I hail from Hayfield, a quaint little village nestled near Aberdeen, and it’s my pleasure to take you on a journey through the world of horses in the year of our Lord, 1561.
As the snow melted away and the first shy green shoots poked their heads through the frozen earth, a fresh wave of energy seemed to fill the air. I could feel it in my hooves, the promise of a new season and the long summer days that lay ahead. The air hummed with the sounds of life – the gentle cluck of hens, the bleating of lambs, and the rousing cry of a nearby rooster who clearly believed himself to be the sun's morning alarm clock.
You see, 1561 was a year of much activity for horses like me. From the bustling city streets to the quiet countryside lanes, we were essential partners in every facet of life. From hauling goods, to transporting people, to helping cultivate the land, we were the engines of the era, fuelled by barley and oats and driven by our unwavering dedication to our human companions.
I began the year, as always, by pulling the sturdy plough for the local farmer. Our team of four, including my beloved chestnut companion, William, worked tirelessly alongside other teams of oxen to prepare the soil for the spring planting. It was tough work, especially in the early months when the earth was still stubborn and unyielding, but our reward was the satisfaction of seeing the fields come alive with life, each row of wheat, barley and oats promising a bountiful harvest in the coming months.
In the spring, life began to flow faster. Farmers began transporting their newly harvested crops to bustling markets in Aberdeen. The aroma of fresh produce, from crisp apples and juicy strawberries to golden honey and the earthy aroma of fresh bread, filled the air, and the streets were a vibrant kaleidoscope of colour with horse-drawn carts bustling along cobbled streets.
We also found ourselves busy carrying the families of merchants and nobles through the winding, often rough, paths between villages and cities. A carriage ride, while occasionally uncomfortable, provided a much-needed break from the relentless farm work. I enjoyed the chance to view the passing countryside and listen to the lively chatter of my human companions, especially the laughter of children who delighted in waving at me as I pulled them along.
Of course, the grandest event of the year for any horse was the Highland Gathering. The yearly competition held in Aberdeen was a whirlwind of colour and activity, showcasing the strength and skill of horses and their human riders. This was my favourite time of year - the sheer energy was electric and the smell of roasted meats, freshly baked pastries, and warm ale was enough to make any horse's mouth water. I was lucky enough to be chosen to take part in a race – it wasn't my usual speciality, a draughthorse used to pulling, not sprinting, but my owners were confident that I could win if I applied myself. My grey coat gleamed, reflecting the warm light of the sun, and my white mane flowed as I thundered across the course, adrenaline pumping.
My competitors, nimble and quick on their feet, had a good start, but with the might of my powerful hooves and a strong, decisive kick from William beside me, I surged ahead, neck and neck with a stunning bay stallion called Alistair, our chests heaving in unison. In the end, it was Alistair who won by a nose. While disappointed, I could not begrudge him his victory. After all, everyone cheered for Alistair, their excitement echoing around the meadow where the race was held. The roar of the crowd was deafening and left me breathless. It was moments like these, moments where the energy of humans and horses combined, that truly showed me the strength and joy that came from this symbiotic bond.
I am, however, no simple farmhorse. Like all of my kind, I yearn for adventure, to break free from the familiar confines of Hayfield. And the year 1561 did bring me just that. One day, the Earl of Huntly requested the help of the local draught horses, and so it was that I found myself in the company of others, our hooves drumming across the landscape. The Earl was building a magnificent new hunting lodge – an ambitious project that required hauling massive timbers, stone and countless other building materials.
My work in this capacity was physically demanding but brought a satisfaction that rivalled my time in the fields. The towering lodge began to take shape under our hooves, and every day the majestic building grew, brick by brick, timber by timber. I loved feeling a part of something bigger, something grand and powerful, knowing I had a hand in creating something for posterity. As I watched the new structure rise from the ground, I felt a surge of pride, not only for myself and my team but also for the history I was creating through the tireless labour of myself and countless other horses across the country.
By autumn, as the days shortened and the wind whispered of a coming winter, the hunts began. Every Sunday, I stood by the stables watching the Earl's men – fine young gentlemen dressed in fine embroidered coats and breeches, their boots gleaming – take their mounts out to stalk the wild animals. From my stable stall, I saw them gather their hunting dogs and head towards the rolling hills. These men, brave and fierce on horseback, were true masters of the hunt, armed with longbows and lances. It filled me with pride to watch their skill as they tracked, chased, and hunted prey – noble work for noble steeds like myself.
The hunting seasons were my least favourite times of the year – the constant tension and activity, the shouting, and the barks of the hunting dogs often kept me restless. Thankfully, most of my time in 1561 was spent performing the usual, more regular and peaceful tasks around the Earl's estate, including drawing water, ferrying provisions to the villagers, and transporting the Earl and his guests across the countryside in grand coaches, our leather harnesses gleaming in the sunshine.
And that is how 1561 passed for me, filled with toil, but also adventure, and joy. Though it might seem that the life of a farmhorse is mundane, I can tell you this, dear reader, it is filled with both a quiet and simple satisfaction that comes with hard work, and the fierce love I feel for the human companions who have so many beautiful stories to tell, each tale more captivating than the last.
See you next week! Emma, the Grey Draught.
