History of Horses in the year 1636

Hello my fellow equines, and welcome to EquiWorld! It's Emma here, a proud grey draught mare with a heart full of oats and a head full of history. I hail from the lovely Hayfield near Aberdeen, a place where the wind whispers stories of generations past. Today, I want to delve into a year that’s especially dear to me: 1636.

Why this particular year? Because it's a year filled with happenings that shaped our lives, as horses, and also the lives of our human companions. This is a time when the world around us was evolving, and horses, as ever, played an important part. So saddle up, dear readers, and join me as we travel back to a time where the whinny of a horse and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer were the music of the day.

1636, the year of my own birth, wasn't a quiet one! Across Europe and the lands beyond, change was brewing. You see, the horse is much more than just a creature of strength and beauty - we are interwoven with the very fabric of society. In this year, this very fact was once again proving its worth.

In England, for instance, the very fabric of life was being rewoven with the help of horses. The King, Charles I, was having a rather grand time introducing a brand new tax called 'ship money'. It wasn't much appreciated, particularly in parts of England like Lincolnshire, which wasn't a maritime county! It did, however, mean lots of carting around of goods by our equine kin.

Meanwhile, over on the other side of the world, in the new land of Virginia, settlers were starting to really make their mark. A group of hardy souls even ventured upriver to establish a little community called ‘The Falls’, now a charming historical place with echoes of that brave pioneer spirit. The name might sound familiar to some of you: it’s called…Richmond! Of course, horses played a key role in this journey, forging trails and carrying supplies.

In fact, 1636 saw the first official grant of land to an individual named Richard Kempe for starting a "horses-breeding farm." It’s thought that his pioneering work in breeding was hugely important for setting the tone for the equine population of this land.

It goes to show: No matter where you are, dear horses, you are a part of this wondrous world and its grand adventures. Whether in England, or America, we've always had our hooves planted in the historical landscape.

Closer to home in Hayfield, our days were quite busy, but in a comforting, reassuringly familiar way. The landscape, as it still is today, is dotted with rugged cliffs, fertile fields, and bustling little towns. It’s not as wild and dramatic as some other parts of the world, but that makes it home. The human folk relied on us for every chore, be it hauling carts of peat from the bog to warm their hearths, or pulling ploughs to till their lands.

Being a grey draught horse is a good life, as long as one is not the type to yearn for fancy steeds with feathering at their hooves. My sturdy legs and strong shoulders made me an ideal beast of burden. There was a certain pride, you see, in being the bedrock of the human's life. A draught horse is never alone. Our duties are the lifeline of a community, we were essential. And to know that made me, well, proud.

My memories of those early days are tied to a thousand smells, from the tangy scent of fresh-turned earth to the smoky aroma of a campfire at night. As a foal, I loved to frolic in the fields with my companions, rolling in the long, wild grass, chasing the wind with my white mane whipping about.

Later, as I matured, I worked alongside my stablemates, moving hay from the barn to the fields, drawing water from the well, or carrying bundles of wool from the mill.

One day, while dragging a wagon loaded with fresh-cut timber from the nearby forest, I met my destiny. There was something different about this particular load - I couldn't shake the feeling. A young man was overseeing the loading process. As his eye met mine, a smile tugged at his lips, and he whispered something to his neighbour, "See, she is a fine specimen. That one'll serve us well.”

Well, as fate would have it, the young man turned out to be the local blacksmith. And yes, that was how our paths crossed. A week later, I stood on the back of the cart, my hooves drumming rhythmically as we bounced towards his forge.

The blacksmith’s workshop was a different kind of world altogether, loud, with the constant clatter of hammer against metal, the smell of iron in the air, and the flickering flames of the furnace casting dancing shadows. It was the heart of Hayfield, and a good place for a hardworking, humble horse like me.

My master was a man with calloused hands, but gentle eyes, and a way of speaking that calmed any fretting horse. He was, as I’ve often described him in my mare-to-mare gossip, ‘a master of the hammer, but a gentle soul’.

He had the gift of speaking with his hands, making metal bloom, shaping it into tools, horseshoes, and even beautiful decorations. Sometimes, I’d watch him work, entranced by the steady rhythm of his craft, the dance of the red-hot metal in his hands, the way the forge resonated with a silent strength. He'd tell me tales about the iron that came from the heart of the earth and how, under his hammer, it found new purpose.

In those early years at the forge, I helped move cartloads of charcoal, brought fresh water for quenching hot iron, and even used my strength to carry heavy blocks of stone to repair the forge's walls. Yes, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him. We had our own language - a subtle shift in my ears, a swish of my tail - that’s how we communicated.

Looking back at 1636 from this vantage point of many moons and long strides, I realise how vital my own humble story is within the great tapestry of the year.

My first years were filled with simple pleasures, a steady, honest life in the fields. But it was those years at the forge that I realized something about horses - and that is, our very nature. We can find ourselves in places and experiences that may appear small or ordinary, but in doing so, we play a vital, indispensable role in shaping the world around us.

Now, you see, I’ve spent many years in my life serving the humans of Hayfield. I was there for their everyday needs, and yes, it has sometimes meant long days, sore muscles, and the occasional sigh of tiredness, but, truth be told, it has been my honour to have been a part of the human’s world, no matter what my role. Because the truth is this - the horses and humans in Hayfield have always relied on each other. And that is the way of things, no matter the year, the century, or the season.

As I sit here, tapping away at the keyboard of my laptop (a little luxury for this ageing mare, thanks to the new fangled, horseless age!), I wonder about the lives of other horses like myself across the world, what their stories hold, what memories their hooves leave imprinted in the sands of time. Perhaps in your travels, you will see another grey draught horse like myself, pulling a cart filled with fresh bread or ploughing a field that will feed countless hungry mouths. Or maybe you will see another mare with a white mane and tail like mine, carrying her foal through fields of wildflowers.

No matter where your travels take you, remember the spirit of 1636, and all the years before and after, and understand the unique power and beauty of the bond between humans and horses, that age-old, unchanging truth that binds our worlds together. Until next time, keep those hooves steady and your hearts filled with the joys of our equine world.

Emma out.