Hayfield, near Aberdeen, Scotland - September 1643
Well, dear readers, it’s Emma here again, your trusty grey draught mare from the hills of Scotland. The crisp Highland air is biting, the wind whipping my mane, and the world seems painted in shades of heather purple and goldenrod yellow. It's a beautiful time to be a horse, but a strange one, too.
The year 1643 – what a year it has been! This part of the world is bubbling over with events, none of which I can quite fathom, mind you. Men are forever talking in hushed tones about "The Civil War" and "Cromwell". Apparently, some men in England are unhappy with their King, Charles, and are battling for a different way of doing things. You wouldn't think that mattered to a mare like me, pulling a cart to market or plowing the fields, would you? But somehow, it seems to affect everyone.
I remember my sire, old Blackthorn, sighing deeply when the first whispers reached our stables. “War is never good, girl,” he'd say, shaking his head. “Horses are the ones that suffer, hauling cannons and carrying soldiers.”
Well, I suppose he's right. Even in Hayfield, we feel the tension. The young lads from our village have all been called to serve. My best friend, Willow, a lovely chestnut mare from the next farm, has lost her brother to the fighting. It makes me wonder if my own brother, Rowan, who is serving in the King’s army, will be alright. The fear, dear readers, hangs heavy in the air like a damp mist.
Despite the turmoil, though, life for horses still continues, and quite well, I might add. This year, I’ve been entrusted with a special responsibility. I’m one of the select few chosen to pull the great, beautiful coaches that are all the rage in London and other grand cities. It’s said that even the King himself travels in such coaches, surrounded by velvet and fine leather!
Just imagine, dear readers, the feel of soft silks under your chest, the clacking of hooves on paved streets, the sight of beautiful gardens and magnificent houses whizzing by. This year, I had the honour of carrying a lovely lady, all swathed in silken finery, through the bustling streets of Edinburgh.
She seemed amazed by all the new buildings, by the shops brimming with fine fabrics and delicacies. "Horses are so important," she said, stroking my mane as we made our way through a crowd. "They bring us the world."
How right she is! Even with all this upheaval, there's a sense of magic and excitement in the air. News travels swiftly with these grand carriages, and we carry people, goods, and tales across the land. It feels as if the world is opening up, even amidst all the uncertainties.
And here in Hayfield, life continues its rhythmic pace. We graze the rich meadowlands, bathe in the sparkling streams, and enjoy the warmth of the summer sun. I’ve taken a liking to the newest foal, a sprightly little colt with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He reminds me of my own brother, Rowan. I try to teach him the secrets of the pasture, the hidden paths that lead to the sweetest grass. I even show him how to greet a crow with a playful neigh and a playful toss of the head.
Oh, and dear readers, I mustn't forget! The newest craze sweeping the land is... wait for it... horseback riding! Now, this may seem like an old story to some of you. But in these days, where even a trip to the local market can be perilous, riding for leisure is becoming increasingly popular!
I’ve overheard the village children talk of their fathers' plans to teach them how to ride. Apparently, a new type of saddle is becoming all the rage, one that allows the rider to stay balanced without having to hold on tightly! Imagine the possibilities! Perhaps I’ll be part of the next generation of horses that teach humans to enjoy the freedom and thrill of galloping across open land.
As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, I watch the men from the village returning from their fields. Their faces are weary but resolute. Their words, while often filled with uncertainty, speak of hope. For in their hearts, they know that their lives, our lives, the lives of horses and men, are intertwined.
As long as there are meadows to graze, fields to plough, and journeys to undertake, the horses will remain the beating heart of this land.
So, dear readers, this is Emma from Hayfield, signing off for now. Remember, there are always stories waiting to be told, if you know where to listen.
Until next time, may your journey be smooth and your pastures green!
Emma
