Hello my fellow equines! It’s Emma here, your friendly grey draught mare from the rolling hills of Hayfield near Aberdeen. Today I’m sharing a glimpse into our world, 1663, a year that started quite ordinary but ended up a bit more dramatic than I could have ever imagined.
As usual, the year began with the chill of winter settling in. We, the horses of Hayfield, felt the biting wind in our coats as we pulled plows through frozen fields, preparing the land for the next harvest. Farmer MacIntosh was a good master, though firm, with a kind heart and an appreciation for a sturdy horse.
While our lives in Scotland were mostly about toil and tending to the land, 1663 saw whispers of change travelling the wind. Stories of grand new inventions - like steam engines - reached us, carried on the backs of travellers. The rumours were intriguing. What did these new machines mean for our future? Would our powerful bodies still be needed in a world of steam and gears?
But we had other pressing matters at hand. That spring, a lovely chestnut mare arrived in the village. She had long, elegant limbs, a fine coat, and her hooves carried a graceful gait. It was said she was brought from a place called England, where they valued a horse for speed, not strength. This was exciting news. A change of pace from our daily routine! She quickly became a source of whispered admiration, a symbol of beauty and grace, something that brought a different kind of light to our ordinary life.
In those days, we horses in Scotland were mostly used for labour. Our muscles were strong, built for pulling carts, plows, and carrying heavy loads. I'm talking sacks of barley, bales of hay, even firewood in the depths of winter. It's hard work, I can tell you, but it's honest and we know our worth. We make the world turn, one furrow at a time!
Life moved at a slower pace then, and our days revolved around the seasons. The arrival of spring brought the joy of rolling in fresh grass and the warm rays of the sun on our backs. Summer meant long hours working in the fields, a rhythm familiar to us all. Autumn, though, with the coming of harvest, held a different sort of charm.
This particular autumn saw an unexpected arrival - a young boy, barely 12, with bright eyes and a smile as warm as the sun. He called himself "Duncan," and he was there to learn the trade. Farmer MacIntosh was his grandfather, you see. He was meant to follow in his footsteps and manage the farm, learning all the intricacies of growing barley and tending to the sheep. But there was something different about him, an air of wonder in his eyes, that captivated all the horses in the stable.
Duncan took to us with an ease that made me wonder if maybe horses spoke a language all their own. I never knew what exactly passed between us, but our eyes met often, and sometimes he would stroke my mane with a gentle touch that felt like sunlight against my skin. He'd sit on the stable floor, talking softly, and I would close my eyes, soaking up the warmth of his presence. He told us stories of the world beyond the village, and we listened, our ears perked up, our hearts beating faster with the thrill of adventure.
However, 1663 wasn't just a time of new experiences. The whispers of change were slowly morphing into unsettling news. It came on the back of a travelling merchant who spoke with a hurried pace, his words filled with anxiety. "War is brewing," he said, his voice thick with concern. "The king of England is preparing to fight the Dutch."
The news was met with a wave of tension that washed over us. What would this war mean for our peaceful life in Hayfield? How would it impact our world, already so different with the news of new technologies? Would we, the horses, be sent to fight alongside men, our peaceful existence forever changed? The uncertainty lingered in the air, heavy and ominous, a cloud that threatened to darken the promise of a bright new season.
A few days later, our peaceful life was shattered by the arrival of a message that left Farmer MacIntosh grim faced. The king, in his endless need for soldiers and steeds, was calling on every man in the kingdom, even our peaceful little village. The whispers became a harsh reality, and I felt a wave of apprehension creep up my spine. The wind was shifting, and our familiar routines were at the mercy of fate.
"The time for harvest has passed," said Farmer MacIntosh, his voice gruff but tinged with a flicker of despair. "But for us, the work is just beginning."
He explained how we, the horses, would be used for transportation. Not for plowing, not for hauling supplies, but to carry men and supplies, further adding to the already unsettling feeling that something ominous was coming our way. As the village prepared to send off their sons, fathers, and brothers, I watched in sadness as the warm and gentle presence of Duncan faded away, replaced by the fear in his young eyes.
A long goodbye was shared that night, full of whispers, and worried looks exchanged under the soft light of the moon. And as I stood under the darkening sky, with the wind whistling past, a wave of longing washed over me. Would I ever see my little friend again?
I closed my eyes, inhaling the cold air of that night, the scent of the coming storm, the scent of hope intertwined with fear. I knew our life in Hayfield was about to change. It was 1663, and the world was moving forward, taking us, the horses, along with it, even if we weren't entirely sure where we were going. I sensed a grand adventure lay ahead. I just prayed it was a good one.
Until next time, keep your heads up, my equine friends.
Emma Hayfield, Aberdeen, Scotland
P.S.: This is only a snippet from my life. Stay tuned for future posts where I'll share stories about the events that unfolded during the war, about my journey with the soldiers, about how the world of horses was reshaped in the wake of that turbulent period. It will be a wild ride! Don’t forget to check out my next blog post where I'll talk about my journey south to the battlefield.
I’ll try to bring you more news of horses across the lands!
