Good morning, fellow equines, and welcome to my humble blog, a little peek into the world of a grey draught mare, right here in Hayfield, near the bustling town of Aberdeen. It’s me, Emma, your favourite blogger – a strong, sturdy girl with a heart as big as my sturdy hooves! Today, I thought I'd take you on a journey back to the year 1743.
Oh, 1743 was a lively year. I was a young filly then, just reaching the age of five, and let me tell you, life was full of adventures and a certain sense of boundless energy. I felt every new day as if it were a crisp spring morning - full of possibility.
Now, 1743 was not quite the year of extravagant horse carriages or dazzling dressage shows. This year, as far as my life in Scotland was concerned, was all about hard work, grit, and the enduring spirit of the sturdy workhorses who made up the backbone of rural life. And, of course, let's not forget, a healthy dose of horseplay - a vital element in the day-to-day routines of any happy horse.
But, you may be wondering, "Emma, how was your life different then?" Well, allow me to take you back to that very year. Imagine waking up in the crisp morning air, a fresh dew coating the pasture, the aroma of oats and hay tantalizing your senses. I could hear the rooster crowing from a distance, and as the golden rays of sunrise touched my coat, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
My life in Hayfield was centred around the farm. A simple, yet satisfying existence, filled with the tasks of hauling heavy loads, ploughing the fields, and delivering the goods to market. I worked alongside my kind, Farmer John, who owned the biggest and warmest barn in the village. The barn wasn’t just a place for shelter, you know, but also the scene of some jolly moments with my equine friends.
Now, being a farm horse wasn’t just about muscles and brute strength, though. It demanded patience, understanding, and a touch of wisdom, especially as the eldest mare in our little barn family. And as if my responsibilities weren't enough, my kind heart led me to take on the role of 'leader' of our little horse community. We were all so different in size and temperament, but somehow we formed an inseparable bond. My duties, you might say, were not just a chore; they became my pride, the very essence of who I was.
One day in 1743, something new and exciting arrived on our little farm - a travelling horse show. Imagine, a circus of horses doing such wonderful tricks! I felt a little surge of excitement, and I watched with wide-eyed wonder. Some horses danced, some pranced and bowed, some even jumped over tiny hurdles, much to the delight of the villagers. It was quite a spectacle, that circus show, but we workhorses were content to be admired by the children as they stared in awe, for our strength, our hard work and resilience. We carried heavy loads and provided much-needed support for farming - which, honestly, we took as a lot of fun.
Every evening, with the sun setting ablaze the sky, I'd settle back into my daily routine, contentedly chewing on a fresh bundle of hay, watching Farmer John mending his tools. I shared stories with my stablemates, and my hooves often pounded the wooden floor, drumming rhythms of laughter, contentment and well-being.
However, there was one particular incident I can never forget - the arrival of a small chestnut colt. He arrived shivering and alone, a scared, skinny little soul, and it melted my heart. His name was Freddie, and he was the smallest horse anyone had ever seen. Now, my strength is well known, so imagine my delight when my new friend Freddie declared me as his mentor. Oh, he loved me! I was very proud of the trust Freddie bestowed on me, and I made sure to be his guardian, his role model, teaching him the basics of life as a working horse. We grazed together, we played together, and I even showed him how to properly handle a heavy load. Freddie was slow to learn, a bit of a silly colt, but I patiently nudged him on. We'd work hard together and he’d even give me a small nuzzle whenever we were done, the most precious gesture from such a little one.
Of course, those were the times of constant travelling, hauling wagons with hay and vegetables to the local market in Aberdeen. It was a bit of a journey for a workhorse but our long walks allowed for bonding with our kind. There, amidst the bustling market square, I'd meet up with my friends – black Angus and Dapple Gray – with whom I'd share news of our lives, listen to stories of daring gallops and romantic nights under the stars, a time for horse chat, horse stories and horse dreams.
That, dear readers, was the world of horses in 1743. There was the constant rhythm of hard work, the companionship of friends, and the warmth of our simple lives in a bustling countryside, all sprinkled with a dash of adventures and joys. I might not have danced under the circus tent or had a leisurely stroll through royal gardens, but I was loved, appreciated and knew that I was a part of something very important. And it was in those moments of simplicity that the true magic of a horse's life shone.
And that’s my story, dear readers, my story of 1743, a year filled with the comforting sound of horse-drawn carts, the smell of fresh hay in the barn, and the warm embrace of my beloved Hayfield. What about you, what are some of your most memorable moments as a horse in a specific year? Share your story with me. Tell me, what was YOUR 1743 like?
Until next time, dear readers,
With neighs and whinnies,
Your favourite,
Emma
www.equiworld.org
