History of Horses in the year 1812

Posted on www.equiworld.org by Emma, Hayfield, Scotland

1812! A most remarkable year! Now, I might only be 20, but the old wise horses of Hayfield told me about the year 1812 – and trust me, there are stories enough to make your mane stand on end! I, Emma, the grey draught mare with a mane as white as a cloud and a tail to match, was just a young filly in those days, but even then, I felt the excitement thrumming through the air.

Let’s dive into what was happening in the world of horses, shall we? It felt like a whirlwind year for all of us, right here in Hayfield and all over Britain.

Here in Hayfield, our lives were fairly predictable. We woke up with the sun, pulling plows, carrying hay bales, and generally making life easier for the kind human folks who looked after us. They worked hard, and we worked hard with them. Our rewards? Good oats, warm stables, and an understanding that they wouldn’t work us past our limits.

The year 1812 brought us two exciting developments:

• The building of the new Hayfield Bridge! Our team, lead by a big old black stallion named Angus, pulled the heavy stones to build this magnificent structure over the Don River. They said the old one was showing its age, and with the new road, it would be an absolute godsend! Angus told us how the horses worked night and day in all weathers, and it was truly remarkable to see. When the bridge was finished, everyone celebrated with a grand feast for the horses – piles of sweet hay and buckets of the finest oats – the like we hadn’t seen!

• A new crop of colts and fillies arrived in the field! Their boundless energy and enthusiasm added to the spirit of the place. My, what a joy it was to watch them frolicking in the sun! And a gentle reminder that even the oldest horses remember what it’s like to be young again.

I, being the spirited, ambitious sort, was itching for something more - something grander, something... adventurous! As much as I loved the routines of Hayfield, I dreamed of a life outside the farm, where I could stretch my legs and test my strength! Maybe even get my hoof on something more than just a plow!

And oh, I found my chance – thanks to a handsome chestnut stallion named Flynn. He arrived in Hayfield with a rumbling wagon. His stories of adventures outside Hayfield ignited a fire in my soul.

Flynn came to Hayfield with his owner, a gentleman called Mr. Carmichael. He wasn't the gruff sort, not one to overwork his horse. Mr. Carmichael seemed a fine sort, and Flynn was happy, happy to tell me about his travels, to paint his adventures with vivid details. He talked about the bustling cities, the countryside with its hidden paths, the sights and sounds of the world beyond Hayfield.

My grey eyes sparkled, listening to him! It seemed as though my dreams were about to come true. But Mr. Carmichael wasn't exactly searching for a horse.

One chilly afternoon, with a cold wind biting through my mane, Flynn shared something extraordinary: Mr. Carmichael was preparing for a journey to London! The heart of Britain itself! He needed a carriage horse, and for this purpose, he was buying a black gelding with legs built like oak and a calm, gentle temperament. This gentle fellow was destined for life as a carriage horse.

A chill settled within me, a feeling of disappointment creeping in. “What a magnificent opportunity!” I whispered to Flynn.

“You could go to London with him!” I encouraged him, my tail swishing with excitement.

“That's kind of you, Emma,” Flynn said. He had this way of talking, kind and thoughtful, like a gentle giant. “But Mr. Carmichael already has his choice made. I reckon it is the best he could find for a life on the road. ”

He looked off towards the bustling city with wistful eyes. I wondered if he secretly craved a chance to see more of the world himself. Flynn continued to talk, and I, captivated by his stories of adventure, realised he was more than a horse; he was a companion.

However, something else, something much grander than a city, was looming on the horizon: war. A darkness was spreading across Europe, its tendrils stretching to our shores.

We knew of Napoleon Bonaparte, the ambitious leader who had risen to conquer most of Europe, his horses galloping with thunder across battlefields. A fierce warrior, they called him. We'd hear stories from passing merchants, tales of fierce battles and soldiers marching, each tale carrying whispers of dread.

The wind brought these stories into our quiet life, casting an ever-present shadow over the field. There were rumours that our country might soon be at war, that England and France might fight. These were whispers, mere possibilities. Yet, the apprehension was palpable. We could feel it, deep within ourselves. The horses knew – a war, however distant, meant more horses would be called upon for duties unimaginable.

As time passed, these whispers became stronger. The fear turned to dread, to worry, and finally to acceptance.

The year was 1812, and even though my heart longed for a life of adventure beyond the field, I sensed this was bigger than me. This was about something more than journeys or city life; this was about a fate far greater than any we could understand. We all had our place in this world, and perhaps ours was to be patient and steadfast.

Suddenly, the familiar life of Hayfield felt more valuable, more precious. Our simple duties felt meaningful, each furrow ploughed, each hay bale lifted, became a tangible act of dedication to our community.

And then came a knock at the stable door. A stern looking, but friendly human man stepped into the stall, a glint in his eyes.

"Are you ready for an adventure, Emma?" he said, his voice kind, but full of purpose.

And, I knew, it wasn't the adventure of London; it wasn't about city life or rumbling carriage wheels. It was about something far grander - something destined to shape our world.

My adventure had begun.

Join Emma next time as we journey to the world of 1812 – a year that changed history and shook the world of horses to its core. Stay tuned!