A Hayfield Grey's Take on 1824
Good evening, dear readers! Emma here, a young grey draught mare from the charming village of Hayfield near Aberdeen, Scotland. This is my very first post on the Equiworld website, and what a thrilling year to share some equine adventures. 1824! Can you believe it?
My human family calls this the “Age of Innovation,” and honestly, it feels rather apt. From steam engines that chuff and whistle to gleaming new carriages with sprung seats, things are definitely changing! As a workhorse, these changes mostly concern the way I work rather than the fact of work, and that’s rather a blessing. There are some curious souls who claim a horse's life will be revolutionised by all these metal steeds, but let’s be practical. Do you really think they can till fields or pull heavy loads through the muddy lanes of our lovely Scottish countryside? Not a chance!
But I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, before I talk about the changes, I need to tell you a little about how it all began for me!
I was foaled back in 1821, on a brisk May morning. The sun shone warm through the barn window as I struggled to my clumsy legs, my tiny grey coat shimmering like a field of daisies in the morning light. The air was alive with the smell of fresh straw and the sound of the farmhand’s hearty laughter. Mother was a beautiful black mare with a magnificent flowing mane, and my father a stalwart grey with a white blaze that swept from his forehead right down to his chin, giving him a rather wise air. It was said my coat colour came from him, along with the thick white mane and tail I am so proud of. It took me a while to grow into it all, of course, but from that very first morning, I knew I was destined for great things.
Now, most of my foaling days were spent rolling in the hay, chasing the barn cats and nibbling at my mother's side, but as I grew stronger, my days started to fill with more responsibility. I watched as the elder horses – wise old Tom, with his crooked legs, and sturdy Rosie, who carried the heaviest loads – worked hard in the fields and around the farm. I yearned to be as strong as they were, and every day, I would gallop in the meadows, developing my stamina and flexing my powerful muscles, eager to be part of the working world.
Becoming a Dray Horse in a World of Progress
As the years passed, I became an apprentice to my village blacksmith, a kind, sturdy man named Jasper, with a weathered face, strong arms, and eyes full of wisdom. He treated his horses with great respect, caring for them with love and feeding them generous rations of hay and oats. It was a proud moment when he first hooked me to the heavy dray. That sturdy, wooden cart would soon be my world, and I felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. I would soon be taking on the responsibilities that came with carrying goods, pulling carts for the merchants in town, and helping build the roads for all of our village’s inhabitants.
The world of 1824 felt bustling and alive. My journeys took me to bustling Aberdeen, its streets paved with cobblestones, where I hauled bales of cloth and grain. The air was thick with the scents of fresh bread and salted fish, the streets alive with a constant throng of people and carriages, all on the move. In that world of progress, I felt like a humble but vital cog in the engine.
One day, as I plodded slowly along the narrow street towards the harbour, the air was suddenly filled with a cacophony of sounds! It wasn't the rumble of carriages or the shouting of vendors, but the rhythmic chuff of steam and the whistle of a contraption that resembled a huge, metal chariot with massive wheels and a pipe belching out thick plumes of smoke.
The sight and sound of this monstrous thing took my breath away. It rumbled down the road, carrying what seemed like a mountain of stone. Some people watched it with awe, while others stared in fear, unsure what this 'monster' was or how it could possibly work. A young man who was walking by me was holding his pocket watch and shouting out figures I couldn’t quite decipher – 37 miles an hour! Thirty seven miles an hour!
It seemed almost impossible! For us horses, speed meant nothing less than an unrelenting gallop across open fields, but for this metal behemoth, it meant a steady, lumbering progress, its wheels churning through the cobblestone with a rhythmic beat. It was an impressive sight, a spectacle of a machine moving faster than any living being!
Sharing Stories and Building Relationships
There was a buzz of discussion surrounding this "iron horse" in the stables later that day. The older horses, especially old Tom with his decades of experience, couldn't understand what it meant. He shook his head, pulling his thick, wiry grey mane, as he reminisced about the time when his great-grandparents had drawn carts and carried freight, his eyes clouding with a deep sadness.
But I was fascinated! My younger stablemates were brimming with excitement, their tails flicking excitedly as they pictured a future where we horses might race with this iron horse. Some said that we'd all be replaced by these metallic beasts and end up just gathering dust in the fields.
My dear friends, don't listen to their gloom and doom. They overestimate what machines can do, and underestimate our own importance. Remember what the old timers always say: a machine doesn’t understand the pulse of the earth or the rhythm of the seasons, the way a horse does. And I can tell you, with my own two hooves, there's a lot more to life than just pulling a load.
But I’m digressing again! Back to 1824, and our day-to-day life… We continued our routines, delivering milk and groceries, bringing supplies to market, and drawing carriages that whisked well-dressed gentlemen to their social events. Evenings were spent in the quiet company of our fellows, exchanging stories of our journeys and comparing the lengths of our longest pulls. And oh, the tales we shared! One evening, Rosie told us how she had met a beautiful mare in Edinburgh with the most fascinating name, "Thoroughbred!" She was a different type of horse entirely – faster, lighter, and she spent her days in the excitement of racing! It seemed like a wild world compared to our steady routine of work and duty, and I found myself filled with a thrill of envy at her exciting life.
Racing – A New World for Horses
Now, the word "racing" brings me to another curious aspect of 1824, an area of the horse world quite separate from the life of a workhorse like me. Racing. Imagine: an enclosed field with thousands of people shouting and cheering. Horses run, hooves thundering against the ground, the scent of hay and leather filling the air as they race for glory. Some even become quite famous, winning prestigious events. It seems like a very exciting way to live, wouldn't you say?
The stories of racing horses were so tantalising, and even though I had no ambition of myself to gallop like the wind, I was glad that horses had such opportunities, making names for themselves in this new world of competition. I sometimes watched as the elegant, thoroughbred mares from the farms near the races passed through our village. They were creatures of pure, muscular grace with silky, polished coats and heads held high. A far cry from a tough, sturdy workhorse like me.
It reminded me of an old proverb – horses, like people, are born with different strengths, and that's what makes our world so beautiful and diverse. A draught horse has her strengths – carrying heavy burdens and pulling ploughs, her strength is her resilience. The racehorses have their speed, grace, and elegance. We each have our own stories to tell and roles to play.
I imagine, however, that some horses find it difficult to cope with the pressure and stress of a racecourse life, as though their powerful muscles, their natural drive, and their inherent ability are expected to yield results in an arena where the world's gaze is on them. It must take great strength of mind and body to cope. My life is more about steadfastly pulling the weight, and as much as I am amazed by these "Thoroughbreds", I'm also deeply grateful for the comfort of steady routine and the feeling of community among my fellow workers. We pull together, we understand the hardship and the joy of working in service of others.
So there you have it, my first post, a snapshot of a hardworking horse's world in the bustling year of 1824. We are witnessing a world transformed, where steam engines snort and carriages become more sophisticated, and where a racehorse like “Thoroughbred" might even find herself famous. But for the grey horses of Hayfield, it’s a life of work, honesty, and strong ties to the land, a life where we stand firmly planted on the earth, serving others with strength and dedication, even as our world transforms before our eyes.
I hope to tell you more about my adventures in future posts!
Until then, good night.
Yours truly,
Emma.
