My dearest readers,
It is with the greatest of joy that I, Emma, a grey draught mare with a white mane and tail, begin my own personal chronicle of events in this wonderful year of 1853. I have called myself a "grey" draught in my blog title, for this year, my coat seems a shade lighter, perhaps with the coming of Spring, a delicate tinge of silver shines through.
It’s a grand day here in Hayfield, near Aberdeen. The sun is pouring its golden rays upon the rolling Scottish hills, turning the heather a glorious shade of purple. The air smells of wildflowers and damp earth, a scent I never tire of, even though I smell it every day.
I wake before the sun rises, the familiar scent of the stable and the rhythmic breaths of my fellow steeds rousing me gently. It's always an odd mix of excitement and dread when the day begins. I long for the wide, open spaces and the feel of the wind in my mane, but I also cherish the warmth and safety of our shared space, where a community of hooves, manes, and snorts shares our morning routine.
As you might expect, life for a draught horse in 1853 is about work. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I am strong, and I am meant for these tasks. Pulling the cart through the bustling streets of Aberdeen, delivering goods and produce, is fulfilling, knowing that my strength and stamina contribute to the very lifeblood of this city. I love the gentle jostling of the cart on cobbled streets, the friendly shouts of the hawkers and merchants, the bustling crowds and the vibrant energy of city life.
There are moments of respite, of course. Our stablemaster, old MacDougal, a gruff but kindly man with hands roughened by years of labor, often grants us the privilege of grazing in a meadow by the Dee river. We are allowed to frolic and roll in the grass, indulge in the sweet symphony of buzzing bees and the symphony of birdsong in the trees. Sometimes, under the watchful gaze of a few geese, I even dip my muzzle in the cool, flowing waters of the Dee, tasting its fresh, sweet kiss.
But, there is a buzz of excitement, even in Hayfield, about a different kind of work. The "railway fever," as it is being called, has finally reached Aberdeen.
You see, it all started with those “iron horses,” as they called them, chugging along those black tracks across England. This incredible sight, these great iron beasts puffing out clouds of smoke, has spread its way through Scotland. They say it will bring wealth and trade, and even more change than we’ve seen with these steam engines they keep introducing to all our tasks.
For the most part, people around here are both frightened and excited by these new machines. But my mind can’t quite grasp this concept, nor this iron horse! It makes my heart pound just to hear its roar, this sound of progress so different from the gentle clip-clop of our hooves on cobbled streets. Some of my fellow horses say they will be the end of our trade. Others, well, they're eager for a break, for an end to this endless tug and pull.
Still, I do not believe that these iron beasts will replace us completely. There are tasks a horse can do better than any machine, I'm sure. I am, after all, not simply a strong beast of burden. I am Emma. I have spirit, a connection with the earth, and the keen intelligence that allows me to anticipate and respond to the changing landscape around me, the demands of my tasks, and even the unspoken feelings of my fellow horses. And though I am proud of the part I play in the life of this town, I still find myself longing for a freedom I have only glimpsed in the tales whispered by the old horses in our stable.
There is an air of change here, in our humble Hayfield, as well. You might find it surprising to know that a group of local ladies has started a club - a Riding Club, they call it. It seems they have decided that women too, can take up the joys of horsemanship. A few weeks ago, I even caught a glimpse of a young woman with her chestnut mare, racing down the road, her bright blue riding habit and laughing face filled with sheer joy.
And, just yesterday, Mr. McGregor, the butcher from the town, rode by with his new mare, a bay mare with an elegant gait, she looked a vision with her shining coat and fancy bridle! It seems even the humblest tradesmen are caught up in this “horse craze.” People seem to desire different breeds, lighter, quicker steeds.
While I myself am a simple draught horse, this does make me wonder. Do all horses dream of such glory, or does this hunger for racing, for the wind in our mane, lie dormant in all of us? I still see, as I do every morning, those young lads, the lads with eyes bright with the spark of dreams, watching us draught horses from afar, wistful gazes on their faces. These boys will someday own a horse of their own. Perhaps, it will be a swift, fiery thoroughbred for chasing fox, a sleek greyhunter, or even one of those dashing "war horses" so prized in the stories that old McDougal used to tell us, under the watchful gaze of the silver moon.
Some say these fine-bred animals can barely endure the rigors of daily tasks, while I can pull the heaviest carts. I wonder, however, if the dreams of these lads - for swift, daring steeds - aren’t mirrored in the yearning I feel, not for the cart and the grueling pull, but for a dash, for a flight through the green meadows and sun-kissed plains, just for the pleasure of the journey. Perhaps that yearning lives within each of us, beneath the work and the routine, the dream of a life beyond this cart and the cobbled streets.
Today, however, my thoughts will focus on the journey before me. I must make haste for the market in Aberdeen. A fresh cartload of potatoes awaits, and a cart of flour needs delivery to the local bakery. These are the duties of a hardworking, reliable draught horse, and even the humblest task, contributes to the vibrant pulse of our community. I may dream of flight, of the open plains and the winds in my mane, but today I am a loyal, hard-working part of Hayfield. My heart knows the rhythmic thrum of the daily routines. I am content in this quiet beauty. For now.
Until next time, dear readers,
Emma.
