My name is Emma, and I'm a grey draught mare with a flowing white mane and tail, living in the beautiful, rolling hills of Hayfield, near Aberdeen. You could say I'm a horse of experience. You see, I was born back in 1852, a year after Queen Victoria took the throne and folks still rode by horse and cart! Can you believe it, dear reader?
Anyway, this here blog is about life as a working horse, and especially about what happened in the year 1872. So buckle up and get comfy, dear readers. The year 1872 is quite the tale to tell!
Let me tell you, this was a busy year. Even for a hardworking mare like me. My owner, Mr. Gordon, a kindly gentleman with eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, had been expecting a new foal. His daughter, Maggie, was practically bouncing with excitement. They’d named the foal Angus. Now, Angus was a big lad, a fine, strong black stallion. Maggie adored him, grooming his coat with a special red brush and treating him with sugary treats from her own hands. Angus learned to nuzzle Maggie's arm as he would take the treats, showing that deep bond that only forms between a young horse and the person that raised him.
Now, back to 1872. The first whispers of change had been fluttering around since the beginning of the year. All the talk in Hayfield, in the stables and over steaming bowls of oat porridge, had centred around the new breed of horses. The “American Thoroughbreds”. It seemed folks had started crossing these elegant, swift horses with their own breed of draught horses, in search of stronger, speedier animals for their farming work. And my, it had caught the eye of every farmer and stablehand in our county.
My life wasn’t the flashiest or the most exciting. No, I was a solid draught horse, sturdy and strong, meant for hard work and the reliable, steady pulling of the plough and wagon. I pulled a large, lumbering cart laden with sacks of grain to the nearby mill, each journey a testament to my strength and endurance. There was a sense of peace, a rhythmic calm in the steady rhythm of my hooves on the cobblestone streets, the heavy cart rolling behind me like a companion. But in my heart, I couldn't help but listen, couldn’t help but yearn for a dash of that American thoroughbred spirit, for a flicker of excitement in the midst of my reliable routine.
This yearning was compounded by the new, stylish American saddle. Maggie, always eager for news of the world outside Hayfield, shared snippets from the London Gazette. It detailed the American Thoroughbred's rise to fame in horse racing, claiming that their speed and elegance had captivated all of London's High Society. It was the ‘fastest and finest’ breed of horses. Now, even the Scottish aristocracy was falling head over hooves for this American horse craze.
But here in Hayfield, where life was about the sturdy rhythm of a draught horse pulling a laden cart, we mostly only talked about the practical aspects of the Thoroughbred. How its crossbreed with draught horses would create faster plough horses, able to cover more ground in less time, making work for us draught horses a tad less strenuous. And even as I felt a surge of excitement with these rumours, I knew it was just rumour. Nothing to be upset over.
Come the summer of 1872, we received visitors at the stables: a couple from Edinburgh. Maggie had told me that these gentlemen had come to Hayfield to witness the local workhorses. They, too, were part of this American horse craze. I had never seen such fancy coats and such tall, stylish hats on any horse owner before! They talked about speed and about “bred-for-show horses.” Even the gentleman with the tall hat took a shining to Angus.
“Such a fine, solid specimen, this black stallion! Such excellent muscle and strength,” the gentleman had proclaimed.
Now, Maggie, in her eagerness to be helpful and her love for Angus, had tried to teach him to prance a little and do some showy gallops, to show them how handsome and elegant he was. But Angus, like a true Hayfield horse, had remained calm, steadily tugging at a sturdy post, the new breed's ‘flashiness’ clearly not his style at all. The gentlemen had a right chuckle about that, and even I, as a mature grey mare, had felt a slight twitch of my muzzle in amusement.
This was all so new, all so different! This new American Thoroughbred was the topic of the year, from the London newspapers to the chats between stablehands. We knew then, that this was something that would change life in Hayfield forever, even for a solid workhorse like myself. It wasn't just the horse's breeding or speed that was causing a stir. No, it was how these horses were presented, the importance that was placed on their looks and their speed.
Even with a little flutter in my heart, I knew my place in this changing world. As a hardworking, steady draught horse, my life wasn’t about showy tricks, and it was far removed from the racetrack. No, I continued to perform my duties. And in a world that was getting ever faster and more complicated, it brought me a sense of purpose and grounding. But I wouldn't be lying if I told you that now, as a horse in the autumn of 1872, a tinge of the American thoroughbred's energy, a hint of that dashing showmanship, had settled into my heart, adding a spark of change to the rhythmic beat of my hooves.
Well, readers, that’s all from Emma today! Remember to visit Equiworld.org for more equine adventures and for blog updates from myself and other equine writers from all across the world. Now, off to enjoy a well-earned breakfast of oats and hay!
