Greetings fellow equines and lovers of the horse! My name is Emma, and I am a proud grey draught mare with a white mane and tail. I hail from a quaint little village called Hayfield, nestled amongst the rolling hills of Aberdeenshire in bonnie Scotland.
It is now the tail-end of 1883, and as we head into the winter, my thoughts are filled with memories of this most extraordinary year. I am reaching the peak of my strength, now at the grand old age of twenty, and though my coat may have a few more white hairs, my spirit remains as young and energetic as the day I was born. This year, in particular, has seen so much change in the world of horses, and I can't wait to share it with you all.
Let us rewind the calendar…
January: It was a time of crisp, icy mornings, the ground white with frost, and the air a stinging chill. My work, like most other draughties in these parts, was heavy - hauling cartloads of coal to keep the town warm and pulling the plough as the farmers began the spring preparations. My hooves had never felt more strong and sure, my muscles powerful and primed for the year ahead. But despite the cold, there was a thrill in the air, the promise of a new year just starting, a fresh start for all.
February: The snow gave way to rain, the earth beginning to thaw, and a fresh energy spread across the countryside. The whiff of spring was in the air, and my owner, Thomas, began taking me on long rides through the hills. It was on one of these trips that I noticed something rather strange: A new sound echoed through the valley – the chugging of a strange iron beast, spitting smoke and leaving a trail of dust in its wake. A rumour circulated – “The railway”, they called it, this iron horse. Though some folk whispered about the end of horse-drawn carriages, others remained steadfast, clinging to tradition.
March: We were getting into the thick of things. Days were getting longer, sunrays stronger, and we all felt a lift in our spirits. Work on the farm was in full swing, the fields teeming with activity. The familiar scent of turned earth and manure filled the air, as my brothers and I worked diligently, our muscles straining under the weight of our burdens. The railway rumours were growing, and every day there were stories about its rapid expansion. A horse drawn cart might not have to haul heavy coal from afar any longer – I sensed change on the wind, and it felt exhilarating.
April: The time of new beginnings was upon us. The meadows were a carpet of green, the scent of blossoming fruit trees carried on the wind. Foals began to populate the fields, each one a little bundle of joy and energy. My own stablemate, Molly, had a handsome colt with a chestnut coat, and I spent many an hour watching him gallop and play, feeling a flicker of jealousy in my heart – I wouldn't be bringing a new life into the world, but I would help to nurture those who would! We also received the first copies of a new magazine in Hayfield, "The Equestrian Gazette". It discussed all things equine, and it told of some remarkable feats.
May: The skies were filled with birdsong and the meadows vibrated with buzzing insects. It was the time for fairs and festivities, the horse at the centre of it all. I, along with many other steeds from the village, went to the Aberdeen Highland Gathering. There was such an exciting atmosphere: crowds of people, vibrant colours, and the rhythmic strains of bagpipes filling the air. But amongst all the festive gaiety, there was a feeling of urgency, a sense of competition. As a draught horse, I didn't take part in the show jumping or racing competitions, but I felt the tension, the drive for excellence, the desire to prove themselves as the best. We had to remain strong. In those moments, I felt like part of something bigger, a powerful force, and that was reassuring.
June: The smell of summer hung heavy in the air, as we laboured through the long hot days. The meadows were lush and green, and the hay harvest was a busy, tiring time for all. I often longed for those moments of peace, when I would just graze in the meadow under the golden rays of the summer sun.
July: The long summer evenings, filled with the music of crickets and the distant calls of owls, brought an air of contentment. Farmers continued to gather the hay harvest, and we often took breaks in the cool shade of the large oak trees in the fields. It was a time for reflection and shared stories amongst the horses, stories of the days gone by and what we thought the future would hold.
August: As the harvest reached its peak, the pace of work intensified. Our days were long and hard, but it was a time of fellowship, and there was satisfaction in a job well done. As a draught horse, my value was measured by my strength and endurance, my ability to work diligently through heat, mud, or cold. My owners often joked, "As sturdy as an old grey mare, Emma!"
September: A slight chill entered the air as autumn began to turn the meadows a fiery orange and yellow. The first sign of harvest finished and new lambs starting to be born meant time to give the young horses training. Our tasks were less demanding, as farmers tended to the livestock, getting them ready for the coming winter.
October: The colours of the leaves intensified, turning crimson, scarlet, and gold. As a draught horse, my time spent on hauling produce to the local markets increased. We'd pull wagons filled with pumpkins and apples, turnips and parsnips, a colourful display of bounty and life, destined for tables in Hayfield and beyond.
November: As the first snow began to fall, a sense of preparation for winter set in. The world was painted in muted tones of grey and white. Our work became centred on the delivery of fuel, cartloads of logs and coal to keep homes warm and fires blazing. We also helped gather hay and straw to store for the lean months ahead.
December: The shortest day was upon us, with the sun struggling to make its presence felt through the greyness. But with winter came a feeling of cosy contentment. We were in our stables, the smell of fresh hay filling the air. A warm glow filled me - the warm contentment of a job well done. I stood and watched as the first snowflakes descended upon the village, coating the landscape in a beautiful, pristine white. The warmth of the stables, the sounds of hooves on the wooden floor, the gentle whinnies – they brought a quiet joy.
As the end of 1883 drew to a close, my thoughts turned towards the year ahead. A year of change, perhaps. The railway was already beginning to weave its way through the hills, bringing a sense of speed and progress. What would that mean for us? For now, I took comfort in the routine, the warmth of my stable, and the quiet companionship of the other horses in Hayfield.
The year 1883: a year of hard work, but also of hope. A year of change, a year of possibility. A year that was, for me, a reminder of the enduring power of horses in a world where the wind of change is always blowing, bringing us a future that's as unpredictable as it is exciting!
Do share your own 1883 memories in the comments below - perhaps you met a grey mare with a white tail?!
Emma
www.equiworld.org
