My name is Emma, a strong, handsome grey mare with a white mane and tail like a drifting snow cloud. I live in Hayfield, a quiet little village near Aberdeen, and as I pull my weight in this bustling world, I also take some time to reflect upon it all, writing it down in my "Equine Chronicles". Today, my dear fellow equines, I wish to share with you a snippet of the past, from a year gone by - the year 1889.
As you know, times are a-changing. Gone are the days when horse power reigned supreme. Nowadays, with this “steam engine” and “electric motor” nonsense, we’re told our strength is no longer necessary. Some say these "mechanised contraptions" are the future. Personally, I’m not so sure.
I may be a horse, but I am also a witness to history, and a thinker, and while those machines might boast of speed, there is a certain magic to life with hooves on the ground. My senses are keen. The earth underfoot, the scent of the breeze, the vibrant chatter of sparrows… no contraption can ever replicate that. And there’s a certain dignity, a purposefulness, in being an integral part of a community that trusts us to pull, carry, and be the backbone of their way of life.
But I digress, this is not about comparing the old with the new, no, this is about looking back, to remember. In 1889, I was a young lass of two years old. Still gangly and playful, I was just learning the ropes, being trained by the gentle hand of my master, young George. He was a good man, kind and patient. My early training was for farm work. We plowed the fields, pulled carts, and were an inseparable pair, working side-by-side under the clear Scottish sky.
I often say 1889 was the year I really discovered what it meant to be a working horse. As a team, George and I contributed to the bustling life of Hayfield, with every day bringing new adventures. And boy, were there adventures!
There were trips to the market in the nearby town of Aberdeen. Pulling carts laden with potatoes, oats, and even sheep, my powerful legs helped bring sustenance to those less fortunate. This was one of my favourite things to do, because I always felt like a valued member of the community, taking part in an important and vital task.
There were the long treks to the hills, carrying loads of hay and supplies to the crofters, those hardy folks who live on the land. These journeys took me across breathtaking vistas. I would graze on lush green fields and drink from clear, babbling streams, a freedom only I could know.
And then there were the occasional races!
You might find it surprising, dear reader, but there were competitions for workhorses in those days too! We didn't run for miles, we pulled, competed in the skill and efficiency of ploughing, carting, and strength. My good friend, a dappled mare called Lily, and I once took first and second in a local “Carting for Speed” competition. Imagine, a prize ribbon for us! A wonderful reminder of the joy and purpose our work held.
And speaking of fun, 1889 saw something truly magical, and this isn’t just my mare’s sentimentality: The "Highland Gathering!" Oh, the grand spectacle it was. Pipers played, dancers spun, and everyone gathered for games, wrestling, and the showstopper – the "Heavy Horse Pulling Competition".
These events were a way to celebrate the strength and spirit of our breed, the draught horses. Men and women, families and farmers, they would come from miles around to admire and marvel at our power, the might of a horse pulling an astounding weight! And who should be the lucky winner of this competition, if not a certain grey mare from Hayfield, named… well, let’s just say, my spirit soared with pride.
Beyond our little world of Hayfield, the wider world of horses was evolving, changing with the times. There was much discussion about “breeds.”
You see, in 1889, there was a push for standardisation within our breed. We were classified into groups like the “Clydesdale,” the “Suffolk Punch”, and “Shires.” These classification systems, they brought order to the chaos, helped ensure that certain features and abilities were nurtured within each group. As a draught horse, this sort of standardisation seemed rather practical and, to be honest, slightly exciting. After all, every now and again, it was nice to know we weren’t just “horses,” but part of something more, something distinct, something with a proud history.
However, there were debates too, a difference of opinions, which as you know, can be a tad divisive within any community. Some believed these "classifications" would restrict us, stifle the natural diversity within our equine brethren. I found this slightly puzzling. Didn’t our individual qualities, our personality, make us special, even beyond our breed classification? My own unique experiences had made me the strong, patient, and sensible horse I was. And so, I say, classification should only enhance, not replace, our individual essence.
Of course, in 1889, it wasn't just about work. My fellow equines across the world, in cities and in rural areas, enjoyed life too! Riding, racing, pulling carts, working for the good of man - these are all things I know about. And there was more than just hard work: We were also companions, family, and even symbols of wealth. Imagine! There were "society" horses who lived a life of luxury, trained in grand riding schools, adorned in ornate saddles and bridles. A world so very different from mine, yet exciting in its own right. It made me proud to know, we horses had such a diversity in our lives, serving in countless roles.
Looking back at the year 1889, my equine heart feels a pang of nostalgia, yet there's a contentment too. A sense of being part of something larger, of having a place in the grand scheme of things. As my hooves graze over the soft Scottish moor, the crisp air sending chills down my mane, I realise: Whether it be work, leisure, or the quiet hum of rural life, each of us, each horse, brings a special essence to the world.
Remember this, dear readers, the next time you hear a snort, a neigh, or a clip-clop of hooves - take a moment, listen, and recognise the wonder that is a horse, a creature who has lived alongside man, a partner, a friend, and a crucial part of our shared story.
I hope this tale of my journey, and my world in 1889, has been engaging, heartwarming, and insightful for all you horse lovers out there!
Until next time, keep your heads held high, trot with pride, and remember – even in this ever-changing world, the magic of a horse never fades.
Your Neigh-bor,
Emma.
