Neigh-sayers would tell you that life for a draught horse in 1890 was all toil and trouble, but they simply wouldn't understand. For me, Emma, a grey mare with a flowing mane as white as freshly-fallen snow, the world was a breathtaking tapestry of colours and textures. Born in the lovely green valley of Hayfield near Aberdeen, the smell of crisp air, heather, and the faint scent of peat smoke from the village were as familiar to me as a warm blanket on a chilly night.
Our World: It was a world of rhythm, the rhythmic clop of hooves on cobbled streets, the steady creak of a cart laden with supplies, and the gentle whoosh of a harness being fastened. Every day was an adventure, even though I was firmly rooted in the working class of horses. We, the Draught horses, were the backbone of transport, the tireless workhorses pulling carts laden with coal, stone, timber, and the goods that kept the nation going.
The Arrival of Steel: It's hard not to acknowledge the ominous rumble in the distance. The whispers among the older horses spoke of a new creature, a metal monster called "the locomotive" that ate fire and carried men and goods at breakneck speed. They called it "the Iron Horse", and I must admit, I couldn't shake off the feeling that this metal beast might one day steal our livelihood.
The Showring: Even with the arrival of the iron horse, 1890 was still a time when the grand shows showcased our strength and elegance. The grand Agricultural Shows and horse fairs across the country, filled with magnificent steeds and proud owners, held a special place in my heart. My own breeder, Mr. Campbell, a man whose face held lines as deep as the furrow in a field, always swore by the value of good breeding.
I Remember: It was at one of these grand shows in 1890, at the Aberdeenshire Agricultural Show in the quaint town of Turriff, that I felt a surge of pride for our kind. We, the draught horses, were not just strong; we were elegant. I can still remember the rhythmic music, the clapping of spectators, and the glimmer of sunlight on the gleaming brasses and silver ornaments that adorned the show-carts. The aroma of leather and straw lingered in the air, a testament to the elegance and refinement of our world.
But it was not all ribbons and fanfare. The showring was also a place where farmers and businessmen scouted for good horses, like me. That is how I met the kindly farmer, Mr. Barclay. He ran a thriving farm on the outskirts of Hayfield, known for its excellent barley crop and prize-winning sheep.
Work is my Delight: He took me home with him, and I became his faithful steed. My days were filled with a satisfying sense of purpose. From pulling the plough across the vast fields of golden barley to transporting crates of produce to the bustling marketplace in Aberdeen, I found joy in every task. My world was a mix of the smells of fresh earth, hay, and the salt spray of the sea from the nearby harbor. It was an honest life, and I was a hard-working horse.
I Remember... one particular autumn morning in 1890 when Mr. Barclay decided to take me on a grand journey. We were bound for the Aberdeen docks, to assist in hauling a giant ship's anchor. As the cold, damp air filled my nostrils, the saltiness on my coat and the powerful smell of brine filled my lungs, I realized how connected I was to my world. This, after all, was where ships were loaded, a symphony of cranes and sails, of movement and change.
Beyond our farm, I met other horses of my kind – sturdy Clydesdales and hardy shires. We shared stories, from the latest gossip from the market square to whispers of change in the world around us. We joked about the funny things men did – how they would yell and whistle and pat their bellies to urge us on, while we silently carried on with our work.
I Am Emma: The years passed, and as the years flew by, I learned what it meant to be Emma, the draught horse. I knew that my strength wasn’t just measured in pounds or tonnes, but in the unsung work that built bridges, carried crops, and helped my human community. The Iron Horse may have roared, but I, a horse made of flesh and blood, still toiled with quiet strength. This, my dear Equiworld readers, is the heart of a horse in 1890.
