Good afternoon, my dear Equiworld readers! Emma here, a twenty-year-old grey draught mare, writing to you from the rolling hills of Hayfield near Aberdeen. Today I wanted to share with you all my thoughts on the year 1901 – a year filled with change, progress, and yes, some heart-wrenching losses, but always with the heart of the horse at its centre.
I’ve often thought that being a draught horse in the early 1900s was much like being a working-class woman – hard work, responsibility, a touch of grit, and a lot of silent fortitude. My world is mostly filled with the rhythms of the farm and the constant thrum of our lives dedicated to feeding our human companions. We, the horses, were the backbone of society, working the land, hauling goods, and moving people from place to place. I myself was a driving force in the bustling life of the market town of Aberdeen, pulling a delivery wagon for a local baker – what could be better than the scent of freshly baked bread as my morning aroma?
It's the turn of the century, and while the steam engine has started to rumble its way into our lives, it's not quite the giant leap for mankind that the inventors imagine. They don't understand that some things, like the bond between a horse and its handler, are more vital than anything metal could create. Just a glance from my master and we're already in perfect sync, his commands barely needed. The rhythmic crunch of hooves on cobblestone, the creak of the wagon – these are the lullabies of my existence.
The biggest event of 1901, for all the horse world, of course, was the passing of Queen Victoria. The beloved Monarch, who had always been so supportive of her beloved horses, died on January 22nd. The news swept across the nation like a sudden storm.
We were all affected by her passing – even here in Hayfield, there was a hushed sense of sorrow. I remember that morning, my master, a quiet, reserved man with the kindness of a summer breeze, stood outside his cottage, staring out at the rising sun with a look I'd never seen before. He stood like that, for a long time, and the quiet, a heavy weight, settled on the morning. He was a strong man, my master, yet his shoulders seemed to slump with grief.
It was only then that I understood – she wasn't just a Queen, she was a part of us.
Later that day, a group of children came running towards my stable, their eyes wide with tears. "The Queen is gone!" they cried. "She’s gone to heaven with her beloved horse!"
One child, a young lad with a freckled face and mischievous eyes, pulled out a tiny pocket knife from his pocket. "I'll make a wreath for her, a horsehair wreath! We'll honour her, she deserves it."
And I, along with the rest of the horses, stood quietly listening, hearts full of quiet respect.
Throughout the year, the news was rife with whispers of Victoria's successor – King Edward VII, his love for horses just as fierce as his late mother. Horses and the horsey life, however, remained an integral part of society. We still saw horses pulling trams and carriages, competing at grand races, carrying mail and produce, and even in police forces. The world, though modernising, was not quite ready to completely leave the horse behind.
On the other side of the globe, a whole other world of horses thrived - a world of mustangs, painted horses, and native steeds. I learned about this vibrant world through the newspapers, my master reading them out to me while he sat by the hearth with a steaming mug of tea. He'd share the stories with a gentle smile, sometimes patting my flank softly and saying, "There are horses of every colour and kind out there, Emma, all strong, all brave."
These stories inspired me - what were these horses like? What did their lives consist of? Did they work on ranches? Were they free-ranging, galloping wild through vast open landscapes? My own world, the life of a hardworking farm horse, seemed so small and ordinary compared to their grand stories.
Life wasn't all about grand tales, however. I recall the crisp winter air, the cobblestone streets, and the smell of coal smoke – this was the world I was accustomed to. I relished the crisp, cold mornings and the warmth of a well-fed tummy in the evenings. My routine was a familiar, reassuring melody - a comforting rhythm in the grand symphony of life.
Throughout the year, I witnessed many transformations – changes that would forever reshape the future. In our own small world, the first motorcars appeared, lumbering beasts with a lot of smoke and a curious sound. My master was fascinated by them, peering at them from a distance with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
I must confess, however, that I held little interest in these mechanical marvels. They felt clunky and unyielding, a clumsy imitation of our grace. Even with their smoky engines and clanging gears, they couldn’t compare to the elegant flow of a horse’s stride or the strength of a horse's muscle.
1901 saw many horse shows, races, and competitions across the nation. News arrived of the National Pony Society and its efforts to promote smaller breeds. They called these breeds 'hobby horses', a rather humorous title if you asked me. As if we were toys rather than living beings with hearts and souls. But even in our hard-working world, these "hobby horses" brought joy.
A local miller's daughter had a miniature Shetland named Pepper. Every Sunday, she’d parade Pepper around the village square, his shiny black coat glistening in the sun. He was quite the showman, a little bundle of energy, a gentle soul, loved by all. Pepper even had his own tiny saddle and bridle, handcrafted with the finest care. I was a little sceptical of Pepper's world at first, I must admit. The idea of being admired for simply existing was not part of my life. But there was a sweetness in Pepper's eyes, a genuine joy in his gait that warmed me. It made me understand that life, for a horse, could hold joy and love as well as work.
This year was also the start of the ‘Children’s Happy and Joyous Day’ movement. These days, held throughout the country, aimed at brightening the lives of children from underprivileged areas. My master, along with other local farmers, often brought their horses to participate in these celebrations. Children were invited to ride, pet, and even play with us, their eyes sparkling with excitement and glee. We would be dressed up, sporting brightly coloured ribbons and bows, the pride and joy of the day. And while some were afraid of these gentle giants, for others, the sight of a beautiful horse was a sight of awe and wonder, the memory staying with them for life.
Then there were the annual races. Races at every level, attracting every type of horse. Even our local stable was participating - we had young, energetic steeds ready to show off their speed and skill. And, to my own surprise, I found myself missing the rush of it all – the pounding heart, the feel of wind whipping past my ears. It wasn't for me anymore, a mature grey like myself, but it reminded me that the heart of a horse yearns for freedom.
While 1901 saw the world changing around me, there were also some bittersweet experiences that I wanted to share. Sadly, this was the year I lost my old stablemate, Toby. He was a wise old mare, an amazing nursemaid and always there to listen and help. She taught me a lot, Toby. How to be gentle with the young ones, how to tell a kind heart, and how to love a horse even when you’re covered in manure from head to tail! The loss of Toby was a huge blow, her empty stall, filled with the sweet, haunting memories of our shared laughter and quiet companionship. It left a void that only the wisdom of time would eventually fill.
And finally, the news, a gentle wave reaching our little world in Hayfield. News of new horses coming from the farthest corners of the earth. New breeds, horses from the exotic lands, their tales swirling in the air like dust devils in a dry desert wind. News of “The Arabian,” horses renowned for their speed and stamina, arriving from deserts far and wide. These horses, their sleek, powerful forms, with a hint of wildness in their gaze, reminded me of Pepper’s wildness. The idea of their existence was thrilling, just like their tales. I'd read about these horses with my master, his fingers running over their names in the paper. There were Appaloosas from America, Percherons from France.
I dreamt of these new horses, these stories echoing in my heart - reminding me that our world, the horse world, was far larger, more colourful, and richer than I'd ever imagined.
My story may seem quiet and ordinary. But 1901 was a year of contrasts, a year filled with progress, change, sorrow, and joy – a year that reminded us that even with a rapidly changing world, horses were still the heartbeat of it all. I was but a small part of it all, a quiet observer in this grand tapestry of existence. As the sun set over Hayfield, casting its golden glow upon the fields and hills, I would gaze at the sky, my grey coat reflecting the gentle hues of the dusk. And as the stars came out, each a silent twinkling eye in the vastness of the night, I'd feel a sense of peace and contentment. For in the world of the horses, things would continue, they would always find a way, the same as they always had – with a steadfast heart, a strong will, and the will to persevere, through it all.
I wish you all well, until next time.
Emma, The Grey Draught Horse.
