Post 1939
Good day, fellow equine enthusiasts! Emma here, a proud grey draught mare from Hayfield, just outside bonnie Aberdeen. It’s a crisp morning here in Scotland, the kind that makes the air shimmer and gives you an appetite for a hearty oatcake. I thought I’d sit down with a cuppa, and reflect on this extraordinary year, 1939, for our equine brethren and sisters. A lot has happened, wouldn’t you say?
It feels like a lifetime ago, but let’s rewind just a little, shall we? In the spring, I was pulling a cart loaded with fresh-turned hay for the farmers down by the river. It was the sweetest smelling hay, with that sunny scent that always brings back memories of carefree days in the fields. I was a young filly then, still learning the ropes, but strong for my age. My big grey legs were full of the eagerness of youth, pulling the cart with a vigour that impressed even Old MacTavish, who owned me. He called me a “wee dynamo”, which tickled me pink!
Summer arrived, the fields overflowing with blooms, bees buzzing and a light, almost magical feeling hanging in the air. And then, oh my goodness, the most peculiar thing happened – something that shook the world and certainly had an impact on our equine world! War broke out, you see, the second great conflict they call it, between two massive, powerful countries across the sea.
I can still remember the hushed conversations and furrowed brows in the farmstead that week. We horses are creatures of routine, so much so that it’s always a bit of a surprise when something outside the usual breaks our rhythm. That Saturday, after a lovely roll in the meadow, Mr. MacTavish gave me an extra scoop of oats and a gentle scratch behind my ears before I was tucked into the stable. He called it “keeping spirits up.”
Life went on, in a sense. But not as it once had been. There was a strangeness, an anxiety that I felt in the air. The farm was a hub of activity – men rushing about in their khaki uniforms, preparing equipment, and the usual, calming sound of tools in the workshops was replaced with a constant drone of tractors and trucks. I caught glimpses of newspaper headlines on the kitchen table – ominous, dark tales that whispered of battles, bombing raids, and a growing sense of unease in the air.
We all knew that these times were different, but we continued our work. We ploughed the land, ensuring the nation's food supply, we hauled materials for building defence fortifications, and carried the soldiers and their supplies from one location to another.
And what of our fellow horses around the world? The news trickled in, through the farm workers’ talk. In America, they said horse shows and competitions were still flourishing, but everything seemed much quieter and muted compared to the spectacle of a year ago. They even began talking about something called “draft horse auctions”, something to do with horses being sold at a much higher price than usual – what a boon for horses who knew! In Europe, it seemed that everything was very different. We’d heard tales of the cavalry charging on horseback, the magnificent sight of horses leading the way to victory! Then there was the story of a beautiful thoroughbred that carried a soldier on the battle fields of France. We all admired his courage.
Though these stories seemed light years away, they felt vivid and real and were the talk of the farmstead at tea time. These days we didn’t have the same gleeful banter around the watering trough that we did in times of peace. We all had the sense that we had a greater duty now.
We draught horses knew we were vital to this war effort. We worked tirelessly and often felt our own fear and confusion swirling beneath our powerful, muscular forms. I recall standing in the stable one morning, the early sunlight slicing through the loft, when I felt an overwhelming feeling of gratitude, for my life and for the life that was being given to me.
The war was a grim reality, but we all had our roles to play. And for the horses, who had been so instrumental to the very progress of mankind, the demands on their strength and resilience grew greater than ever before.
We were more than mere animals now. We were a vital cog in this grand scheme, a necessary link in the chain. But at the heart of our strength, we were still horses. We loved our fields and the feeling of the wind through our manes. We loved the camaraderie and affection that bound us to our fellow horses and to the human beings that shared this planet with us.
As we stood side by side in the stables at night, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, we shared our stories. The horses from the stables near the coastal towns spoke of the deafening roars of bombs in the distance, the sight of ships being sunk at sea. They were close to the action, their lives filled with the tangible threat of the enemy. We, here in Hayfield, were away from the harrowing realities of war, yet its shadow seemed to creep into every crack of our days.
We felt a growing sense of determination, to keep the wheels of the country turning, to carry on our tasks with courage and resilience, to offer a helping hoof in a world desperate for stability and peace. For even though there was darkness in the air, we all knew that one day the dawn would come again. And the world, battered but undeterred, would be ready to emerge into the sunlight once more.
We are still strong, we are still valuable, we are still here, we are still horses, and in our hearts, there’s a spark of hope that burns brighter than any fire. And maybe that spark, that feeling of steadfast resilience in the face of turmoil, is what will lead us all to better days.
Yours always, Emma
