A Hayfield Viewpoint: Emma’s Chronicle of 1953
Good afternoon, fellow equestrians! Emma here, your trusty correspondent from the rolling hills of Hayfield near Aberdeen, Scotland. This blog is my attempt to capture the spirit of the horse world in this momentous year of 1953. The Queen, God bless her, was crowned just a few short months ago, and all across the nation there’s a sense of hope and promise – a new dawn for our beloved Britain.
For horses like me, however, 1953 continues the steady, reliable path laid out in the decades leading up to it. The mechanisation of agriculture has brought about many changes, yes, but the bond between humans and horses is stronger than ever, built upon centuries of trust and companionship.
The year began with a gentle, breezy chill that set the heather aglow. I was five years old, a full-grown grey draught mare, with a white mane and tail that shone like freshly-fallen snow under the morning sun. I’d been working on the farm since I was a foal, assisting with all sorts of tasks: pulling the plough, carrying hay bales, transporting timber. I can tell you, nothing beats the feeling of powerful muscles flexing and straining as you pull a laden cart through a muddy field.
1953 is also a year of transition. The first petrol-powered tractors are starting to make their mark on farms like mine. They are strong, quick, and can cover much ground in a day, but their cold, metallic presence still hasn’t replaced the soulful gaze of a good draught horse. My humans know that a horse like me understands their moods, reads their intentions. And in times of quiet contemplation, what beats a walk alongside a steadfast companion like me?
In January, news travels across the farm, crackling through the air with the excitement of the upcoming season. The Royal Highland Show is set to take place in Edinburgh! Every horse and pony owner in the district dreams of exhibiting their prized steeds there. My owner, a stout man called Angus, tells me about the Show in a low, reverent tone. “Aye, Emma, it’s a grand event! A showcase of our best work. They'll have horses from all across the country – shire horses, Clydesdales, Shetlands, even the new breed they call the Suffolk Punch."
As we talk, he strokes my mane gently. “You’ll be ready for the ploughing match, girl,” he assures me. “A grand opportunity to prove your worth!” He mentions that I should practice my trotting paces, making sure I keep a steady and measured stride. "Pride, girl, pride!" he adds, winking playfully.
Throughout the month of February, Angus grooms me with the utmost care. The winter coat I’d grown has a certain rough-and-ready texture, but under Angus’ skilled hands, I soon shine like a silvery mirror. Every morning, he rubs in a specially made polish to make my mane and tail flow with a smooth silkiness. He even feeds me an extra scoop of oats to give me extra strength and energy.
Angus' excitement grows each day as the Show approaches. He keeps me entertained with stories of past triumphs at the Royal Highland. I’m starting to get the picture, my mind picturing throngs of people admiring my kind.
When March arrives, we pack the horse box and leave Hayfield in the early morning. The crisp air carries the promise of a new day as we drive towards Edinburgh, leaving behind the familiar sights of Hayfield: the rolling fields, the sturdy stone houses, the sheepdogs nipping at my heels during my morning gallops.
Edinburgh itself feels like a city out of a fairytale. Buildings are tall and grand, streets cobbled with uneven stones that click-clack under the horse-drawn carriages. The smell of smoke, peat, and fresh bread drifts through the air, filling my nostrils with its warm embrace.
We find our space in the vast field where the Show will take place, an area dedicated to horses like me. I’m surrounded by fellow draughthorses, all strong, dignified creatures, some bearing the proud insignia of local farmers, some draped with intricate harness. We nuzzle and share snorts, welcoming each other into this unique environment of kinship.
The Show is truly an extravaganza! There are horses of every size, breed, and purpose – magnificent Clydesdales, graceful riding horses, miniature ponies that fit in the palm of a child's hand. All day long, a constant rhythm of hoofbeats thunders over the ground, as teams pull carriages, jump over obstacles, or parade through the arena for judging. I feel a wave of pride sweep over me. There are no more magnificent creatures in this world, I tell myself, than the noble horse.
One particularly memorable event at the Show involves a legendary racing horse named ‘Big Jim’, a thoroughbred whose speed is legendary. Angus watches as he effortlessly crosses the finish line, a blur of muscle and spirit. He says in a reverent tone, "Now, there’s a horse! Pure speed and power!"
It is an eventful week at the Royal Highland, filled with the sights and smells of hay, leather, and horseflesh. My turn at the ploughing match arrives on Friday. Angus leads me to the allotted area, a vast field freshly turned and ready for competition. He pats my flank, giving me words of encouragement: "Show them your best, girl! You can do this!"
And I do. With every pull of the plough, I dig deep, pushing my strength to its limit. My muscles bulge with exertion, a symphony of raw power. The earth turns, releasing the scent of fresh soil and a deep, earthy aroma. I can sense Angus' pride growing with every furrow. We may not be the fastest, we may not be the flashiest, but we are a symbol of the farm's success. We are the heart and soul of the land.
Later that day, the judges declare the results. It isn't the grand victory I had hoped for, but the applause I receive from the crowd makes up for any disappointment. Angus' smile as he gives me a celebratory scratch on the nose tells me more than any award ever could. "Well done, my girl," he says, a lump forming in his throat. "A fine performance, even for a horse as special as you."
As 1953 progresses, the horse-drawn carts we use to bring our harvested hay to the threshing floor seem to become even more valuable. They are steady and reliable, especially with the erratic weather conditions. The smell of hay and barley fills the air as I help load and unload the cart, hauling it over bumpy fields and through quiet lanes.
In June, a young farmer from a nearby village asks for my hand – figuratively speaking, of course. My owner, who's always believed I'd make an exceptional broodmare, agrees with a twinkle in his eye.
Come September, my foal is born. A beautiful filly, with the same elegant white mane and tail as me. Angus names her “Heather.” I am overwhelmed with the joy of motherhood, teaching her the ropes of life on the farm – from gentle nibbling at the lush meadow grasses to the proper way to pull a cart laden with hay. She becomes my constant shadow, my pride and joy, the continuation of a legacy older than time itself.
With autumn in full swing, I begin training Heather to help her with her work. We stand together, proud and confident, our two white manes a beacon of purity and strength. As I work the land, Heather by my side, I realize that 1953 has been a year of extraordinary beauty and purpose. A year that reinforces our ancient bond with humanity, the symbiotic partnership that's woven into the fabric of life itself.
The seasons change and winter sets in. Heather grows into a beautiful mare, full of potential, just as Angus had foreseen. We spend our days together, my strong hooves forging the path, her youthful energy keeping us moving. The horses of Hayfield will continue their work as the centuries roll by, always the reliable backbone of our nation.
With my foal growing into a mature mare and my life as a farm horse reaching its peak, I have time to reflect upon this incredible journey we horses have had with humanity. We were the chariots that took our ancestors to war. We pulled their ploughs, brought them home from journeys, carried their burdens. And as I watch the sunset glow across the farm, bathing everything in its golden light, I can’t help but feel a wave of contentment.
As the first snowfall blankets the countryside in a silent embrace, I know that we are the heart and soul of the land, even as we witness a shift in the way humans work and travel. It's a time of exciting change for horses, and I, for one, am thrilled to be part of this story – a tale woven with resilience, love, and a connection that stretches back to the dawn of time.
Until next time,
Emma
www.equiworld.org
