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Hayfield, Scotland
Well, my dears, can you believe it? Another year has whisked by, like a swallow skimming the barley field. 1972! It’s a year etched in my memory for many reasons. The world outside, well, it seems to be changing, rumbling like a distant thunder storm. But here in Hayfield, nestled beneath the Scottish Highlands, life remains much the same. The sweet scent of hay in the air, the gentle murmur of the River Dee, and the rhythmic beat of the farm – all remain constant companions.
And my life, well, it’s a peaceful one. I've had the same owners, a dear family named the MacLeans, ever since I was a foal, still shaky on my legs and full of clumsy charm. And even though I'm turning twenty this year, a ripe old age for a mare like me, I still work the fields with enthusiasm. It’s not heavy work, thankfully. This is a family farm, with sheep and cows as our neighbours. But pulling the cart with Farmer Donald, carrying supplies, well, it gives me a sense of purpose. And what’s a work horse without a good sense of purpose?
This year, though, things have felt a little…different. You see, there’s a feeling of change in the air, something new on the horizon. The whisper of it reached Hayfield a few weeks ago when Farmer Donald received a letter, which sent him into a quiet frenzy. It was news of some big competition taking place across the country. A horse show, but unlike anything I’d heard of.
Now, as you all know, draught horses like me have been hauling plows and wagons for centuries, our strength and stamina unquestioned. But these competitions? They seem to be about more than just brute strength. The word is these horses need grace, beauty, and a certain…flamboyance! And I? Well, I’m as grey as a stormy sky, with a white mane and tail like snowflakes, so I don't quite fit the 'flashy' bill.
Still, it's stirred something inside me. Perhaps this ‘show’ might not just be about dazzling judges. Perhaps it's about showcasing a horse's character, a horse's ability to move with a rhythm that is as old as time itself. The very heart and soul of a horse. And that, dear reader, is a skill we draught horses have in spades!
And so, with a gentle tug at my reins, Farmer Donald brought me out of the field one morning, his voice a soft whisper against the crisp wind. “We’re going to visit the MacGregors,” he said. “They're preparing their mare, Moira, for the show. Maybe we’ll learn a thing or two.”
The MacGregors were good neighbours, a friendly bunch who lived a short distance away. Their farm was a sight to behold, with meadows like green velvet and the smell of fresh cut hay clinging to the air. But what caught my eye wasn't the farm itself, it was Moira. A beautiful bay mare, sleek and strong, with an elegant movement that made me long for pastures even greener.
And oh, my dear friends, she was prepared. The MacGregor lads were brushing her coat until it shone like polished chestnut, their hands moving with a tender touch, and there were ribbons, bright and colourful, adorning her mane. It was…spectacular!
And then came the day of the big reveal. Farmer Donald drove me with him to the village square. It was a bright, warm afternoon, filled with the chirping of birds and laughter from children playing. And there they were – dozens of horses, a symphony of colour and energy.
Each one stepped out with a grace that left me speechless. Their movement was like poetry, their hooves tapping out a rhythm that set my soul dancing. From fiery stallions with a mane of crimson, to dainty mares, white as moonlight, they showcased their spirit in a way I'd never imagined possible.
My grey, old coat felt plain, my gait a little clumsy against this dance of elegance. Yet, with every breath, a new thought stirred in me. I wasn’t meant to be flashy. I was born to pull, to carry, to work alongside my human companions, to share a bond deeper than any ribbon. This wasn’t my world, but it offered a window into a different side of being a horse, a side I hadn’t seen before.
As I watched those horses, my heart filled with wonder, but also with an odd feeling of pride. Because as they pranced and displayed their beauty, there were those, in the shadows, diligently working, quietly contributing, much like us. Horses are versatile creatures, strong and adaptable, able to adapt to every demand. And that’s something to be celebrated, even if it isn't captured on a stage.
Later that day, we returned to Hayfield, my mind alight with the echo of hoofbeats, the thrill of competition, the whispers of change. But even with the wind swirling a bit wilder around the farm, there was a peace I found nowhere else. And, despite my age, I knew my journey wasn’t over yet. There was still work to do, stories to be told.
I stood in the heart of Hayfield, beneath the whispering wind, feeling the gentle hum of the earth beneath my hooves. As the sun dipped low, bathing the hills in gold, I let my gaze drift towards the horizon. The world was changing, a slow dance of progress, yet still, in my heart, I knew that our history, the history of horses, is as old as the mountains. And I, even a humble draught mare, was a part of it, forever intertwined with the very soul of this ancient dance.
And you, my dear readers, can you feel the wind too? Do you see the change?
Until next time, may your days be filled with the sun and the sound of galloping hooves.
Emma, from Hayfield
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