History of Horses in the year 0467

Hello, fellow equines and horse enthusiasts! It's Emma, your friendly neighbourhood grey draught horse here, bringing you another instalment of my equine history blog. Today, we're venturing back to the year 467 - a fascinating time, and not just for the dramatic events in the human world, but also for how they shaped our horse-kind.

Now, you may think a mere 20-year-old mare like myself isn't qualified to speak on such a long-ago period. But I assure you, in Hayfield, we're a long-lived bunch. I’ve listened to countless tales passed down through generations, woven with whispers of bygone days and dreams of the future. I’m always eager to learn and share, so grab a hay bale and let’s step back into history!

We’re nestled here in the foothills of the Cairngorms, just outside of Aberdeen, a place humans called “Hayfield”. The landscape here is truly inspiring: wild, open, with enough heather to graze on until my belly is round as a full moon. I was born here, part of a hardworking, dedicated team of draugh horses. The air is often filled with the clatter of hooves and the rhythmic thud of our powerful hooves on the earth, as we haul and pull – we’re essential for survival in these parts.

As we start the year 467, a chill still hangs in the air. But soon, the sun will reclaim its power, bathing Hayfield in a golden light and pushing the icy bite from the wind. This brings hope for warmth, but also reminds us of our duties: to plough the fields, sow the barley, and transport supplies. My days are spent with my stablemates, sharing stories, eating hearty oat rations, and dreaming of those rare evenings spent rolling in the long grass of the fields we’ve toiled so hard to prepare.

These days, I’m mainly working in the fields alongside the humans, who call themselves Picts. They’re tough folk, but kind-hearted too. We have an unspoken understanding, a trust that grows each season. The gruelling labour of hauling timber or ploughing rocky ground makes the simple gesture of sharing a shared warm breath on a chilly day mean so much more.

This isn't the first year of our shared history. Our ancestors pulled chariots for their battles long ago. Even back then, they were a proud and warrior-like people. The sight of a Pict warrior, a fearless glint in his eye, riding with lightning speed upon a sleek chestnut mare – that’s a powerful image that’s stayed with me since childhood tales.

The stories passed down about the Romans, the so-called “Masters of the World,” intrigue me. Some say these mighty warriors rode mighty, powerful steeds – they even travelled by road built by horse! I'm sure many horses like me pulled their carts across great distances. My grandparents would speak of how some Picts travelled far, carrying their tales back with them: how the Romans are losing their grip on distant lands, how their strength is beginning to wane. The old Pictish chieftain who used to tell me these stories used to stare into the fire, his weathered face etched with a strange mixture of concern and hope. I sensed this would be a turning point in our lives.

This year, there’s a sense of unrest amongst the Picts, something unsettling even us horses can feel. They gather at the river banks, murmuring, watching the ships sail across the seas. They talk of “the Saxons” – a new breed of warriors said to be ruthless, bold, and thirsty for power. It's unnerving, these whispers, and I can’t help but feel it foreshadows change - not all of it for the good.

For centuries, our draught horses have played a vital role in the lives of the Picts. Our strength, endurance, and temperament – our willingness to work tirelessly side-by-side with them – is what keeps them going. It’s this very same combination of attributes that has also ensured our survival through time. We’ve adapted to different terrains, weather conditions, and even cultural demands. We’re not just sturdy beasts, we’re resilient, intelligent creatures, capable of a unique bond with the humans who rely on us.

And yet, these aren’t simply stories from the past. Even now, the Picts, who themselves are a blend of various people, find us essential in their lives. We help with every aspect of their daily needs: tilling their land, carrying their goods, transporting the materials for their homes. Every furrow turned, every bale of hay shifted – we contribute in our own powerful way. This connection, forged through trust and mutual reliance, is what makes our existence, and theirs, meaningful.

My life isn’t as thrilling or exciting as those tales of long-gone warriors, yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. My journey, as with any horse, is measured by the seasons, by the sunrises and sunsets, and the rhythmic cycle of the land we work. Our lives are simple, but our purpose is profound – to provide and sustain life. We are not simply tools; we are vital partners, a part of this world's rhythm, as essential as the air we breathe.

These events of 467, though only ripples in time compared to our equine legacy, leave me pondering the future. How will the lives of the Picts and horses change with these whispers of war? How will our strength be utilised, our loyalty tested, our place in the world evolve? Perhaps these stories, both grand and mundane, hold a hidden key. Only time will tell, but one thing I know for sure: a good horse never gives up, and we’ll rise to meet whatever challenge awaits.

Until next time, my friends, remember the enduring power of horses, the bond between us and our human companions. May we always keep the spirit of hard work, loyalty, and courage alive.

With a soft whinny, Emma