"Neigh" sayeth I, my dear readers, Emma of Hayfield, here, ready to transport you to the year 894, through my eyes and hooves.
It's a beautiful spring morning in Hayfield, nestled amidst the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. The sun is already climbing high in the sky, casting long shadows over the heather-clad slopes. The air is crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the bleating of lambs mingles with the melodious chorus of the local birdsong. Life, as it is wont to do, is a joyous, buzzing thing.
As a proud 20-year-old grey mare with a mane and tail that flows like silk, life feels good. I’m a draught horse, built for strength and endurance, and as I munch contentedly on the patch of sweet, spring grass beside my stall, I am at peace. It's a good life in Hayfield. We work hard, pulling ploughs, carrying loads of barley and oat, and occasionally helping transport people to the nearby village of Aberdeen. But the work is fulfilling, especially as it is punctuated by delicious moments of lazy grazing and affectionate grooming sessions with my fellow equine friends. There’s something about a good scratch behind the ears, shared with a fellow stablemate, that fills you with a sense of warmth and kinship.
Today is a particularly exciting day. We are going to be used in the annual barley harvest. A task we all look forward to. As the human folk would say, it’s a time for ‘hard work and merrymaking’. A few extra carrots always makes the occasion more enjoyable. And there is no better time for camaraderie than when a dozen horses pull in unison, straining and pushing, feeling the weight of the barley sacks shift as they lift it, transporting it to the village for grinding and baking.
The human world is changing in ways we horses do not quite grasp, but there are glimpses of its dynamism in the life we lead. This year has seen an uptick in travel, for both goods and humans. As the Roman influence diminishes in the north of the British Isles, trade is taking on a different hue. Vikings are venturing forth from Scandinavia, sailing the seas and trading their swords and skills for honey, furs and slaves. They seem to have an appetite for horses, which in itself tells you a lot about their prowess and dedication to hard work. A Viking warband would not venture out on their raids without a fine packhorse to carry their war gear. But alas, we Highland horses remain in the safety of our beautiful highlands. Our farmers keep us for their daily grind, and we, the strong workhorses of Hayfield, feel content.
Even though the Viking influence seems like a fleeting force to the inhabitants of the British Isles at this moment, history teaches us to expect its strength in the future.
But I am not meant to look forward or back today. This year, this moment, is about reaping the barley and ensuring a good supply for the village folk during the harsher months of winter.
The sun shines upon our sweaty backs as we tug the loaded cart, pulling it along the uneven tracks towards Aberdeen. As the familiar smells of baked bread and burning wood reach our noses, the satisfaction of a job well done is strong and clear.
As I rest tonight, my muscle sore but happy, I am reminded of the inherent dignity and honour of being a workhorse.
It's an unspoken pact: we, the horses, provide our strength and unwavering will, and our human companions provide us with food and shelter, the occasional good groom and a healthy dose of care and respect. The rhythm of our work continues, the heartbeat of our society. It is a beautiful life in Hayfield.
For now, I must rest and regain my energy for another long day tomorrow. Until next time, my dearest reader, farewell and neigh sayeth I to thee.
