A Fine, Misty Morning in Hayfield
The sun was just peeping over the Cairngorm hills, casting long, pale shadows over the dew-kissed meadow. I, Emma, a sleek, grey mare with a mane and tail as white as freshly fallen snow, stretched my powerful limbs, feeling the satisfying creak of my joints as I woke. My hay-scented breath plumed into the crisp morning air, swirling around me in a cloud. I could see the gentle rise and fall of my stablemates, their heads nodding dreamily in sleep. They’re not as keen on getting up as me; some say I have more fire in my heart, perhaps because my human, young Finn, has such a zest for life. He gets me. He knows I love a good gallop in the mornings.
The scent of oatmeal porridge hung heavy in the air as Finn bustled in with a cheery greeting. My ears twitched in delight as he ran his fingers through my thick, soft mane, a smile spreading across his young face.
“Good morning, my beauty!,” he chuckled, his voice laced with warmth. “Ready for a fine day of work?”
“Neigh!” I responded, letting out a deep, happy whinny. This wasn't just work to me; it was an adventure, a dance, a symphony of muscles and motion. I loved the rhythm of our days together. He loved our routine too, the gentle repetition of caring for us and getting our work done, making him feel a vital part of something bigger than himself. He knew that when he was riding me, he wasn’t just on a horse, he was riding alongside history, on the back of a creature whose history ran deeper than anyone alive could fathom.
Finn filled my feed trough with oats and gave me fresh hay from the stables. It’s amazing how humans can transform simple oats and hay into something so delicious, especially when they use the fine Scottish honey, made from bees buzzing about the clover and lavender that dot the fields. It is certainly better than the rough oats and limited hay that many of the other working horses get. We were lucky here, near Aberdeen, in the rolling countryside, to have access to the best of the fields for feeding.
After breakfast, Finn helped me put on the beautifully polished brass-studded harness that his father, the local blacksmith, had made just for me. It felt sturdy and safe on my broad back, and it gave me a feeling of pride and importance when I caught my reflection in the shiny water trough. The harnesses were different in different parts of the land, but these ones, handcrafted in Scotland, felt truly made for my noble form. I am, after all, a Clydesdale, one of the largest breeds in the land. People always remark on the strength and magnificence of my kind, and the power and gentleness we can exude.
Once ready, we headed out, pulling a cart loaded with freshly cut peat from the bogs. This was our daily duty, supplying the local village with fuel for their fires, and this week was particularly busy, since we were heading further than usual to get more of the peat, which was quite good this year.
As we made our way towards the bog, I could feel the wind in my mane, the crisp air carrying the sweet scent of heather and damp earth. It filled my senses with joy.
Finn whistled a tune as he walked alongside, guiding me through the narrow pathways. I walked with ease, strong and steady, enjoying the rhythm of the road and the way the wheels turned on the rutted tracks.
The bogs were vast and green, dotted with small islands of black peat, which had a way of looking both soft and unforgiving. They gave off a peculiar earthy scent that made my nostrils flare slightly. We found the perfect spot, one that my father had used when he had worked with the humans before he died last year, and filled the cart with as many peat blocks as we could. Finn would always joke that this is what they called a 'peat heap'!
The work felt natural and good. I moved with ease, my hooves hardly sinking into the muddy ground. I relished the challenge of carrying the weight of the cart, knowing that my muscles were powerful and ready for anything that was required of them.
After filling the cart, we headed back to the village. The air was buzzing with activity. I recognised the scent of bread baking, the faint tang of blacksmith smoke from the forge and the sweeter scent of cinnamon from the local bakery.
We walked down the pathway leading into the village, and stopped by the bakery. Finn lifted the peat blocks into their storage yard. This was his father's trade, but since he had died last year, the whole family had been working harder to support each other, with Finn often filling in as delivery driver.
We were both greeted by Mrs. McCloud, the baker’s wife, who always seemed to have flour on her nose and a mischievous glint in her eye. She thanked us warmly and even gave us a slice of fresh bread each, warmed and crisp, from the oven. We devoured them with satisfaction as she patted me affectionately on the neck. It tasted good after a long morning’s work.
I was tired now, the long walk and heavy load leaving a gentle ache in my legs. As we returned home, the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, turning the heather-covered hills into a masterpiece.
“You’ve worked so hard today, Emma,” Finn said gently, his voice low and soft as we approached our stables. He gave me a final stroke and patted me, then brought in some of the freshest hay for me, along with a juicy carrot. He left me to relax in the stable as the evening settled, and I munched on the treat contentedly.
As the shadows lengthened, the moon became more pronounced, silvering the rolling countryside around our little homestead. I listened to the night sounds of the countryside – the call of a distant owl, the whisper of wind in the trees, and the gentle sighs of my fellow horses in the stable.
My body ached from the work, but a contented warmth settled over me. This was my life, the rhythm of our days together. It was a simple life, but it was good. The work we did was hard but rewarding. And Finn and I worked together, each contributing, part of a collective of humans and animals who worked together to keep their village flourishing. We all mattered here in this beautiful place.
Life Beyond Hayfield
It wasn’t just me who was working and enjoying the simple life. All over Scotland, horses were at the heart of everything that the people were doing. Our cousins were in high demand throughout the country. They were hauling cargo in bustling ports like Edinburgh and Glasgow. They carried people on journeys, even far off to the battlefields in the South. Our sturdy breed, with their thick hooves and powerful backs, were a familiar sight in every village and every town.
But, this year, in 1129, things seemed to be changing. From what I have heard from the human travellers coming and going, there are rumblings of change throughout the kingdom. It seemed that this year, a new king had taken over in England - King Henry - who is making some very large claims over our land! I’ve even heard stories about some humans on horseback who are riding towards our country, not to admire our wild hills and valleys, but to fight. This does not bode well, not at all!
Thankfully, there’s something to help keep my human, Finn, happy and keep his thoughts away from the wars far away: the annual Highland Gathering at Braemar. It was always the best event for the humans, for them to gather from all corners of Scotland and even far away, for the horse races, the pipers playing, the haggis being tossed into the air and the dances. It’s something I was going to look forward to. It wouldn’t happen until later in the year, but Finn already looks excited.
The Legacy of Horses in History
Humans always loved to ride us, harness us and show off their skill and their courage, whether it was hunting, working on farms or fighting in battle. These things all happened for generations - even long before we started this horse history blog on www.equiworld.org.
Even today, here in 1129, I feel my powerful limbs, my broad back and my strong hooves are the things that make my heart truly sing. And it is in knowing my worth, my role, that I feel I truly know my place in the world, not only today but also as a part of our long, noble lineage, which we, horses, share.
As the moon sailed high overhead, casting its gentle light upon my stall, I snorted contentedly, feeling a deep, inner calm that came from the knowledge that we horses have long been a part of human history, working with them, sharing their journeys, their hardships, and their joys.
For we horses have always been much more than simply "the beasts of burden" for humans. We were the hearts, the courage, the powerful strength. I can see, even in my short lifespan, that this connection, between humans and horses, is something truly special and magical. And I can only hope that we can continue this magnificent journey together.
