When I moved from industrial Sheffield to leafy Nottingham, the legendary town of my childhood books about Robin Hood, I was ecstatic. I would have blue skies, green trees and birdsong, instead of chimney stacks. My new husband and I had bought a sunlit, red brick house with a timeless air that had walnut trees, a moss-topped pond and barely tended orchards behind. And with it, the promise of living our own Robin Hood romance.
A few summers on, I found myself in the last stages of a pregnancy that had rendered me so vast that nothing other than reading and dreaming in the shade of our walnut grove was possible. The intervening years had been packed with weddings and work, but here, at last, was the chance to revisit Robin’s world. In our creaky wooden swing by the centuries-old wall that separates our garden from the wilderness beyond, I read of his return from the Crusades to find himself stripped of title and estate. Forced to take refuge in Sherwood Forest, not many miles from our home, he forged a band of determined outlaws into a fighting unit that could counter the might of the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham.I decided to visit the many fascinating spots connected with Robin the minute my little bundle arrived.
But Blighty locales linked to Robin are legion, because he wasn’t just one man. History is full of men coming out of nowhere to lead armies of ordinary folk against their oppressors. The Robin we know is a masterful amalgamation of all of them. Thousands of years apart, he surfaced in places as distant as Berkshire in the South and York in the north. Yorkshire has strong claims to this most enduring of English heroes. But the earliest ballads, dating back to the 15th century, place him firmly in Sherwood Forest in Nottingham, and it is here we now feel his spirited presence.
Sherwood Forest once covered most of middle England; today, it’sjust over a thousand acres, but still serenely beautiful. Deep in these woods stands the Major Oak. Legend has it that Robin hid from the Sheriff’s men in the inlets of this thousand year old tree. The summer we went looking for it, with not one but two toddlers, we found it down a dappled walk flanked by towering trees. It looked every bit the elder statesman, its leafy mane nodding gently in the sun, its potentate-stout trunk deeply gnarled with age. Intrigued by the elaborate scaffolding encircling it and the mysterious recesses that Robin must have used to elude his enemies, the toddlers disappeared down an egress like the White Rabbit. Squeezing my much reduced form into an opening, I followed their giggles to find my little wood sprites comfortably ensconced in a hollow.BeforeRobin could draft them into his merry band, I lured them out with the promise of a scrumptious picnic.
Smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches washed down with ginger beer later, we strolled to charming Edwinstowe in whose 12th century church Robin had married valiant Maid Marian. The pretty, Norman church of St. Mary’s had a shuttered look that bright summer’s day, as if shielding its glorious past from the marauding sun. Swinging the heavy wooden door open, we wandered down the aisle like Marian and Robin, sat in the pews and breathed in the otherworldly atmosphere, lighting a candle to their enduring love as we left.
Stopping on the way home for aromatic cheese, chunky steaks and fresh strawberries from the busy farmers’ market in Old Market Square, we were reminded that Robin is omnipresent in Nottingham. Next to the square are the Galleries of Justice from which Robin escaped the Sheriff’s noose for the umpteenth time. On the brooding hill overlooking it is Nottingham Castle, once the Sheriff’s fortified residence. The squat Victorian museum built on the ruins of the demolished castle has retained that watchful air. More excitingly, alongside the continuing municipal role of the Sheriff of Nottingham, there is now an “official” Robin Hood, who will show you round his city, in familiar forest-green gear.
Robin lived dangerously, loved intensely and died in style. He is reputed to have breathed his last at nearby Newstead Abbey, long before the dashing Lord Byron took it over. Wounded, he was put in the care of its nuns, who poisoned him. But not till he’d shot one last signature arrow into the forest, warning his Merry Men of impending doom. This story is also ascribed to Kirklees Abbey in Yorkshire, but Newstead’s eerie splendour compels you to believe.
Today, Nottingham is imbued with Robin’s indomitable spirit. Our patch of Sherwood bursts with life and colour after every winter chill. My children grow like flowering ivy towards the sun. From my perch on our ancient wall, I see them chase butterflies and tumble over hedges. I watch with concern and then relief as they pick themselves up, laughing off little bumps and grazes. I pick up my pen and start writing. “Like Robin, I have travelled from the East, to this place of beauty, love and second chances”.
