In Sherwood Forest
An exercise from a writing workshop.
The entrance to Sherwood Forest is through the gift shop.
As I run the gauntlet of tunics, swords, goblets, and feathered hats, Robin Hood ambushes me: “Can I interest you in an RSPB membership, sir?”. When I decline to hand over my money, he goes back to chat with Maid Marion at the till.
By the time I arrive at a tree, I have been subjected to the full ‘Robin Hood experience’–jokes, ‘fun facts,’ and film memorabilia. In the cafe, a couple warns me to “watch out for naked men” –meaning the naturists that use the quieter parts of the forest.
Pumped full of forest folklore and with a slight sense of foreboding, I set out along the ‘Greenwood Trail’ to sample ‘the place where legends grow.’
Sherwood Forest, now run by the RSPB, is smaller than I had imagined. Only 450 acres of the original 10,000 acres remain from when it was a royal hunting ground in the 10th century. A line of ancient oaks stands along the edge of the forest, looking out over the ploughed fields as if sensing how much has been lost. Their earthy scent reassures me as I am lured into the leafy depths of the forest ahead. Coming around a bend, a Kestrel takes flight, swooping through the play of light and shadow from the forest’s summer canopy.
To enter Sherwood Forest is to walk in a world of story and legend. In literature, forests are where we get lost, and anything can happen. Shakespeare writes about the Greenwood forest as a place of transformation. Merlin sends the future King Arthur into the forest, where he falls asleep and dreams himself into the lives of the animals and trees. As I walk, the forest feels fortified and secretive; I can sense that the trees commune with each other. An orange butterfly flutters in front of me. If this was a fairy tale, she might want me to follow her. I feel that at any moment, I might glimpse the green man or a naked man peering through the foliage at me.
In Sherwood Forest, all paths lead to the ‘Major Oak,’ a squat old survivor that sits in a clearing ringed by Silver Birches. This twisted pedunculate oak is between 800-1000 years old, its hollow trunk a universe of myth and legend. The branches where Robin Hood and his Merry Men once dozed are now weary and braced by nine steel struts. Beneath me, its roots pass under the couple posing for a selfie, under the father and son enjoying a mock sword fight, to the picnic benches where a party of primary school children are sketching.
I look at an old Victorian photograph printed on the shield-shaped information board. It shows a man with a white beard sitting by the Major Oak as a lady in a white dress emerges from the hollow of its trunk. A soft breeze lifts the leaves of the Silver Birches. I contemplate the procession of human history that has passed by this ancient tree.
Tired of the hubbub, I set off down an unmarked trail. With only the Oaks and Birches to keep me company, I indulge in some ‘forest bathing’– nestling against the trunk of an Oak to watch a lime green caterpillar heave itself along a branch. Although this term originated in Japan, I would wager that Sherwood Forest goers have been practicing mindfulness in nature long before it had a name. The idea of becoming immersed and cleansed by the forest appears in the Robin Hood stories, where Sherwood Forest offers an escape from the everyday and a chance to be our childhood selves.
I do not see any naked men during my walk, but it strikes me that Sherwood Forest is still a place of retreat and revelry for some, with surprises waiting in the forest for the unsuspecting traveller.
The Edwinstowe Historical Society.