A Day with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest

I don’t know exactly how old I was when I read the story of Robin Hood. Eight? Ten? I don’t know if I borrowed the book from the library or if we had it on a shelf at the house. I don’t know if it was one of the books whose covers my cockatiel Angel nibbled upon as if it were birdseed when we let her out loose in the den or not. But I do know that I read it. And that I was shocked by the ending.

Spoiler alert: Robin Hood dies. Actually, he’s murdered. By his cousin. Who was a nun! What a betrayal. He’d come for help because he’d been feeling unwell and had gotten this instead from someone he’d believed he could trust. She should have been more loyal. Ah, but wasn’t she? She was loyal to King John who took the throne after his brother Richard the Lionheart died.

That’s what one version of the legend says, that she killed Robin because he wasn’t loyal to the king. Other versions say she was upset because Robin’s side of the family had inherited the land she felt was rightly due to her side of the family. Whatever her rationale was, she bled him too much when he came to receive medical treatment from her. The bleeding, in and of itself, wasn’t the problem, blood-letting was a method used by physician-priests of the time for ridding the body of ills, excess fluids (who needs their blood?), and supernatural ailments.

However, knowing exactly what she was doing, his cousin bled him thoroughly and excessively and then locked him in his room to die alone.

Before he completely expired, realizing he was in a fix, Robin Hood summoned his best friend and righthand man Little John with a signal from his horn. Upon the alarm, Little John broke into the room and saw his friend in a terminally weakened state.

Then, with his bow in hand and held up by Little John at the window, Robin gave his famous last words, “Wherever my arrow falls is where you shall lay my body for all eternity.”

He let fly his final shot and then weak from blood loss the legend died.

I was horrified.

It felt like my first introduction to death. I mean, to that death that comes even to the most legendary of figures. That death that shocks with its unexpectedness.

That couldn’t be the end.

That couldn’t be the final chapter.

It’d be a joke, another of Robin’s merry jokes.

Yet, isn’t that the lesson of this mortal life – that death is always the final chapter?

Okay.

Well, that got deep fast.

Or dark.

Maybe that’s not the lesson.

Bob Dylan said, “Just remember that death is not the end.”

So, obviously there’s more than one perspective here.

Anyway, thoughts of mortality aside, what is it exactly about the Robin Hood story that is so wonderful? For even though Robin Hood was killed in such a treacherous manner—shocking the child me—I still loved the story. I still loved the idea of the common man’s man.  

As I walk down the paths of Sherwood Forest beside the thick oaks and the tall thin birches, hawthorns, rowans, and hollies with all their leaves long ago released, I ponder the allure of the Robin Hood legend. The air has a touch of chill, but the occasional emerging of the sun takes off the worst of the winter’s edge. Matter of fact, it’s a perfect February day. I sit on a bench and look out at the trees.

Of course, Robin of Loxley was known for robbing the rich to feed the poor. And that seems noble. If you don’t think too hard about stealing. I mean, what if one of those rich had worked really hard to earn their money? What if they were going to use that money for good? What if it was a year’s worth of money that the person had saved up and was going to use to travel the world and now they had nothing because a man dressed in green took it away from them?

But that’s not what the Robin Hood legend is about. It’s not about whether Robin Hood and his Merry Band of Men were right to steal. It’s about the oppressed getting relief from the oppressors. It’s about one man standing up for the oppressed and saying, “This old way is not right. We’re not doing things this way anymore.” It’s about being able to have dinner when hungry, to have a drink to quench thirst. It’s about hope for a better future for those who struggle to survive. It’s about human rights. 

And it’s also about fun. About poking the bad guys and making them the butt of the joke. It’s about out scamming the scammers for Robin Hood robbed men who dressed up as beggars to trick those who passed by into charity. He robbed corrupt monks and abbots who stole for their own gain. He robbed the Sheriff of Nottingham of the taxes he’d collected from the already over-taxed country folks.  

The Robin Hood legend is all about the rebel with a cause. Everyone loves a proper rebel.

Well, everyone but the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Speaking of, it’s half term in Nottingham. That’s a winter school break for the kids and Sherwood Forest is teeming with families. It’s also Sunday, so the Forest is filled up with people out walking their dogs and with couples wanting some connection to nature and each other. It’s a day with glorious bits of sunshine, so here I am.

I get a cup of tea from the little kiosk trailer and sit on a bench for a while to watch the people walking by. Then after a bit, I stand up and go over to read the sign that tells about Robin Hood and Major Oak, the over 1150-year-old tree where Robin Hood and his men were reported to have hidden from his enemies, to have slept and sheltered under, and to have collected together for their forest forays. As I’m reading, a little girl standing just in front of me asks her dad, “Was Robin Hood real?”

It’s a question on the sign and I haven’t read enough myself yet to know how it’s answered.

“Of course, he was real,” the dad replies without hesitation. He doesn’t need to read. He’s sure. I listen to his tone to hear if he’s simply giving a Santa-Claus-esque assurance or if he believes that what he’s saying is true. I can’t quite tell. But the girl is satisfied. Her dad has said Robin Hood was real and that’s enough.

They walk off together and I watch them go.

After another reflective pause, I walk on in an opposite direction. I find a place away from the majority of the people and sit on another bench turning my face towards a charming collection of trees. An occasional dog comes up joyfully to greet me and I put down my hand for it to sniff as the owners labor by, calling the dog to come along with them. 

I sip my tea and think: I’m sipping tea in Sherwood Forest. Robin Hood was here. I’m sipping tea in a legendary place.

I look at the bare trees and wonder how different Sherwood Forest must look when it’s not wintertime. Did Robin and his Men have winter wear of brown? How did they stay warm during the colder months? Did they shelter inside the hollow walls of all the giant oaks? Or do legends only happen in spring, summer, and fall?

The birds call and sing. The Forest is full of life even in winter. It’s peaceful. It’s alive. It’s very alive. I could stay here sitting all day, but I have more trees to visit. So, I finish off my tea and put the empty cup in my bag. Pack out what you pack in, is my motto. I stand up and look around.

Just there, I bet, Robin Hood himself walked, and there too with Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, and Alan-a-Dale walking alongside him, because of course, he was real. And, though his death made me sad to read about, his life still gives many, including me, hope that the oppressed will one day be free from their oppression. That’s a grand hope. To be sure though, that’s what legends do. Legends give hope. Legends live on. After all, what is death anyway? Don’t the trees die in winter and then come back again full leafed in spring? That happens here with these oaks and rowans and hollies. I look around at the trees and think that Robin Hood and his Merry Men could very easily appear and surround me now, laughing, seeing what money I have on me, and taking me off for a festive dinner around a fire built somewhere in the depths of the Forest. It could easily happen. For here, off the pages of a book, here among the trees of Sherwood Forest Robin Hood lives on.

  

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