My Inner Child Takes a Hit in Sherwood Forest and Why That’s Okay

After 4th grade, I went on a family vacation out West. We traveled from La Jolla, California to Yellowstone N.P and back, traversing thousands of miles in a rented mini-van and cutting the cloth for our many travels, both collectively and individually, since that epic adventure (I’ve still never been on a road-trip of its equal).

I could write tomes about the trip but the point of reference here isn’t about attending my first rodeo in Cheyenne or being tossed out of a casino for playing the slots in Vegas. Instead, it’s about a simple afternoon matinee I watched alongside my uncle and brother. My viewing of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves that afternoon would lead to it becoming one of the most-watched movies of my life.

For a good two years after, I watched the movie regularly. One might say obsessively. It’s possible that I’ve watched it 30 to 40 times. You could call that wasted time, but I’m pleased with the way that Robin Hood’s philosophy partnered with my later studies of Buber, Kabir, Marx and Kierkegaard, developing in me a keen value of equality and restitution.

Because of the number of times I’ve seen the movie, you might not be surprised that I memorized huge chunks of the dialogue. (It could be said that RH:PoT played a seminal roll in the growth of the strange language I developed with my brother and my best friend next door. Yes, and I did just drop the acronym. No apologies.)

A few gems that still get tossed around:

“Yolk their strength.”
“Hired thugs. Brilliant.”

“We either take our chances with ghosts or become ghosts ourselves.”

“Damned English Oak.”

“Did God paint you? Why?”
“Because Allah loves wondrous variety.”

Given this history, it shocked me when one of my hosts in Sheffield suggested we take a hike in Sherwood Forest: Hood’s Hideout.

“You’re kidding,” I said, “you mean we’re close?”
“Yes. It’s only a few miles away from Sheffield. Should we go?”
"Yes. Definitely. Let’s go.”
“Cheers.”

So we set off for Sherwood Forest, my head spinning with a million images of archers and castles, robbers and strange costumes (including those from the Errol Flynn Robin Hood I watched back in the day with my grandfather). Perhaps I could even shoot a bow and arrow while I was there. Or carry a sword. Or at least dress up as a peasant outlaw. Ah, the possibilities scurried in my mind, now wonderfully engaged with my 10-year old self.

We've arrived! I stormed out of the car, charging towards the woods and into a...gift shop. Hold on a tick. Oh, how a 10-year old's dreams can come crashing down!

Alas, there’s not too much to share about modern day Sherwood Forest. It’s nice, but not notable. It’s smallish and unfortunately getting smaller. No treetop outposts. No archery contest. And definitely no actor on horseback, playing the Sheriff of Nottingham and hurling insults in a Cockney accent at tourists passing by. Hrumph.

All that said it’s an excellent thicket. And if you look right, you can see it as a den of thieves. It's packed tight with flora; brilliant with the light, fresh greens of late spring. We bumped into a French biologist who told us that it’s a wonderful forest for study as well.

We traced the path to a famous tree, legendary for its hollow girth that allegedly hid the merry men and when I tucked in with the news that Robin Hood was based off of a true character, I felt I had come full-circle.

So even though Sherwood Forest didn’t live up to my hopes of Robin Hood World, I appreciate the English touch to it. I think that if I had a handle on the place, it might be completely excellent, but a shadow of its original self. And I think that would be missing something. Actually, most everything.

Sometimes it’s just nice to see things as they are.