Finding Sherwood

So as I was planning our itinerary I realized that in going north we would have to cross through Nottinghamshire, and in doing so would find ourselves close to Nottingham and therefore Sherwood Forest.

My senior seminar this past year was on Robin Hood and it has become a minor obsession of mine. I went to Rochester, NY for the annual Robin Hood conference and found myself, slightly disturbingly, laughing at jokes about medieval lit and Robin Hood made by Robin Hood scholars. It was a disconcerting but pleasant experience.

Aside from that, who can fail to love Robin Hood and his many incarnations? From the Disney fox to Ivanhoe’s shadowy companion, Errol Flynn to Cary Elwes. We won’t go into Russell Crowe at the moment, but only because I still haven’t seen it and could not do justice with my comments. I also choose to pass over Kevin Costner. (Feel free to ask me about that if you want to hear a rant).

Now as it turns out Sherwood is not in fact very close to Nottingham. The nearest train station is Mansfield Woodhouse, about an hour ride north-ish, and from there you have to catch a bus to Edwinstowe and the Sherwood Visitor’s Center.

So our first day of serious travel within England consisted of the train to Nottingham (fairly relaxing) and then another to Mansfield Woodhouse.

I doubt any of you will ever get to Mansfield Woodhouse.


It is a small station. No one, in fact, works there. One cannot buy tickets, obtain any information about the surrounding area, and nor, to my chagrin, could you find a convenient locker in which to leave a few large and heavy packs.

And so Chelsea and I wandered forth from this station with our packs and into the town of Mansfield Woodhouse. Which was empty. It was a Sunday. Nothing was open, and the stares from the few of the populous driving by were alarmed.

By following signs to the town center we did find a bus station, the appropriate bus, and it did show up. When we told the driver we were going to the Sherwood Forest Visitor’s Center his bemused expression changed to one of bored understanding. Of course. We were here for Robin Hood.

There are several different theories on how Robin Hood began, no one has been able to find a likely historical figure to base him on. One theory runs that he is a continuation of a pagan king of summer, a forest spirit. I did not have a particular predilection to this theory, but walking in Sherwood Forest, looking at trees too big for three people to put their arms around, at a woods that is not as vast as it was but still feels deep, I can understand that more.

It was the last day of the Robin Hood festival, and there were kids running around with miniature bows and arrows with suction cups on the tips, there were bright green hats and swordswallowers, a woman dancing to the Korobushka and an alchemist. And of course there was Robin and Tuck, John and the Sheriff.

I tried to stay out of earshot from the actors because while they looked the part, I doubt they were staying much in character. And I wanted to believe in them for a bit, to believe in Robin who walks through the forest, who blows his horn and summons the merry men, who always escapes to annoy the Sheriff one more time.

Ponderings a Month Before - 1

Part 1 - Chelsea

It occurred to me at about 1 am this morning that I am going to Europe in one month. In 37 days, I will board a flight across the Atlantic Ocean to land on a continent I've never touched before. For the next three months, I will see over 20 countries, hear over a dozen different languages - none of which I speak, and hopefully return to the states with some modicum of perspective on how truly diverse our world is.

Reality hit like a kid's forehead against a freshly windexed glass door. Hanna and I had always seen this in our respective futures. We've been talking about traveling together since High School, but it had always been a vaseline smeared haze: we will do this, but when? Two years ago we started carving out a plan. When Hanna graduated, we would go. Not in the summer - too many tourists - but if we left in August we'd still get the heat.

I told the company I worked for - over a year and a half in advance - and got it approved by my manager. Of course, he couldn't guarantee I'd have a job when I came back; that sort of permanence is rare in my industry. I didn't care; it was worth it. Everyone says "someday", but someday won't come unless you commit. If that cost a job, it cost a job.

We started to save. Three thousand, five thousand, thirteen thousand dollars in my account. Add in Hanna's six, and we had nearly a twenty thousand dollar budget for our three months in Europe. "More than enough," friends assured.

My branch was let go in February, and I faced the difficult issue of having four months before our trip and needing a job. I decided the trip was more important, and said upfront in my interviews that I had to be in Europe August, September, and October.

Zynga, crazy bastards, still hired me.

I blinked and we were buying plane tickets: August 3rd because they're cheapest on Tuesdays. Then Eurorail passes. Hostel deposits. Backpacks.

I was fitted for mine (an Osprey women's backpack with a detachable daypack) at REI by one of the nicest customer service representatives I've ever had. I'm going to try and fit three months into that pack. I ached the next day when it had 25 lbs. The representative said I should expect a fully packed version to weigh closer to 40.

(I still have to buy a netbook, camera, walking/hiking shoes, American souvenirs for thank you gifts, a nice sheet set to double as a sleeping bag, and possibly more flexible clothing. Also possibly a compass. Lord knows I'm lost as is.)