#ROBIN HOOD LEGEND OF SHERWOOD DROP ITEMS FREE#
Despite the lure of a free bus service covering the entire central city, we decided to start out afoot in the interest of digesting a heavy breakfast of kippered herring, eggs and grilled tomatoes. It was a warm day, dry and sunny, with a soft whisper of summer soon to come. Robin Hood caps, pens and pencils, beer mugs and ashtrays.įollowing my parley with the car salesman, we embarked on an informal search for the historical Robin Hood.
The gift shop in the lobby of our hotel offered an assortment of Robin Hood pennants, Robin Hood Tshirts, Robin Hood key rings. Tons of these novelties are shipped throughout the United Kingdom and beyond every year. The Robin Hood industry, though, flourishes-and there's a brisk business in everything from archery sets to Maid Marian dolls. But Nottingham is essentially industrial, with the likes of John Player cigarettes, Raleigh Bicycles, clothing, laces and pharmaceuticals, and it is currently suffering the relative hard times afflicting other English factory towns. They cite Nottingham's museums, its art gallery, its large university and frequent opera and ballet. Residents boast of ties with Lord Byron and D. Accommodations range from small inns on the edge of the city at £3 ($6) a night to big modern luxury hotels in the middle of things-the Albany, for example, where we wore a £13 ($26) hole in my American Express card. We drove the M1, a high‐speed split highway (what the British call a dual carriageway), from London 125 miles to the south, although we could also have reached Nottingham by train, bus and shuttle airline. There's a leisurely beat to the city, and its broad streets, open plazas and grassy squares make it a pleasure to walk. While it dates back to the 6th century, it has a modern coating of shopping complexes, cabarets, cinemas and two theaters. Nottingham is an industrial center of 300,000 people, a sprawling blend of now and then. Was there really sufficient evidence to convince my wife, our 7‐year‐old son, Scott, and me that the bullseye medieval archer was something more than a romantic confection? Anyone who isn't convinced he was a real live bloke has only to go through the official court roils.”Īnd thus a brief holiday itinerary was abruptly revised. Hear him: “Oh, there's little doubt the ballad‐makers magnified the original some, for the sake of dramatic unities, probably. At evening's end, he and my tape recorder were spinning still. He treated me to a colorful monologue that ran to more than two hours by the clock on the far wall. I could talk Robin Hood up to closing time.” Like practically every other resident of Nottingham I encountered during the next few days, my neighbor-a local car salesman-was a potluck authority on Robin Hood.
“Robin Hood?” The moon‐faced occupant of an adjoining stool at the Coach and Horses pub in Nottingham considered my question.
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