All for the Robin Hood Tree

We knew it was the Robin Hood tree as soon as we saw it! There it was: standing in all its glory next to the historical aura of Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland. But Yvonne just didn’t believe us … so, in fact, she was the cause of all the trouble that was soon to follow.

What Robin Hood tree you may ask? If you have never watched a gloriously evil Alan Rickman and a gloriously valiant Kevin Costner battle it out in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, do yourself a favour and watch it. If you have had the privilege, then cast your mind back to the beginning of the film when Robin of Locksley (Kevin Costner) and his friend Azeem (Morgan Freeman) have escaped captivity and arrived back in England after fighting in the Crusades. As Mr Hood and his new friend cross over Locksley land, they encounter a boy in a tree (the tree) who is trying to save himself from the Sheriff of Nottingham’s (Alan Rickman) bloodthirsty troops and dogs. There is an old wall in the scene (Hadrian’s wall) that Robin Hood skips down as Azeem kneels to pray and … blah blah blah … watch the film.

Back to the story: Yvonne did not believe that the tree we encountered on our adventure at Hadrian’s wall was the Robin Hood tree. But (haha haha) she was proved oh so wrong after hearing a plethora of excited comments from fellow adventurers trekking along the wall. The final nail was bashed into the coffin when a sweet old tour guide on our bus trip home stated “And I am sure I do not need to inform you about the famous tree on your right” – clearly poor Yvonne needed some informing, which Warren and I had given her most magnanimously.

A couple of days later we decided to walk back to the tree so that Yvonne could share in the poignancy of visiting so worthy a landmark. Having spent a lovely day purchasing Scottish Clan paraphernalia from the tartan shop in Gretna Green, we were far too lazy to walk up the hilly landscape to get to the tree, so, first mistake: we took a short cut along a path winding along the hillside. But poor, poor Yvonne is afraid of heights and so, second mistake: I suggested that we should perhaps cross the field at the bottom of the hill and walk on some low-lying land. Yvonne beamed an emphatic yes, so down we went. Warren, the leader of the pack, was most perturbed upon arriving at the bottom of the hill to discover that the field we so desired to cross was, in fact, a muddy marsh. Third mistake: I did not believe him – until the kid on the other side of the marshy field tried to cross, and half way through, like a surge of electricity, shot up in the air and fled back to the safety of yonder dry land. So we carried on walking along the side of the mountain, only to discover what looked like a path across the muddy marshland. Warren (although he may disagree but trust me, I am by far the more reliable source) suggested that we try and cross but that he had no intention of going first. Me, being the brave adventurer (aka stupid moron) that I am, relished the opportunity to demonstrate my feminine superiority. So, fourth mistake: I boldly took the first steps. **If anyone wants tips on how to piss their husband off, please continue reading with apt attention**

The path was pretty solid to begin with and I continued, fearlessly, to march along until my foot sunk knee deep into a pile of muddy, mushy, cow-patty stuff that smelt like the rotting corpses of the long-deceased Roman soldiers who guarded Hadrian’s Wall. I was then accosted with a vision of Atreyu (the horse in The Neverending Story) – sinking into a boggy marsh, never to see the light of day again. As I realised that I was about to be pulled into the depths of the sinking sand that was, at that very moment, eating my leg, all rationality dissipated. So, fifth mistake: I ran for my life because I thought I was going to die, and in the process managed to lose my shoe in the swamp of guts and stench. To my credit, I ran so fast that Warren and Yvonne thought that the ground was sufficiently solid and merrily proceeded to make their way across. By that time I was laughing so much that I couldn’t tell them not to ceoss – all I could do was scream “my shoe is gone!” At which point Warren began bellowing an interrogation across the swamp as he Spanish-Inquisitioned me about how the shit I lost my shoe – until he started to sink. Not envisioning his own death in the hungry swamp, the Italian in Warren erupted as the mystery of the missing shoe was solved: he realised that instead of turning back when I had started to sink, I had bundu-bashed foward and lost my shoe in the process. My attempt to justify my behaviour by explaining that I thought I was going to die like Atreyu the horse only made poor sinking Warren all the angrier, as he realised that the reason he was sinking into a swamp was because I thought I was going to die like a fantasy horse in a fantasy film. As Warren proceeded to combust, Yvonne screeched as she stumbled across my shoe, lying calmly on the path of death, and proceeded to throw it at me. And then it was all over for me: the sight of the stupid shoe flying through the stench-filled air, propelled by the steam emanating from Warren’s fuming person, as he and Yvonne battled the muddy jaws of a reedy swamp death was just too much for me. I laughed so hard I peed in my pants: I am NOT joking! Seriously! I peed myself. And then all I could say was “I peed in my pants” and “I’m not joking, I really peed in my pants.”

While I was busy laughing and peeing, Yvonne and Warren had made it to the other side and, in my state of incapacitation, Warren was forced to go and fetch my rediscovered shoe from a nearby pile of reeds that my poor-aiming friend had lobbed it into. So naturally the Italian then emerged to full capacity. Unfortunately, the more I laughed, the angrier poor Warren got. We proceeded to the Robin Hood tree in single file with a deathly silent Warren in the lead; a psychotic, drunk with laughter, staggering her way along behind him; and then Yvonne, at the back, trying to control bursts of hysteria. Let’s just say that our second Robin Hood tree experience was slightly tainted.

BUT WAIT, it gets better: the reason Warren was so mad (other than the obvious) was because his only pair of shoes had been destroyed by my retardation. It’s not like we could make a six hour trip back to our home in London to get some more. **oops** So when we drove to Scotland the next day, our plan was to stop off somewhere and get Warren some shoes. Sometimes plans don’t really work out. We drove a lovely scenic route, scenic meaning: “void of shoe shops.” Eventually, we got to the town of Sterling, where we planned to visit Robert the Bruce’s Sterling Castle. By the time we got there it was pouring with rain … and Warren still had no shoes. A series of narrow one-way streets forced us to park at the castle and our last ditch hope at finding shoes was the gift shop at the castle entrance. As we were walking there, I was praying “please God, let there be shoes” (and Yvonne was praying the same thing I found out afterwards), and lo and behold, I kid you not, Warren spotted a pair of trainers left on the edge of a dustbin. So I ran for the shoes, assuredly left for trash, which I discovered were not wet and were in quite good condition. If you didn’t believe in miracles before … ? So Warren wore some hobo’s size ten trainers for two days (Warren is a size seven) and then donated them to a charity shop in London for some other poor soul to make use of.

Now that this miraculous tale of woe and hysteria is over, I am sad to say that I will most likely be watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves alone for the rest of my life, and The Neverending Story is a definite no-mentioner. But I did learn three very important lessons: 1) better the steep, rocky path that you know, than the easier, gentler path that you don’t 2) under no circumstances is it wise to make an Italian angry, and 3) pregnancy and excessive laughter spell disaster.

Other posts you might like: