Under the hood

I spent my teenage years in the 1980s, a modern era which had no mobile phones and no internet. Thus our media focus was pop music and TV. The music is still with us, thanks to YouTube and Spotify, but the TV programmes have faded rather more into the background. And the one which sticks in my mind the most is a show I never actually watched whilst I was growing up...

In 1984, a show came onto our screens which felt very much out of sync with the styles and aspirations of 1980s Britain. This was no flashy magazine-style production promoting the trends and fashions of the decade. Rather, it was a thoughtful reinterpretation of a centuries-old figure of English folklore, Robin Hood, in an adaptation called Robin of Sherwood.

Of course, Robin Hood had made many previous screen appearances but this adaptation seemed to indicate a move to a more realistic, 'grittier' son of Sherwood. The production is authentic, with practically all of the scenes shot in outdoor locations and in genuine historical buildings. Outdoors, the natural light fills the frame; indoors, interior shadows heighten the drama.

Whereas a modern director would shoot digitally, Robin of Sherwood was shot on film. However, there is nothing pedestrian about the camerawork in Robin of Sherwood: the director, Ian Sharp, makes very creative use of camera filters and of angles which would not look out of place in any modern film.

I have discovered this telling of the story of Robin Hood only in the last couple of months. I cannot now remember why I never watched any of it the first time around, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it now, thanks to the purchase of DVDs of the show.

At the moment, I'm halfway through the first series. I'm struck by how quiet the show is compared to modern fantasy films: the dialogue is wonderfully written, but sparing; in the woodland scenes, birdsong fills the air; the actors use facial expression and movement to convey much of what they need to say; and, often, as the drama builds, there is silence. It is almost another world.

The show, though now over 30 years old, still has a devoted fan-base. Much more about the show and its creation can be found online. A good place to start is the Spirit of Sherwood site, and there are many others.

There is much more to say about this wonderful production and the themes which it draws together. For now, though, I will simply recommend you seek out an episode or two. And if you're ever up in my neck of the woods, as it were, we can wander into Sherwood together.

The Old Straight Track

Over the last few months, I have been obsessed with roads. And not just roads, but also tracks, lanes, byways, and paths - in fact the smaller the road, the more interesting it seems to become.

It really all began with two things: a holiday in Devon and Robert Macfarlane's wonderful book, The Old Ways.

In his book, Macfarlane tells the stories of journeys he has made along some of this land's oldest paths, such as the Icknield Way and the Ridgeway. As he walks he discovers the events, people and tales which have shaped (and been shaped by) the landscape through which the paths run.

It's a beautiful book: a mixture of poetry, documentary, history, cartography, nature-writing and autobiography. I read it with a sense of yearning for the road, and for the mystery into which the ancient paths lead us. And now that I've finished the book, I find myself poring over maps to discern where these old roads run, like pencil lines half-erased from tracing paper.

Mid-way through Macfarlane's book, I spent a week in Devon, where single-track lanes are the everyday highways for local residents and tourists alike. On turning right out of our cottage door, we quickly became the lone walkers on a track through an Oak wood. In response to the silence and the coolness of the mossy path, I took off my shoes and walked the track barefoot, as one would a medieval labyrinth.

At the sound of the Wren, I stopped, and immediately became aware of my role as the visitor, and her place as the resident. I made an offering to the wood and its creatures from my flask of water, the only gift I had with me, and felt at once both at home and a stranger there. The path led on, but I had come far enough for now, and turned back for home. As the Summer fades and the seasons turn, I feel that must go back again, to walk that path into the past and into the future.