After hearing about the lads at JangleJangle prancing around Sherwood Forest pretending to be Robin Hood, we figured we’d pop over there ourselves—though, true to form, Bob insisted on auditioning for the role of the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. I’m not sure how the tights would look on him, but his villainous cackle is already Oscar-worthy.

Bob at Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre.

As with all our escapades, the day began with a hearty breakfast. This time, we made a pit stop at the Salt Box Café near Derby. A quick blast up the A515 later, we squeezed into a packed café, where the Christian Motorcyclists Association had also decided to break their holy bread. Bob, with all the grace of a hungry bear at a picnic, annihilated a Tattie Breakfast while I quietly prayed for his cholesterol levels and his eternal soul.

Suitably stuffed, we hopped back on the bikes and followed the A515 to Ashbourne, then the A517 to Belper. From there, we zigzagged through Heage and onto the A38, cruising north past the M1 and straight to Mansfield. The Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre wasn’t far off from there, where we were greeted by free bike parking—a perk that made Bob briefly reconsider his evil sheriff persona.

Dodging leaf litter in the car park (Bob swears one pile tried to attack him), we parked up and took a wander through the visitor center. It had all the essentials: toilets, an exhibition hall, a shop selling overpriced souvenirs, and a restaurant with coffee that could wake the dead. The gift shop naturally became a battleground when Bob insisted on sword-fighting with wooden swords. After he cried like a child when I bonked him on the head with a rubber pike, we were nearly thrown out. Classic Bob.

Next on the agenda was the famous Major Oak. But when we saw the sign saying it was a 20-minute walk, Bob’s gammy leg, dodgy arm, and apparently life-threatening ingrown toenail collectively decided that a trip to the forest was off the cards. Instead, we wisely retreated to the restaurant for coffee and some light people-watching, which turned out to feature a group of foreign ladies in jeans so tight they practically defied physics.

With the light fading (and Bob’s deep-seated fear of the dark looming), we made a hasty retreat. The ride home was an express route via the M1 and M42, and Bob didn’t stop twitching until we were safely parked in the garage. All in all, a day to remember—though mostly for Bob’s dramatic antics.

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Bob at Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre.
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Categories: 2006Ride Outs