When legends are past down from generation to generation, the truth is often warped to a point deeds are exaggerated beyond believability, people are made fictitious figments of folklore and the story is unrecognizable to those who know the truth.

As a travelling bard told the tale of "A Gest of Robyn Hode" to a captivated audience in the street, I found myself mentally cringe. The urge to yell out at the bard hard to suppress. 'It's not true! Robin Hood was nothing of that!' I screamed in my head, but who would believe an old bat like me? I've lived well past my time and seen many things with these now failing eyes. The Robin the bard told of never existed. People thought they knew their hero of Nottingham shire, Robin Hood. What a pity they would never accept the reality of Robin's deeds. How he was a fake and figurehead; outwitting the sheriff was always another's doing, not Robin. He only took the credit. No one listened to my story of the real Robin, save my grandson, John Tucker and even he only listened to them as bedtime stories. The truth of Robin and his men is a story beginning a good fifty to sixty years ago in the infamous forest of Sherwood. I was merely twenty years of age, and I believed Robin Hood to be the greatest man alive.