Once Upon a Seventieth (and an Eleventh) – Sherwood, Trees and Time

 

Anyway, on to the actual bit.

Two birthdays. One rather large, round one – I turned 70. And one brilliantly elastic, full-of-bounce one – Matilda turned 11. So we did what felt right. We gathered the tribe and disappeared into the trees.

Four nights in a log cabin in Sherwood Forest.

It felt symbolic, somehow. Ancient oaks. Big skies filtered through branches. The sort of place where time slows down, whether you approve of it or not.

The Setting

The cabin sat tucked into woodland, timber against timber, as if it had grown there rather than been built. Early mornings carried that cold-fresh smell only forests seem to manage. You open the door, and the air feels cleaner than it has any right to be.

There’s something about tall trees that recalibrates you. They’ve been standing there for hundreds of years. You arrive with your birthday cake and your slightly creaky knees, and they’re completely unimpressed. It’s rather grounding.

We walked. We talked. We wandered without much of a plan. Which is, increasingly, my favourite kind of plan.

High Ropes and Higher Laughter

One of the highlights was our trip to Go Ape.

Now, I watched more than I climbed – I feel that’s a fair division of labour at seventy – but the kids absolutely flew. Up into the canopy, clipped on, swinging from ropes, hurtling down zip lines with that mixture of fear and exhilaration only children (and very brave adults) truly lean into.

The laughter echoed through the trees.

There’s a particular sound children make when they’re completely in the moment. No self-consciousness. No phones. No “what’s next?” Just pure, elastic joy. That sound alone was worth the trip.

Evenings in the Cabin

Evenings were slower.

We gathered around the table, plates piled high, glasses topped up. Stories were told. Old ones resurfaced, new ones created in real time. There was good food, plenty to drink, and that easy warmth that only happens when everyone feels safe and known.

We raised glasses not just to birthdays, but to family. To time. To still being here.

Seventy is an interesting number. You don’t feel seventy inside. You feel like yourself – just with more chapters behind you. Watching Matilda at eleven, all possibility and forward motion, I was struck by the symmetry of it. One life well underway. One life stretching wide open.

Both are equally precious.

The Photographer’s Habit

Of course, I took photographs.

I always do.

A smile caught mid-laugh. A shared hug that lasted a second longer than usual. Sunlight slices through branches and lands perfectly on a shoulder. These are the fragments that, later, become anchors.

Photographs are curious things. At the time, they feel ordinary. Later, they feel priceless.

Each image from those four days is a small marker in the timeline of our family. Not posed. Not polished. Just honest.

And honest is always enough.

Leaving the Woods

When we packed up and closed the cabin door for the last time, it wasn’t dramatic. No violins. No slow-motion glances back. Just full hearts and that quiet sense of something having been properly celebrated.

We went in to mark two birthdays.

We came out reminded that the real gift isn’t the number on the cake. It’s the people standing around it.

Every shared laugh, every clink of a glass, every muddy boot and tired child adds another thread to the tapestry. You don’t see the pattern forming at the time. You just live it.

But looking back now, I feel profoundly grateful.

Seventy. Eleven. Four nights in the forest.

A true celebration of family.