Russell Crowe as Robin Hood

Can you remember the first grown-up book you read? I went to see Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood the other day. I’d been waiting for the movie with an uncharacteristic and almost overwhelming sense of excitement that reminded me of Christmas Eve as a youngster. My sister and I would be packed off to bed early (diabolically early now I look back on it – no doubt providing my parents a heaven-sent opportunity for some well deserved R & R) to wait, trembling in anticipation, for Santa’s visit.

So why my eagerness over a story that’s been told and retold over the centuries to a point where nobody knows the facts anymore? Criticism has been levelled at Scott for mangling history. But, for goodness sake, Robin Hood is a rollicking yarn and always has been, so why let facts get in the way of a good story? And, as for Russell Crow’s Yorkshire/Geordie/Scottish/Irish accent, Robin must have had a lot of mates, and you know how hanging around folk can sometimes make you talk funny.

Howard Pyle's Robin Hood takes on Little John

The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle was the first serious book I read as a child. I remember the tome felt enormous in my small hands. I think it took a year for me to read it, but perhaps I devoured it more than once in that time. I know that I referred to the illustrations countless times as I immersed myself in Sherwood Forest’s leaf-strewn adventures.

Arrows flew with unerring accuracy, covering vast tracts of forest, to shudder dramatically into just the right oak tree and there vibrate with twanging urgency. Fabulous. And what little boy couldn’t visualise Robin’s comically serious encounter with Little John, or shrug resignedly at the required elements of love brought to the story by the fair Lady Marian’s elegant boyishness?

This book must have helped form much of my future preferences for reading. I can still disappear for hours under the influence of an historical novel, as long as there’s a decent role model in it somewhere, someone – who cares whether they’re male or female? – with a major dollop of wickedness to blend with the do-good deeds will usually fit the bill.

He read scientific journals as a little boy.

Wouldn’t it be interesting to discover how much of our early exposure to the written word influences our future tastes? For example, do children who’ve been fed a few dry tomes gravitate down certain academic paths and then onto related careers? No doubt someone has a heap of data that could give us some invaluable insights into the correlation between what little minds sponge up and their chosen professions.

Now, sadly, I must put away my quiver, sheathe my broadsword, and leave off saving England and any spare fair maidens for another day. But, before you go, pop a comment. What was the first book that really turned you on?

Sarajevo's weapon of choice

I was having a chat at a good friend’s place the other day when he offered me a cup of coffee. I declined, having already driven caffeine into my system with a powerful long black in one of my city haunts earlier that morning. “No,” he said, wagging his finger and shaking his head in a persuasive Latin manner. And that’s all he had to say.

I stopped talking. That beautifully expressed word, no, had been emphasised with a curling of the lips, and a severe drawing together of the eyebrows. One little word accompanied by a deliciously inherent body language instantly delivered passion and confidence. And it was so utterly persuasive that I’d made up my mind, or should I say my mind was made up for me, that I’d have his cup of coffee no matter what.

That what turned out to be a new experience. My friend proceeded to perform a well practised ritual with a small, long handled, heavy copper pan. Filling it with water and bringing it to the boil, he heaped spoonful after spoonful of richly aromatic, freshly ground coffee into the pan as my taste buds quivered in anticipation. The water turned into an almost black sludge which, after being allowed to settle momentarily, was poured into cups.

He won't know what hit him

I peered into the thick, murky gunk. It smelt incredibly strong. Waiting for it to cool, I gestured at the unusual pan.

“It comes from Sarajevo,” my friend said. “Every house would have one, for making coffee and beating the husband over the head when he came home late and drunk.”

I quickly glanced at him. His face, half buried in his cup, displayed no irony and not the slightest trace of humour. Knowing him reasonably well, I continued to stare until he looked up and I could see the mirth in his eyes. I thought of making a comment, punning on his dead-pan delivery, but the moment passed.

The coffee? It was probably one of the strongest coffees I’d ever experienced, and I resolved, wide-eyed and still very awake at 3am the following morning, not to make it my second brew of the day ever again. And the pan? I felt its weight and substance and can confirm that it would make a formidable domestic weapon, and that the men of Sarajevo would be well advised to be home in time for dinner, and reasonably sober to boot. At such times actions speak louder than words.