The maidenhair ferns ripple from the touch of an invisible presence. Who goes there? The edge of the undergrowth pulsates, beckoning lovers of stories and tales of moons, feathers and good Samaritans to the shelter of an age-old forest. Sherwood. A botanical palace in which each root hides a tender shoot, each variety of tree surprises by its skin-like bark. Smooth and sweet like orange blossom absolute. Like rose. Birds hold conciliabules in their nests, peeping and cheeping on about Robin. The treetops swap secrets of pink pepper and carrot seed oil. Only the cedar knows them. Where is the coveted treasure hidden? Suddenly an arrow flies down the middle of a path lined with blackcurrant buds. It skims past the birch and leaves a pervading trail of sandalwood oil that slips between the leaves, hugs the trunks, takes advantage of every ounce of quivering air to make its presence known. It points to the destination, leads the way to a fragrance: as generously discreet, as gloriously alive as the forest host.