#dovedale

[alexmurison]

Reynard’s Cave Dovedale, Peak District

[wouldiweresteadfastasthouart]

Thorpe Cloud, The Peak District

[mitchcaptureimagerysposts]

Water, Water Everywhere: Exploring Dovedale's Flooded Stepping Stones

Join us as we explore the stunning flooded stepping stones in Dovedale, located in the beautiful Peak District. This natural phenomenon creates a unique and picturesque hiking experience. Come along and see it for yourself!

[florealegiardini]

The quaint village of Milldale

Dovedale valley, Peak District, Staffordshire, England, Unieweed Kingdom ~ Cuma Cevik

[itsabebelife]

Dovedale Stepping Stones, Peak District

[dopescissorscashwagon]

Morning everyone hope you are well. The ascent along the beautiful (and also quiet) Dovedale Beck towards Dove Crag and the Fairfield Horseshoe. Have a great day.

📸 by Rod Hutchinson @lakesrhino

*Click on photo

[beatlepaul4ever]

[with-eyes-closed]

George, meanwhile, hated the Removes as Paul had done twelve months before. It was demeaning to be lumped in with boys a year younger. As he put it with characteristic brevity, "I did one day in Mike McCartney's class and then I thought fuck this and went over the railings."

Tune In - The Beatles: All These Years Vol 1 by Mark Lewisohn, page 188

[phoneybeatlemania]

only realised the other day that I live literally 10 minutes away from John and Georges primary school

[joeygallagher]

Dovedale Groove (1985)

Chris Bonington and Don Whillans

Directed by Paul Berriff

Produced by Border Television

Lakeland Rock Series (2/6)

[psikonauti]

Joseph Wright of Derby (English,1734-1797)

Dovedale by Moonlight, c.1785

Oil on canvas

[alexmurison]

Dovedale, Peak District

[crepesuzette2023]

Ivan Vaughan writes about John and Paul

This is just a relatively brief excerpt from Ivan Vaughan's book, which, for the most part, focuses on his life with Parkinson's disease. (From what I can tell so far, it's absolutely fascinating: far more than 'simply' a memoir, it's a reflection on illness, the mind-body connection, science, psychotropic drugs, patients' autonomy...and much more.)

But since this blog is climbing the drainpipe to the John & Paul business, and there's been some recent discussion of Mark Lewisohn's claim that John was such a bad boy Ivan's mother sent her son to a different grammar school to separate the two, I thought the following might be interesting.

And the ending of this chapter also gives some context to Paul's reaction to John's murder—another topic about which ML has interesting opinions.

This isn't to pile on ML, but more...as words from someone who was there.

(CC: @mythserene, @anotherkindofmindpod) I met John when I was three or four years old. One wet morning there was a knock at the front door. My mother opened it, and looking down, found a boy a bit older than me, smiling, but preoccupied with the effort of remembering what he had been rehearsed to say.

‘I believe a little boy lives here. I wondered if you might like to come out and play.’ He stood there in the porch, rain pouring down behind him, with a pair of slippers under his arm.

‘Come on in. What’s your name? You live round the corner don’t you?’

Next day I went around to the house where he lived with his aunt and uncle. We played with Dinky cars. I was surprised by his generosity and willingness to share his toys; he was happy even for me to take some of them home. When his Uncle George came home with some sweets John readily shared them. There was an immediate bond between us. He was older, read books, and his great intelligence and experience were apparent. I accepted his leadership but I was determined to preserve my independence. From the warm security of Aunt Mimi’s control, John accepted me into his life.

John was a member of his local library and immersed himself in books so that by the age of five he was already a fluent reader. I was still in the infant school when he started at Dovedale Road Primary School, but we played together after school and weekends. There were numerous parks, a golf course, and fields full of tangled growth and trees — just right for playing cowboys and Indians. In one barren area with large lumps of hard earth we played football and cricket. We spent hours digging all tracks to race our Dinky cars. Our most exciting game, though, was ‘fires’. We would go to a large area of waste ground and simply set fire to the straw and watch the place. I have never understood why nobody stopped us.

John’s gang comprised, besides himself, Pete Shotton, Nigel Wally and me. I was the youngest and was constantly having to prove my worth. I feel privileged to be John’s friend since he was nearly two years older. He protected me against Timmy Tarbuck and his gang on the rare occasions when I made the mistake of confronting one of them.

John and I went to different grammar schools, but I used to hear about the chaos and riots that seem to be a daily feature of his schooling. I’d rather lost touch with him when I went to university, and did not see him again until sometime after I was married. Then one day, as I was playing with my little boy Jus on the steps of our house in London, white Rolls Royce turned into the road. John jumped out followed by a woman I have not met before.

‘Hello, Ivy! This is Yoko.’ (…)

My attachment to both John and Paul ran deep and occasionally I would go to great lengths in order to see them at a moment’s notice. Maybe Paul saw our continuing friendship as a way of maintaining simple values he held dear. Jan liked Paul, though she did not see much of John. She was not the least bit mesmerized by their fame. She enjoyed eating at expensive restaurants in sampling London’s nightlife, into which Paul took us from time to time. But, should the effort to come to great, she was willing to let the relationship fade.

A month after telephoning John in New York [with the news of the Parkinson’s diagnosis; their first conversation in years], a heavy parcel was delivered. It was not until I was reading the titles of the books it contained that I realized they had been sent by John and Yoko. There was one by Arthur Janov, author of the Primal Scream, and one entitled Mind Magic. How to Get Well had on the fly-leaf a message from John that read ‘to start looking’, and The Snow Leopard had a note saying ‘to relax’. This last book gave me the greatest pleasure and I frequently re-read passages from it. Its author, Peter Matthiesen, lost his son through illness and journeyed in Nepal and in Inner Dolpo on a completely pointless journey to catch sight of a snow leopard. The peace he found travels across to the reader from each page.

John’s accompanying letter urged me, in punning language, to keep my spirits high and strongly suggested that it was up to me whether I sank or swam. I must not lose faith in myself.

Ten weeks later he was shot dead. Paul and I did not contact each other about it; in fact, we never brought it up in conversation. I hardly reacted outwardly at all. The day after John’s death, however, a colleague said that he supposed I was very upset at what it happened. I heard myself say: ‘I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know that I feel much at all’. As soon as he had gone, I instinctively made my way to a room where I knew I could be alone, and I wept profusely.

-- from Ivan-Living with Parkinson's Disease by Ivan Vaughan. 1986.

[duncandonuts06]

Stow Maries is a little quarry Hunslet with a BIG attitude. This turd thinks he's all that and more. He was named for the last surviving Great War aerodrome of the same name, Stow Maries, which sits just off the English coast in Essex. He's gained a great fascination with World War One aircraft over the years and wants desperately to one day visit this special place he's named for. He knows absolutely nothing about World War One outside of his aeroplanes, and does not understand what folks like Schatzchen had to go through in the trenches. Stow is a dreamer and incredibly shallow. All he ever thinks about is himself. Speaking of Schatzchen- they just so happen to become railmates in present day. They live on the Dovedale Light Railway just outside of Ipswich. As you might guess they don't get along very well. Schatzi cannot stand Stow's ignorance, and Stow is not *willing* to understand the sad, pathetic, old German who's trying to open his eyes.

[florealegiardini]

The quaint village of Milldale

Dovedale valley, Peak District, Staffordshire, England, Unieweed Kingdom ~ Cuma Cevik

[the-cricket-chirps]

Joseph Wright of Derby

Dovedale by Moonlight

1785