Visiting The Peaks
In the late 1970s Clash front man Joe Strummer wrote of Lover's Rock, taking inspiration in no small way from Lover's Drop, an undeniably halcyon location just off the beaten track in the small sultry tones of Dovedale, the city where quaint goes to die. Lover's Drop emerges as an emblem, a figurative representation of prime location for love, marriage, companionship, and eventually in some cases a very messy divorce, where lovers could swan like birds around the cliff head, floating and dipping on the breeze like fragile and ephemeral wisps of clouds, condensing and precipitating in the endless water cycle of love which keeps the gears and pistons of life well oiled, driving the car of collective consciousness down the track of time, into the lovely town of Dovedale in the Peak District.
A town abounding with so many activities, fun days out, and family team building exercises that if they were to introduce but one more event into an already action packed meal the entire town would collapse under the weight of its own good value. That's not to say however that you can't have a good time. Try moonlit walks through the gardens that God originally had earmarked for Eden, try white water rafting off some of the more parvenu coasts, or paragliding through the skies that engulf, like a big blue bubble, the babbling brooks and beautiful burgeoning bistros that constitute the fabric and heart of the Peak's very own Dovedale.
Visiting the Peak District is something that everybody at some point in their lives should probably be forced to do, not against their will of course, not that they would have to, because who could disagree or protest against the bucolic sights that await them in the Peak District, as though they have been daubed, as mere brush strokes, onto God's woven canvas of peaks, a water colour landscape to surpass even the best masters, from the surreal sights of Magritte, which seem to offer some elusive meaning, slipping on the verges of subconsciousness, to the deft brushwork of Thomas Cole, saying with a single image what a thousand orators would only fumble.
Out here, where both mind and body can breathe as one whole entity, encompassing all they see and mastering all they do, there is a fantastic selection of pubs, nestled softly into the bosom of the mount, suckling gently on the quaint that permeates through all that happens here, wrapping it in vague notions of the self and of androgynous thoughts that could only occur within such utopian grandeur that comes of visits to the Peak District.
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