My research on this Substack began with a Greek island, “Leslo”, that seemed not to exist. That puzzle led me to a number of other mysteries – including a famous Beatles quote that’s also proved remarkably hard to pin down.

According to numerous sources – ranging from national media publications to the UK government website – the British critic Kenneth Tynan described Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the Beatles’ 1967 album, as “a decisive moment in the history of Western civilisation”.

This striking claim about the album’s cultural significance is frequently repeated. But I’ve always avoided using it myself, mainly because I couldn’t find an original source for when Tynan said this – despite making a brief attempt to locate it in 1967 newspapers. I suggested to Obadiah Jones that he could research this mystery for his Beatles podcast Gimme Some Truth – and happily he’s got close to solving it.

As you can hear on the podcast, Obadiah’s efforts to track down the quote became a “wild goose chase” where books and articles endlessly cited each other without leading to an actual source. The first printed appearance of the phrase he found was in Philip Norman’s 1981 book on the Beatles, Shout!. But Norman said he couldn’t recall where it came from.

‘Misremembered or misquoted’?

The words also appeared in an article by Philip Norman in The Times in 1987, marking Sgt. Pepper’s 20^th anniversary. Obadiah found that the wider use of the quote “exploded” around this time, leading him to conclude that Norman was the “primary source” for other writers.

But where the words originally came from isn’t an easy question to answer. As it turns out, Kenneth Tynan didn’t write a review of Sgt. Pepper at all upon its initial release – either for The Times (often cited as the publication) or for The Observer, the newspaper he actually worked for. However, Tynan did write in a January 1968 column for The Observer that “The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album was Britain’s most important contribution to the arts in 1967.”

As he researched the subject, Obadiah says it seemed “more and more likely” that Philip Norman could have “misremembered or misquoted this real Observer statement in Shout!”

He also found another statement – written by the journalist Langdon Winner in 19691 – that “the closest that Western civilization has come to unity since the Congress of Vienna in 1815 was the week that the Sgt Pepper album was released”.

Obadiah argues that “the best explanation” for the supposed quote is that “Tynan’s original Observer quote was fused with Winner’s statement” – placing the responsibility either with Norman or an “unknown previous source”.

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From paraphrase to quote

It doesn’t help Norman’s case that in other instances in Shout!, he is demonstrably inaccurate, deploying what Obadiah describes as “fused and paraphrased” quotes. But looking closely at the alleged Tynan remarks, I noticed a significant evolution in how they were portrayed.

In Shout!, Norman writes that “Tynan called Sergeant Pepper a decisive moment in the history of Western Civilisation”. It’s a long way off what Tynan wrote in 1968, but in fairness to Norman, he doesn’t actually put the phrase inside quotation marks here. So in Shout!, he’s not necessarily claiming Tynan said these exact words (though it’s questionable whether even as a paraphrase, it accurately conveys the sense of them).

That has changed in Norman’s 1987 Times article – where the words have been upgraded from a dubious paraphrase into an apparent direct quote. It’s not clear, though, where exactly the quote marks are supposed to be: the words appear, confusingly, with three sets – as seen in the image below.

How and why the paraphrase became a quote is not known. But interestingly, the words are included in order to be undermined by Norman. He gives them as an example of “intellectual Beatlemania” passing “all known limits” – then later concludes that the album “was not a decisive moment in Western civilisation. It was just an LP.” Though Norman dismissed Tynan’s purported comments, the irony is that they were then ‘quoted’ widely elsewhere – and often approvingly.

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How Beatles myths are made

For me, this issue is less about any one writer (or editor) and more about what the music critic Simon Frith described – in an email discussed in the podcast – as “a fascinating example of how myths are made”.

‘Myth’ is sometimes used to mean something that is false. But it can also refer to a story – whether literally true or not – with a particular hold over us. In this second sense, the Beatles are a mythical band, and Sgt. Pepper is arguably their most mythical album.

The power of Pepper was recognised upon its release, but in the following decades the record has been enshrined as a cultural icon. The words attributed to Kenneth Tynan have evolved in line with the album’s growing status: first a positive but measured assessment, then a much bigger alleged claim, then the same claim boldly stated as a quote.

Whatever Philip Norman thought, many would now argue that Sgt. Pepper was indeed a “decisive moment in the history of Western civilisation”: part of modernity’s founding mythology. And that helps explain why those words have stuck – despite the unlikelihood that Kenneth Tynan, or anyone else at the time, wrote them.

For a deep (but only 20-minute) dive into Kenneth Tynan’s love of Sgt. Pepper and the origins of the supposed quote, I’d recommend listening to the full podcast episode.

You can also listen to my earlier guest appearance on Gimme Some Truth discussing the Beatles’ 1967 visit to Greece and dream of buying an island.

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Paul McCartney’s release of a chart-topping album this year was an impressive feat for an 83-year-old. If we believe what some say, the achievement was not only impressive but astonishing – because Paul died in 1966.

The rumour that ‘Paul is Dead’ spread widely in 1969, fuelled by feverish discussions on radio shows and in student newspapers. As it grew, it gathered increasingly baroque details, including the suggestion that Paul had been buried on the Beatles’ Greek island, “Leso”. And though McCartney was soon confirmed to be alive and well, the legend persisted (comments on my Instagram posts suggest there are still some proponents today).

The urban myths were clearly nonsensical. But as I wrote in 2023, they were responding to real changes the Beatles had undergone. And they overlapped with genuine aspects of the group’s lives – such as the fact that they did actually try to buy a Greek island. This fusion of fantasy and reality helps explain how the name given for the island in Paul’s authorised biography – “Leslo” – may have ultimately originated from the “Leso” of the ‘Paul is Dead’ rumour-mongers.

The rumours were based on elaborate analyses of the Beatles’ lyrics and record sleeves. Through songs such as ‘I am the Walrus’ and ‘Glass Onion’, the group both encouraged and poked fun at this tendency for wild speculation among some of their fans. I’d like to think that in my explorations of the group’s Greek island adventures, I’m taking a diametrically opposed approach: rational, evidence-based. But sometimes my methods feel uncomfortably close to theirs – scrutinising images and documents for small clues.

And it can be hard to know where to draw the line between healthy scepticism and paranoid suspicion. If the Beatles had a secret holiday companion, could it also be possible that the intervention of an MP helped the group visit Greece under a dictatorship – or that the location of the island they wanted was deliberately obscured?

Prioritising detail and evidence might seem like the answer to such dilemmas. Or is this just a more subtle expression of the excess that characterises other responses to the Beatles? Arguably, the same thread of obsession connects the minute analyses of 21^st-century researchers to ‘Paul is Dead’ flights of fancy and the screaming and fainting of original Beatlemania. We’ve all been drawn into a story so improbably compelling that it’s become a kind of modern myth, constantly retold with new variations and emphases. And we keep coming back for more.

Read on for my original post on how the Beatles’ attempt to buy a Greek island overlaps with the ‘Paul is Dead’ myth – and feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

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‘Be at Leso’: the strange world of Beatles mythology

Wherever the island was in Greece that the Beatles wanted to buy, it seems to me increasingly unlikely that it was called ‘Leslo’ – not least because there appears to be no island with that name.

So how did the name come to be linked to it? One possibility comes through association with a bizarre urban legend about the Beatles that spread across the US in 1969: the idea that Paul McCartney died in 1966 and was replaced with a lookalike. The rumour was given oxygen by the Detroit radio station WKNR-FM on 12 October 1969, which drew attention to some macabre observations. When the track ‘Revolution 9’ from the Beatles’ ‘white album’ is played backwards, a caller pointed out, it sounds as if John Lennon is saying: “Turn me on, dead man”. What’s more, at the end of the group’s 1967 song Strawberry Fields forever, it sounds like Lennon is saying “I buried Paul”.

The broadcast brought into the open rumours that had been circulating on US university campuses, suggesting that Paul McCartney had died in a car accident in November 1966 – and they quickly spread further. Two days later, an article in the student newspaper the Michigan Daily claimed Paul had been replaced by “an orphan from Edinburgh named William Campbell”:

“Minor plastic surgery was required to complete the image, and Campbell’s mustache distracted everyone who knew the original McCartney from the impostor’s real identity. The other Beatles subsequently grew mustaches to integrate the ‘new’ Paul into the group.”

These ideas were discussed further on WKNR, as well as student newspapers, and later in more mainstream media1. Even when LIFE magazine tracked McCartney down and published photographs of the Beatle at his farm in Scotland, it didn’t end the speculation. Due to an advertisement on the reverse side, it was claimed that the magazine’s cover showed McCartney being impaled by a car when a light was shone through it.

Many supposed clues were located in the artwork of the Beatles’ albums – particularly Abbey Road, Magical Mystery Tour and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Peter Blake’s famous collage scene on the cover of Sgt. Pepper was said to represent a funeral, with the arrangement of yellow flowers portraying Paul’s bass guitar or alternatively, spelling ‘PAUL?’. The author R. Gary Patterson2 points out that if a mirror is placed horizontally over the bass drum skin in the centre of the scene, the phrase ‘LONELY HEARTS’ becomes ‘I ONE IX HE ◊ DIE’ – said to refer to Paul’s supposed death on 9 November, with the diamond pointing both up to him and down to the ‘grave’.

Some strands of the myth made reference to a Greek island. Patterson also refers to speculation about the letter ‘O’ to the right of the red flowers spelling ‘BEATLES’ on the album cover:

“To those onlookers with a more active imagination, the blood-red hyacinth message read ‘Be at Leso’. The obscure ‘o’ helped form the name of a certain Greek island, rumoured to have been purchased by the Beatles themselves for the final resting place of Paul McCartney.”

An island also appears in the first written record of the ‘Paul is dead’ rumour, in the Drake Times-Delphic on 17 September 1969, which says:

“One of the wilder rumours has it that if a certain English phone number is called at exactly five a.m. any Wednesday (London time) and the caller tells whoever answers what there is to the mystery and his particulars, he wins the Beatles’ paradise island in the Mediterranean. Amazing.”

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Beatles’ transformation

So according to a sub-branch of the ‘Paul is dead’ myth, ‘Leso’ was a Greek island where the real Paul had been laid to rest. It’s possible that in some way this idea led to the similar name ‘Leslo’ becoming linked to the actual island the Beatles had wanted. It goes without saying that these ideas – and those in general regarding Paul’s supposed death – are hardly convincing. One suspects that many of those who promoted them did so with their tongue in cheek. Nonetheless, there may well be a reason why they appealed to the imagination at that time.

The Sgt. Pepper album epitomised a transformation of the Beatles that perplexed some of the public. Its cover underlined this change, displaying waxworks of the younger Beatles wearing suits alongside the group in their more recent psychedelic incarnation, with moustaches and neon military-style uniforms. The Beatles had become increasingly dissatisfied with their earlier public personas and found live touring musically unfulfilling. The exact same metaphor had been used by John Lennon when he said: “We could send out four waxwork dummies of ourselves and that would satisfy the crowds. Beatles concerts are nothing to do with music any more. They’re just bloody tribal rites.”3

The Beatles’ former press officer Tony Barrow wrote that after the group’s final performance of their 1966 US tour at San Francisco’s Candlestick Park, George Harrison said to him: “That’s it then. I’m not a Beatle any more.”4

“He didn’t intend to imply that he was leaving the group,” explains Barrow, “just that he and the other three could now turn their backs on all the hassles of Beatlemania and concentrate on some serious music-making in the recording studios.” The Beatles’ producer George Martin wrote of the same period: “The boys were tiring of their prison of fame, and each wanted his own identity back.”

Much of the public still associated the Beatles with the clean-cut image that had been carefully overseen by their manager Brian Epstein from the early sixties. From 1966 onwards, though, the Beatles “took control of their own destiny”, writes Ian MacDonald5, “breaking Epstein’s benign hold over them”, and becoming increasingly outspoken and experimental. Candlestick Park, in August 1966, was the group’s last formal public concert. So though November that year was not when Paul McCartney died in a car accident, it was soon after the time that the Beatles’ former public selves disappeared – never again to return.

It perhaps isn’t a coincidence then that the Sgt. Pepper album cover become a focus of rumour and speculation. As Patterson argues, people needed an explanation for an actual change that the group had undergone:

“The American public, it seemed, refused to allow change in their heroes. If there really was change in the Beatles, there had to be a reason for it. After the release of the Beatles’ albums from 1967 to 1969, those adoring fans of the past became the inquisitors of the present. A scapegoat was demanded, and when the ‘Paul is dead’ rumours surfaced in October 1969, those fans, filled with insecurity, were only too eager to search for the clues that provided the answer to this strange change in the Beatles’ behaviour.”

It may not be coincidental, either, that the idea of the Greek island became part of these rumours: it represented the Beatle’s evolving ambitions and motivations. Whether to escape the pressure of Beatlemania or simply to explore new horizons, they were already being drawn to remote or far-flung places. In June 1966, McCartney had bought High Park Farm in Scotland; and earlier in 1967, John Lennon – a driving force behind the Greek island plans – had purchased the island of Dorinish in Ireland. Meanwhile, after finishing touring in 1966 George Harrison had visited India, later saying “it was the first feeling I’d ever had of being liberated from being a Beatle or a number”. The group were also evoking fantasy worlds in their music, such as the Magical Mystery Tour or Strawberry Fields – a place where “nothing is real”, with “nothing to get hung about”.

The Beatles’ dream of buying a Greek island – where they could “drop out” to take drugs and record music – seems to crystallise their aspirations to transcend their previous personas. It also taps into a universal desire to escape into a pastoral realm where life is simpler and easier. This tendency is often associated in particular with islands – such as that in Shakespeare’s Tempest, full of “sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not”. A comparable sense of ease is conveyed in Alistair Taylor’s recollection of a moonlit night on the Beatles’ visit to Greece when George Harrison played the Hare Krishna on his ukelele as others sang along: "Beatlemania seemed to have finally been left far behind and we were totally at peace with the world as we sat there with legs crossed in the lotus position"6.

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Mysteries remain

The feeling that “nothing is real” also sometimes appears to apply more literally to the group’s Greek plans and their more puzzling aspects. If the island was not called either ‘Leslo’ or ‘Aegos in Konstadinos’, for example, then why has it come to be referred to with these names: not just in the farther reaches of the internet, but in respected history books and official records?

There is also the apparent contradiction that the band who had come to represent the hippie movement, were campaigning for the legalisation of cannabis and had just had a number one hit with the song ‘All you Need is Love’, were visiting a country run by a military dictatorship. Indeed, not just visiting, but considering buying property there, and – according to one report – also being entertained by its tourism organisation. In addition, a powerful sense of mystery surrounds the central figure in this story: someone known as ‘Magic Alex’ who spoke of his high-level connections in Greece – sometimes said to include a father in the secret police – and also reportedly claimed to know people as Prince Philip. Sometimes the reality of the Beatles’ Greece plans seems barely less surreal than some of the rumours about the group that circulated.

As the ‘Paul is dead’ saga shows, the mind’s desire to find patterns and stories – the more exciting, the better – can lead us astray. Rather than “I buried Paul”, for example, what Lennon was actually saying in ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ was, he later said, “Cranberry sauce”. Similarly, many stories about the Beatles’ supposed Greek island paradise appear to be wide of the mark. The island wasn’t called Leso, or Leslo. It wasn’t intended a final resting place for the real Paul McCartney. And you couldn’t win it by calling a special phone number.

On the other hand, not infrequently there actually is a more complex reality beneath surface appearances. And it often is the small clues – the slips of the tongue, the curious coincidences or the things that don’t quite make sense – that first point us towards this. On the topic of the Beatles’ Greek island plans, there remain legitimate unanswered questions. And just as outlandish speculation is often pierced by a more prosaic reality, sometimes the truth can surprise us. We won’t know which is the case here until we find out what actually happened.

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1. The Athenian Riviera

In the 1960s, the coastal suburbs to the south of Athens were a glamorous destination featuring luxurious hotels and thriving beach bars. The journalist Labis Tsirigotakis received a tip-off that two of the Beatles had been seen there – at a bungalow in the Asteria resort. His newspaper, To Vima, reported that on 21 July George and Ringo (the first of the Beatles to arrive in Greece) had been spotted swimming and sunbathing at one of the area’s famous beaches, Vouliagmeni.

How to do it

The ‘Athenian Riviera’, which spearheaded Greece’s post-war tourist boom, is now undergoing another tourism renaissance – with a similarly high-end focus. Asteria beach at Glyfada was recently redeveloped to include an events space, cultural centre and restaurants. And just down the coast are the beach and an inland thermal lake at Vouliagmeni. These locations – as well as the area’s other beaches, bars and tavernas – are easy to get to on public transport from central Athens.

2. Arachova

On Sunday 23 July, the Beatles – who were all now in Greece – and their companions went on an excursion north of Athens. Their first port of call was the mountain town of Arachova, where the group were hosted by Greece’s tourism organisation. After enjoying a traditional lunch, the Beatles were entertained by local musicians and joined in with Greek dancing.

How to do it

Arachova, about 1000m above sea level, is a buzzing ski resort in winter – and in summer, its milder temperatures make it a good base for hiking and visiting Delphi (see below). It’s about 2.5 hours from Athens by car or three hours by a direct inter-city (KTEL) bus on the route to Delphi.

3. Delphi

From Arachova, the Beatles visited two other nearby spots. After cooling off in the sea at Itea, they were then driven to Delphi – one of Greece’s most spectacular ancient sites. The group were expected to watch a performance of a Greek tragedy at Delphi’s amphitheatre. As it turned out, though, they only spent a few moments there – fleeing to their cars immediately after encountering a swarm of journalists.

How to do it

It’s definitely worth spending more time than the Beatles did at Delphi to experience its unique atmosphere. It was renowned in the ancient world as the site of the oracle, which people would visit to consult on personal dilemmas or important state matters. The views of its ruins down the mountainside powerfully evoke its past glories. From Athens, Delphi is a 15-minute drive further along the road past Arachova. KTEL buses go there, as do many guided tours from Athens.

4. Sounion

At the southern tip of the Attica peninsula is the picturesque ruined temple of Poseidon, the ancient Greek god of the sea. After departing from Athens’ port, Piraeus, the Beatles’ cruise anchored opposite this spot at 2am on its first night, we are told by Beatles insiders who were on the trip (by this point, Ringo had departed for London to be with his pregnant wife). “Under a full moon”, said Mal Evans and Neil Aspinall, the temple’s pillars were outlined by moonlight in an “unforgettable sight”.

How to do it

Cape Sounion is also easily accessible by land from Athens, via car (about 1.5 hours) or KTEL bus. The temple is a popular place to visit at sunset for romantic views.

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5. Edipsos

The next day, the Beatles’ chartered yacht sailed north between the Greek mainland and the large island of Evia. The To Vima newspaper tells us that on 26 July, as well as visiting Kamena Vourla on the mainland, the Beatles ate at a “secluded place” at Edipsos in north Evia. Edipsos has been known since ancient times for its thermal spring water, whose reputed health benefits have drawn international figures from Winston Churchill to Greta Garbo.

How to do it

At some spots in Edipsos, the mineral-rich water runs directly into the sea, colouring the rocks yellow. Other options for experiencing it include the luxury spa at the Thermae Sylla hotel, and the state-run spa, Edipsos Springs. You can drive or take a direct KTEL bus to Edipsos from Athens (about 3.5 hours). Ferries also regularly depart from Arkitsa on the mainland.

6. The Lichadonisia

While the details of the planned island purchase remain somewhat mysterious, it’s likely that these secluded islands, just off the north-west tip of Evia, are the place in Greece the Beatles attempted to buy. According to the group’s associate Alistair Taylor, when the Beatles saw the place that had been chosen for them, they exclaimed: “Yeow! This can’t be true” – and proceeded to explore it, “joking about who could live on which island” and discussing where the recording studio would be.

How to do it

If you want to understand what enthused the group – and why the Lichadonisia have been called Greece’s Seychelles – there are regular short boat trips in summer from Kavos on Evia, and Kamena Vourla on the mainland. Since Kamena Vourla is a two-hour drive from Athens, it’s possible to visit the islands on a day trip from the capital. Monolia’s main beach has seating, sunbeds and a bar serving food.

7. The Sporades islands

The Beatles’ next destination was the Sporades islands, scattered in the Aegean Sea to the north of Evia. Their first stop there was Skiathos, known for its golden sand beaches – and next to the islet of Tsougria, which the group may also have had some interest in buying.

The next day, the cruise proceeded to the other Sporades: Skopelos – now famous as the location for the Abba film Mamma Mia! – and pristine Alonissos. The Beatles also sailed southeast to Skyros, where they bought gifts and souvenirs. Then it was time for the yacht to return to Athens, which it reached at lunchtime on 29 July.

How to do it

These days, ferries depart regularly to Skiathos, Skopelos and Alonissos from Volos in central Greece and Mantoudi on Evia; and to Skyros from Kymi on Evia. There are also various services between individual Sporades islands, and regular boats from Skiathos to Tsougria.

Worth a detour

All of the places I’ve mentioned above are fairly easy to get to from Athens. So if you’re in the Greek capital this summer, I’d recommend visiting some of them if you have any interest in the Beatles (or even if you don’t). Let me know if you do - but be careful how deep you go into this story. Trying to find the Greek island the Beatles wanted led me into a maze of phantom islands, currency controls, secret services and cold war propaganda.

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While researching the Beatles’ attempt to buy a Greek island in 1967 I’ve encountered a number of puzzling aspects – with one of the strangest being the evidence of an additional guest on the group’s visit to Greece.

Most accounts of the trip – including Paul McCartney’s authorised biography – name the same members of the Beatles’ entourage, numbering thirteen in total.

So when in 2023 I came across Greek newspaper reports of the visit, I was perplexed by a reference to another person: “a Swedish actress who kept her name secret”.

It was hard to know what to make of this mention. But it became even more intriguing in 2024, when footage shown during Paul McCartney’s live performances showed a blonde-haired woman walking behind George Harrison – seemingly on the Greek island of Monolia. Was this the same person?

Despite my attempts to solve this puzzle, her identity remained a mystery. Then this year, I received an email from someone who’d read my post, saying “the Swedish girl seen in the footage was my mother”.

Alexis Mardas’ Swedish friend

“She was not an actress,” wrote Peter Andreadis. “She was a Swedish art student at Konstfack, the University of Arts, Crafts and Design in Stockholm.”

Peter proceeded to tell me the story of how his mother joined the Beatles in Greece, as he’d heard it from his family. As with most things involving Magic Alex, the events he related – both in the email and a later phone conversation – were both fascinating and surprising.

“In the 1960s, my mother and a friend answered an advertisement in a Swedish newspaper,” said Peter. “A Greek man had bought a car in Sweden and needed someone to drive it down to Greece. My mother and her friend agreed to do this and drove the car from Sweden to Athens.”

Peter didn’t know for certain if it was Magic Alex who placed the advertisement. “What I do know is that my mother met Alexis Mardas during the period when they delivered the car in Greece, and they stayed in contact after that.”

From Sweden to Rhodes

The location of Konstfack would prove to be significant for Peter’s mother, then called Ulla Elander. When walking to classes each day, she passed a travel agency, Caravan Touring.

She got to know the owner, Andreas Andreadis, who was selling charter trips to Rhodes – playing his part in the rapid growth of Greek tourism. Though Ulla didn’t know at that time that she would later marry Andreas, she bought a holiday ticket to Rhodes for herself and her parents – “partly to support my father’s travel business”, said Peter.

When Ulla was in Rhodes, Magic Alex contacted her at the hotel, saying “I have a ticket for you to Athens to join the sailing with the Beatles.” Her parents said, “Of course you should go” – so Mardas arranged for her to fly to Athens to join the group.

“The family always knew this story,” Peter told me. “It was never presented to us as a mystery.”

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‘Captivating’

According to Peter, his mother was also “invited to come to India” with the Beatles in early 1968 – “but she didn’t want to – and maybe that is good, because if she did, I might not have been born.”

Ulla and Andreas began a relationship soon after the Greece trip. They based themselves on Rhodes, where Peter was born in December 1968, and married the next year. (He, his mother and his sister relocated to Sweden when war with Turkey in Cyprus broke out in 1974.)

Sorting his mother’s belongings after she passed away in 2024, Peter found newspaper clippings and photographs about the trip with the Beatles. Searching online for more information, he found my article on Follow the Sun and “immediately recognised the story and the woman in the footage”.

One of the articles that Ulla had kept - which I hadn’t seen before - spends several paragraphs discussing the “captivating Swedish woman” who accompanied the Beatles in Greece, making an impression with her “provocative mini-dress” and “daring bikini”. Unlike the other report, this newspaper didn’t say she was an actress - instead providing another inaccurate description of her as “the daughter of a major businessman”.

An official tourism source told the reporter that the woman “wishes to remain anonymous”. But in any case, the publication seems to have had difficulty distinguishing between Ulla and Paula Boyd – George Harrison’s sister-in-law, who was also on the trip. The article describes the Swedish woman as having “short hair” (true of Paula but not Ulla). And two photographs captioned as depicting this Swedish woman actually show Paula.

Hot feet, daily drawing and fish and chips

So was Ulla actually on the trip after all? Peter showed me photographs of her at around the same time which do indeed resemble the woman walking behind Harrison in the footage (who is definitely not Paula). In my view, these provide convincing evidence to back up the account he heard from his mother.

He also told me about some recollections that his family had heard from Ulla. On the yacht there was “a drawing hour every day”, for instance – and “Paul McCartney was a very kind person because he took care of Julian [John’s four-year-old son] on board” – including playing “Indian and cowboys”.

Ulla recalled that one person in the group – it sounds like Ringo – “didn’t like Greek food so much – so it was often fish and chips on the menu”.

“And an odd thing she said that was that George Harrison, while travelling in the limousine, had his feet outside the window all the time.”

With the newspaper cuttings Ulla had kept, there were also some photographs of the Beatles’ party at Arachova – where they took part in traditional Greek dancing – and Athens airport. Peter didn’t know who took these, but they are different to any in public circulation.

Distorted accounts

Memory is notoriously unreliable, and tales – particularly when they involve the Beatles – can get distorted over time. Often, people want to claim a bigger connection to the group than there actually was. But I’m not sure that’s what’s happened here.

In this case, the distortion seems to have come early – namely, in a detailed report of the Greece trip by Beatles insiders Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans for the fan magazine Beatles Book Monthly in September 1967. The article says “our holiday party numbered twelve people” as well as a “13^th man”, Alexis Mardas. There’s no mention of a fourteenth member. This information seems to have influenced later accounts of the trip – such as Barry Miles’ The Beatles: A Diary (1998) and his authorised Paul McCartney biography in 1997.

There could be many reasons for the absence of Ulla Elander from Neil and Mal’s article. But despite what the magazine says, there’s convincing evidence that she was there. Her participation in the Beatles’ Greek holiday highlights the unpredictable influence of Magic Alex on the group at this time. And the fact that until now, very few knew about it underlines how the picture of the Beatles we get from band-adjacent sources is not necessarily complete – or completely trustworthy.

“George was always on a quest to get as far away as he could… I had the feeling that he maxed the planet out, looking for solitude.”

- Olivia Harrison

The Beatles’ attempt to buy a Greek island in 1967 is usually seen as John Lennon’s acid-fuelled fantasy, opportunistically seized upon by Magic Alex, and which the other Beatles just went along with. John was certainly the most enthusiastic. But there was more interest among the other three than is often assumed – something which becomes clearer if we look at George Harrison’s own lifelong interest in islands.

‘Eye of the hurricane’

George was the Beatle who seemed most affected by Beatlemania – which he later likened to being in “the eye of the hurricane”1. While the public “gave their money and they gave their screams,” Harrison said, the Beatles “gave their nervous systems, which is a much more difficult thing to give”.

In his 1980 memoir2, Harrison described the Beatles’ stay in Manila in 1966 – where they had to negotiate an angry mob following a perceived snub to the president’s wife – as “one of the nastiest times I have had”. He didn’t see the experience as an anomaly. Rather, it “relate[d] to the sort of life we were leading” – which involved the “awful” reality of “being on the front page of everyone’s life, every day”.

His familiarity with this “intrusion” led Harrison to prioritise peace and calm. “Your own space, man, it’s so important,” he says in the memoir. “That’s why [The Beatles] were doomed because we didn’t have any. It is like monkeys in a zoo. They die. You know, everything needs to be left alone.”

In the book, Harrison also contrasts the business side of his life – which is about trying to “spread more and more ripples until they become waves” – with his personal life, which, “having been all waves, has to change to a normality where I try to stop the waves, quieten them down to make myself a calm little pool”.

Hawaii and Hamilton Island

From the early 1980s, as Harrison’s desire for privacy intensified following the death of John Lennon, he sought out this calm on remote islands. He built a home on Maui, Hawaii, surrounded by a 60-acre clifftop estate where he spent hours gardening, and which one frequent guest described as “really hard to get to”3. George was remembered as kind and hospitable by a number of locals he employed. But as covered in the video report below, he got into a legal dispute with some neighbours concerning the use of a historic path through his grounds.

In 1987, Harrison built a compound on Australia’s Hamilton Island, near the Great Barrier Reef, including a main home and three guest huts. Visiting in 2007 (six years after Harrison died), Architectural Digest found a property rich with natural patterns and materials – incorporating a tree trunk found by George, bamboo ceilings, and a waterfall-fed pool, and decorated with Papua New Guinean artefacts. A curved window looked out onto lorikeets and cockatiels chattering amid the garden’s “dense tropical vegetation”.

‘How far away can I get’?

“George was always on a quest to get as far away as he could,” his widow Olivia told the article’s author, Paul Theroux. “We found Hawaii and built a house there. But he wanted to keep going. We went to Tasmania, New Zealand, Australia. I had the feeling that he maxed the planet out, looking for solitude. It was about ‘How far away can I get?’”

While George was clearly concerned about security, Olivia suggested this impulse had deeper roots, saying her late husband was “shell-shocked from the whole Beatle experience… Literally shell-shocked”.

She told Theroux:

“He hated loud noises. And imagine if all day, every day, for five or six years, people were screaming at you when you opened your door, jumping on the hood of your car, looking in your window. And then there were the death threats. He wanted to be far away. And he wanted sunshine.”

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He wanted sunshine

And perhaps George’s desire for escape went even deeper. Like John Lennon’s dad, George’s father Harry worked for a time in the merchant navy – bringing back tales and photographs from his exotic travels. Citing a 1986 interview George gave to the Australian magazine Good Weekend, Mark Lewisohn says the Beatle “would recall his dad showing him snaps of Pacific islands and Bondi Beach in the 1930s – told with stories of the Sydney shark nets and how he’d seen a shark amputate a swimmer’s leg”4.

These sunshine-filled stories must have contrasted vividly with the austerity of post-war Liverpool – with its rationing, bomb sites and homes without central heating. As Olivia told Paul Theroux, George would “have to chip the ice off the inside of the windows – the inside!”

Harrison hated his grammar school, which he said was “where the darkness began and I realised it was raining and cloudy with old streets and backward teachers and all of that”5. It seems George found this grimness as oppressive as he later found Beatlemania – and in both cases, he wanted to be far away. He wanted sunshine.

‘Modest seclusion’

Of all the Beatles, Harrison’s need for privacy was the most intense. But to some extent, his bandmates all shared it – at least according to their solicitors, who wrote in a surprisingly poetic section of their application for government permission to buy the island:

“You will readily appreciate that with their fame at the international level, it is nearly impossible for [the Beatles] to maintain even the most modest seclusion anywhere in the world and that in most places they are subjected to reporters and crowds of people and constant publicity.”

In hindsight, it’s hard to believe the Beatles would have considered anything as mad as living on an island together. But the group were always comfortable with outlandish ideas: most of their success came from them. They’d already achieved the improbable in bringing the sun to post-war Britain. Once they’d done so, they dreamed big again, imagining an escape to sunny Greece. The fantasy was never realised. But it was a powerful idea – and one by no means restricted to the mind of John Lennon.

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The recent appointment of four new executives at Apple Corps – the company which manages the Beatles’ creative and business interests – signals big ambitions for the Beatles’ global brand.

The hires were announced as Sam Mendes’ “four-film cinematic event” approaches in 2028 – reflecting an expectation for his Beatles biopics to generate huge interest. In keeping with the group’s profile, the new executives have all worked for massive cultural brands – with the names Harry Potter and Warner Bros. recurring repeatedly on their CVs.

Lux Paterson joins as chief strategy and marketing officer from Warner Bros. Discovery, where she “led growth strategies for global franchises”. And new chief finance and operating officer Jemma Hill arrives from the Blair Partnership, where she had responsibilities for various businesses associated with Harry Potter author JK Rowling and her agent Neil Blair.

The appointment of Jonathan Sands to the executive team is particularly intriguing given his remit to “focus on Apple Corps’ ambitions in visitor experiences and retail”. Sands has previously run a number of “experiential businesses”, including the London Film Museum – which hosted an exhibition of cars used in James Bond films – and the Harry Potter shops found at UK transport hubs such as Heathrow Airport.

Miranda Langford, meanwhile, joins as head of marketing from Paul McCartney’s MPL. The new appointments will work under chief executive Tom Greene – appointed last year – who has also previously worked for the Harry Potter franchise. Greene said the recruits will help the company seize “huge” opportunities, fulfilling “the ambitions we have for a seismic period in Apple Corps’ and The Beatles’ history”.

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Shaping the legacy

The Harry Potter franchise encompasses a vast tourism ecosystem, from the Warner Bros. Studio Tour to West End theatre and themed afternoon teas. Whether Apple seeks to emulate this approach – and what kind of Beatles “experiences” it has in mind – remain unknown. But Greene is right to highlight this as a significant moment. Paul and Ringo are now well into their eighties, and the 1960s are receding from living memory. The coming years will indeed be “seismic” – not just for the Beatles’ commercial prospects, but also for how they are perceived by future generations. In this light, Mendes’ films – following on from 2021’s Get Back and last year’s rebooted The Beatles Anthology – will play an important role in introducing new audiences to the band and influencing their perceptions of them.

The retrospective mood extends beyond Apple’s corporate walls to the individual Beatles. Paul McCartney’s new album, due later this month, will focus firmly on his past: the “smoky bars and cheap guitars” of his youth in post-war Liverpool. We’re told Paul has written “with openness” about these early experiences – though on the single already released, he also promises to honour a “secret code” he and John Lennon wrote together. In any case, The Boys of Dungeon Lane – which features a duet with Ringo Starr – underlines how understanding the Beatles means understanding where they came from. As Paul says: “I do often wonder if I’m just writing about the past but then I think how can you write about anything else?”

Another important Beatles milestone is coming into sight with Mark Lewisohn’s recent comment that “there’s a chance” he will have finished the second volume of his monumental band biography by 2031. Lewisohn has set out his ambition to influence people’s comprehension of the Beatles – saying that if he doesn’t get their story right, it risks being “misunderstood and wrong forever”. Like his first instalment, 2013’s Tune In, the second will no doubt be widely acclaimed. It may also be more controversial – covering a more complex part of the Beatles’ story, with more scope for differing views and interpretations.

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Revolution in the head

Lewisohn has justified his decades-long dedication to researching the Beatles by comparing the group’s cultural significance to Shakespeare or Mozart. And this is one area where there is growing agreement. In his 2025 book John and Paul, Ian Leslie also likens the Beatles’ impact to that of the bard. Referencing Harold Bloom’s argument that Shakespeare didn’t just represent human nature but reimagined it, he writes that “the Beatles were crucial to the creation of a post-1960s personality”. If so, then the world’s ongoing fascination with them makes sense – and is likely to continue.

I started researching the Beatles’ dream of buying a Greek island through simple curiosity – but as my interest in the story has grown, I’ve had to reflect on why this is. The more I learn about the group, the more I think there must be a reason they prompt such intense responses in every generation. And I suspect this ultimately has less to do with Apple’s marketing than the way the Beatles radically redefined norms – refusing, as Paul McCartney suggested in 1967, to “shut themselves in” with rules that were “just not true any more”. This attitude was at the heart of what Ian MacDonald called the 1960s’ “revolution in the head”, in his 1994 book on the Beatles. And the enthusiastic response Paul’s comment received when I posted it on Instagram suggests it still chimes widely today (as does Paul’s moustache).

In the end, though, the power of creative genius is not easily understood or defined. McCartney’s album, Mendes’ films and Lewisohn’s book will all contribute to a renewed appreciation of the Beatles’ achievement. But it may take many more years – or decades – before we can really grasp what it means.

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In 1977, the King of Spain suggested using Alexis Mardas (‘Magic Alex’) as an intermediary in his request for $10m in financial support from the Shah of Iran.

The episode is recorded in the published diaries of Asadollah Alam, the former minister of the court to the Shah. In June 1977, Alam’s diaries include a letter from King Juan Carlos I of Spain to the Shah at a time when his country was transitioning to democracy.

Juan Carlos had only recently acceded to the throne, following the death of Spain’s dictator Franco in 1975. Designated for years as Franco’s chosen successor, he had publicly supported the authoritarian leader – but once in power, began to oversee liberal reforms.

The king’s belief in democracy, however, had its limits. In his letter to the Shah, he wrote that in the recent election, Spain’s socialist party had recently “obtained a higher than expected percentage of the vote”, posing “a serious threat to the country’s security and to the stability of the monarchy”.

On this basis, Juan Carlos submitted for the Shah’s “generous consideration the possibility of granting $10m as your personal contribution to the strengthening of the Spanish monarchy”.

This would be used to assist Spain’s centrist party, led by prime minister Adolfo Suarez, against the “Marxist” danger.

Juan Carlos added:

“Should my request meet with your approval, I take the liberty to recommend a visit to Tehran by my personal friend Alexis Mardas, who can take receipt of your instructions”.

In the Shah’s response the next month, he said he would comment on the issue “by word of mouth”: there is no indication that he provided the requested money1.

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Magic Alex’s royal connections

Regardless of Juan Carlos’ motives, the letter suggests that Alexis Mardas did – as he claimed – have connections with such elevated figures. The king described Mardas as his “personal friend”, and evidently believed Alexis’ acquaintance with the Shah could help his cause.

This lines up with other evidence of Magic Alex’s international royal links. Last year while on the Greek island of Hydra, I was told that he had photographs of both Juan Carlos and the Shah in his house – and heard various other references to Mardas’ Iranian connections.

One person mentioned a particularly close Iranian friend called ‘Roudi’ (they also believed that an impressive mansion associated with Alexis had actually belonged to her). It seems very likely that this refers to Roudabeh Alam, the late daughter of Asadollah – the Shah’s minister whose diaries record the exchange above.

Juan Carlos’ letter shows how Mardas was able to develop influence by understanding what was important to people with power, and helping to solve their problems. Arguably, these were tactics he also used on the Beatles.

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“Danger – Keep away”, reads a sign on the wall of a white-painted house on the Greek island of Hydra. An elaborate scaffolding arrangement props up the building’s jutting first floor. I walk beneath its crumbling plaster into a narrow passageway. On the right-hand wall is an arched entrance behind a gate that’s padlocked shut. Through the metal grille, I see several large ships’ anchors leaning against the walls – alongside plastic water bottles, a battered cardboard box and piles of rubble. A sign warns that CCTV is in operation. But beneath the peeling paint, the property’s grand character is still discernible. “It was a beautiful house,” says Takis.

Takis has shown me the way here from Hydra’s port, ten minutes up a steep cobbled path passing donkeys on the way down. I’d wanted to see the house because for many years it had a notable owner: Alexis Mardas, who in the later 1960s was known for his association with the Beatles. Mardas – dubbed ‘Magic Alex’ by John Lennon for his supposed technological wizardry – seemed to come from nowhere to join the Beatles’ inner circle as they reached their psychedelic pomp: he was with them on the Magical Mystery Tour bus, in India, at the live satellite broadcast of ‘All You Need Is Love’. He also became an official employee, overseeing the electronics division of their company, Apple – with ambitions of creating mind-blowing inventions and a new state-of-the-art studio. For all this, his role in their story doesn’t yet feel fully understood.

Magic Alex is also at the heart of the various mysteries surrounding the group’s attempt to buy a Greek island in 1967. Those still-unanswered questions include the names for places that don’t exist on maps, and Mardas’ alleged connections to Greece’s military dictatorship that led to the Beatles unwittingly being “used… as propaganda” for the regime. The financial aspects of the island plans – including Mardas’ claim that the proposed investment could help save the group tax – also remain unclear. Without Magic Alex’s efforts, these intriguing puzzles would probably not exist. But who was he, and why was he so apparently influential? I hoped coming to Hydra might provide some answers.

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While I was writing last month about the evolution of the ‘Blackpool tug-of-love’ myth, a new puzzle came to light – which prompts interesting questions about how the way we research and talk about the Beatles is changing in the digital age.

The issue raised the possibility that when discussing these events with the eminent Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn, Billy Hall got his own date of birth wrong. If this happened, it would of course cast serious doubt on the reliability of Hall – whose testimony was central to overturning the traditional narrative. But the only other explanation would be if the inaccuracy came from Lewisohn himself.

The conundrum related to a post Mark Lewisohn made on the Bluesky social network in April 2025. In response to a query from another user, he wrote (bold added for emphasis):

“Alf/Freddie Lennon had said the Blackpool incident happened at the house of his pal Billy Hall. I found Billy in 2009, in Auckland, NZ, age 85, the only living witness to a much mis-told event in young John Lennon’s life. And I got to the truth just in time – Billy died on his 90th birthday in 2013.”

The birth date mystery

From my research into these events, I was aware that Billy (later known as Bill) Hall had spoken to a New Zealand journalist – Steve Braunias of the Sunday Star-Times newspaper – in 2009, shortly before he spoke to Lewisohn. According to Braunias, Lewisohn had contacted him after the interview was published – and as a result, Braunias in turn put the historian in touch with Hall.

In December, I emailed Mark Lewisohn to check this timeline and offer him the chance to add anything further. I quickly received a detailed response setting out Lewisohn’s history of contact with Bill Hall and his family. He confirmed Braunias’ sequence of events – explaining that he approached the Sunday Star-Times in 2009 after being alerted to the reporter’s interview with Hall. Braunias then “kindly paved the way” for Lewisohn to speak to Bill, which happened in April 2009.

The email also included an explanation for a detail I hadn’t asked about – Mark Lewisohn’s claim that Bill died on his 90^th birthday. Lewisohn wrote that Hall was “born 3/9/1923 in England; so, time zone difference allowing, he died 90 years to the day that he was born”.

As confirmed in a Sunday Star-Times obituary, Hall did indeed die on 4 September 2013. But Bill’s birthday had also come up in my own research, and the date given by Lewisohn for this seemed to contradict what I thought was the case. I asked Lewisohn if he had a source for the birth date being in September, noting that I thought it was in April. He replied: “He told me his date of birth and I’d no reason to doubt it, and still don’t.”

Given this seemingly emphatic response – and since the timing of Bill’s birthday was not relevant to the post I was writing – I put the issue to one side. But later, I checked my records in detail. It turned out that in National Archives files I’d seen, there were five separate official documents all stating Bill Hall’s date of birth as 3 April, 1923. Bill’s daughter Josie had told me the same specific date when I spoke to her in 2024.

There seemed little doubt that Bill was born in April, not September. Confused, I contacted Mark Lewisohn again, sending him a copy of one of the documents. Then the mystery was solved: Lewisohn acknowledged that he’d made an error in his email to me – and that Bill had in fact told him his birthday was in April, not September.

The Bluesky post which stated that “Billy died on his 90^th birthday” hadn’t so far been specifically discussed in our email exchange. I emailed Lewisohn this week to confirm whether the post was inaccurate. I explained that I planned to write about the issue “as an example of the complexity of Beatles research in the digital age” and offered him the chance to comment. He responded:

“I continually have the sense that you’re trying to call me out for something. I do hope I’m wrong about that, just as I was wrong when reporting Hall’s birthdate in a social media post and repeating it in an email without rechecking the source. That’s what comes of momentarily and not properly diverting my focus from writing Volume 2 [of his Beatles biography]. I expect you’ll also have made a mistake at some point in your life.”

At the time this Substack post was published (14 January 2026), Mark Lewisohn’s Bluesky post remained online.

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Beatles history in the digital age

As Lewisohn’s response suggested, historians and researchers will always make mistakes. But the now-solved mystery of Billy Hall’s birthday highlights how easy it is for historical narratives to become distorted when they are not closely based on documents. And as errors are disseminated through different channels, they may begin to become entrenched and more difficult to challenge. As Lewisohn’s comment alluded to, such risks increase on social media, where posts are often composed quickly and may receive less rigorous verification than claims in other formats.

Mark Lewisohn doesn’t need reminding of the central importance of documents to historical research – it’s a point he’s repeatedly made himself. And in the wider scheme of things, the date of Billy Hall’s birth is a minor detail. Even so, the error here underlines how misunderstandings can enter the discourse on even the most apparently straightforward matters.

As Lewisohn pointed out to me, this mistake was thankfully not included in his Beatles biography, Tune In. But this raises a further important point. Increasingly, Beatles research is being carried out and discussed not just in the printed media, but also through faster-moving, more informal formats such as blogs and podcasts. And most researchers, including Lewisohn, are using digital platforms to engage with their audiences.

The conversational nature of these spaces is a strength. And instinctively, many would give more leeway to remarks made on a podcast or a social network than those in a book or scholarly journal. But when these comments – whether made by Lewisohn or anyone else – have a direct bearing on our understanding of the Beatles, does that still make sense?

As the influence of online platforms grows, this is a question that anyone interested in Beatles history will have to think carefully about. Some podcasts and blogs include extensive citations and explicitly consider evidential questions – exhibiting stronger scholarly rigour than many printed books. This surely points the way forward: not lowering the bar for some media, but maintaining high standards across the board. Achieving this, while maintaining the accessibility and liveliness of digital media, will support an increasingly better understanding of the Beatles’ story.

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What if John Lennon had moved to New Zealand as a child instead of becoming a Beatle? In effect, this was the question that the majority of my writing focused on in 2025.

Many influential accounts of Beatles history have included a dramatic encounter in 1946. In the seaside resort of Blackpool, it’s said that John was asked to choose between moving to New Zealand with his father, Alf, or staying in Liverpool with his mother, Julia. In some versions, the five-year-old John initially chooses to go with Alf, before at the last minute running down the street to be with Julia.

We now know that the Blackpool story is at best an exaggeration. The initial reason for my interest in it was the possibility that the events may have influenced John’s later fascination with islands and the sea. But after researching it in more detail, I was intrigued by the way it developed over decades through interactions between different sources and writers. The decisive moment came when a retired businessman in New Zealand read a book review, and decided it was time to break decades of silence.

This post traces the rise and fall of the myth – and how our understanding of it continues to evolve.

1. Alf Lennon’s claims

The initial Blackpool story came from John Lennon’s father Alf, who in 1968 told Beatles biographer Hunter Davies that John “had to decide whether to stay with me or go with her”.

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First it was given names that didn’t exist… then it disappeared completely. Welcome to the latest twist in the story of the Greek island that the Beatles wanted to buy in 1967.

The updated Beatles Anthology documentary series, released for streaming last week, contains a number of differences from the original nineties version. As well as sharper pictures and sound, some content has changed substantially. Because of the shorter episodes compared to the 1996 release, some parts have had to be cut. But it isn’t just about length – some material has also been added, presumably reflecting different editorial priorities.

Some Beatles fans have lamented notable material that’s no longer there, such as Paul’s comment in episode one that, since John’s mother played a ukulele, “to this day, if I ever meet grown-ups… who play ukuleles I love ‘em”. Others believe that the documentary now feels fresher, reflecting new audiences, needs and attitudes thirty years on.

Greek island plans

Whatever your view, one part that has changed significantly is the section about the Beatles wanting to buy a Greek island in July 1967 – during the so-called ‘summer of love’. The 2003 DVD (essentially the same as the 1996 version) includes a two-and-a-half-minute montage of clips of the group and their companions in Greece, as well as comments from George and Ringo on the events. This is an important source for our knowledge – not least because it includes images of a specific island, that I identified as Monolia in the Lichadonisia cluster.

The new version is significantly shorter (lasting only about thirty seconds), while also containing new material. Interestingly, there’s no specific mention of the Greek island idea at all. Instead, shots of the trip to Greece are shown during the part when the Beatles comment on the summer of love in general.

The clips of Greece are still soundtracked by the song Baby, You’re a Rich Man. But there are no longer any images of the island that appears to be Monolia – and Magic Alex is also notable by his absence (he does appear in a later episode). What does survive of the Greece footage is much clearer, and there’s some new material (as well as a shot of George making a colourful crayon doodle on the deck of a yacht, there’s now also one of his wife Pattie doing the same). But if you just saw this version, it wouldn’t be clear that the images shown were from Greece, or that the group had wanted to buy an island there.

Summer of love

However, there is more material about the summer of love itself – and a stronger suggestion of how the optimistic mood at this time influenced the Beatles’ island plans. As the shots of Greece are shown, George comments:

“The love generation, or whatever you want to call it, they had this kind of thing about how everybody was going to change the world. Everybody was on such a buzz. You know, I don’t mean just the Beatles, but the whole kind of planet was – at least San Francisco, LA and London was.”

This new addition significantly expands on Harrison’s existing comments (included both versions): “I mean, you know that ‘summer of love’, a lot of that was bullshit really. It was all what the press were saying. But there was definitely… a vibe”.

Acid was a big part of that vibe; but the weather also played its part. This is made clear in a small other addition that’s now included at the start of a comment from Paul: “It always seemed to be sunny – you wore these far-out clothes and these far-out little sunglasses.” Again, this expands on his already-included observation that “‘summer of love’ is a little bit too sort of easy, but yeah [it was] some sort of golden summer’”. And it underlines how it wasn’t coincidental that the Beatles ‘followed the sun’ to Greece: a deeper connection to nature and the universe was part of the whole vibe.

The updated footage of young people dancing now comes across as more colourful and joyful. Together, these changes help us better understand the time that the events took place. It’s now easy to assume that the Beatles were never serious about living together on a Greek island – but we have to consider the historical context, when utopian ideas seemed much more feasible. While the group would soon become disillusioned with the hippie dream, that hadn’t yet happened when they went to Greece.

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Controversial associations

I’d like to think that wanting to emphasise this context, together with the need to reduce the run time, led to the more specific material about the Greek island being cut. A suspicious viewer, though, might also wonder whether any powers at Apple and/or Disney wanted to minimise controversy: in particular (and as I’ve previously discussed in the Journal of Beatles Studies), the possibility that the Beatles’ visit to Greece was used as propaganda by the country’s then military government.

In any case, if the attempt to buy a Greek island was seen as a largely irrelevant part of the Beatles’ story that could happily go, I disagree. Not only is this section an entertaining part of the original documentary. The events capture the group at a significant point in time, and give important indications about how they were thinking and feeling.

I find it surprising that the island idea isn’t even mentioned in the updated version. And if the new documentary was the only one we had, our knowledge of the events would be significantly poorer. The good news is that as that since we still have the old one, there’s now more information overall. It also follows that there must be still more relevant material in the vaults – particularly since in his live performances, Paul has shown an additional second or so of footage that significantly adds to the picture - appearing to show George on Monolia.

This makes me wonder: what else is there that we haven’t seen? With their ongoing output of new remasters and outtakes, some are starting to accuse Apple of scraping the barrel of Beatles content. But this is not a view that I’ll take while some Greek island footage still remains under wraps. Until it surfaces, we’ll have to keep asking, as John Lennon does in the song that backs this section: “And have you travelled very far? … What did you see when you were there?”

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The Beatles’ producer George Martin played an essential role in realising their creative visions. By 1968, however, the group were increasingly confident in the studio, and didn’t need him as much. In September that year, while the four were recording material for what would become the ‘White Album’, Martin even went on holiday to Italy – leaving any necessary tasks to his assistant.

Martin didn’t forget about the band, of course. While away, he sent them a postcard depicting some of the Aeolian Islands off the coast of Sicily – and what he wrote on it is intriguing:

“I have found the perfect island for a recording studio,” Martin began. “Only hang up is there is no electricity. Still, I’m told cassette recording is the coming thing.”

The reference to an island studio is clearly light-hearted – but it’s fascinating even so. Because one of the reasons given for the Beatles wanting to buy a Greek island the previous year was to make music and have a recording studio there. George Martin had no known involvement in the Greek island discussions – which makes sense, since he was not a fan of Magic Alex. But why was the idea of an island studio on his mind? If the comment came completely out of the blue, it would seem odd. It suggests he and the group had already discussed the topic – perhaps in relation to their Greek dream from the previous year.

Adding further interest to Martin’s observation, about a decade later he did set up a recording studio on an island – for his company Associated Independent Recording (AIR), on Montserrat in the Caribbean. AIR Montserrat opened in 1979, later hosting artists such as the Rolling Stones, Elton John and Paul McCartney. “The studio and its surroundings were gorgeous,” recalled sound engineer Geoff Emerick, who helped create it. “There was a huge picture window in the control room overlooking the bay; you could literally sit at the console and watch the sunset at the same time.”1

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The project was audacious – but in his autobiography, Martin says the idea of a “total environment studio” had always appealed to him. He’d previously considered creating one on a ship to give groups “their get-away-from-it-all feeling”. After a two-year search, the choice was narrowed down to a 120-ft yacht in Malta and a 160-ft passenger ferry offered by the Yugoslav government. Despite its challenges, Martin claims the idea was only abandoned due to the 1970s economic crisis.

Hawaii, Canada and Mexico were tempting locations for a land-based facility, adds Martin. While he’d always liked the Caribbean, he was put off by the political instability – until discovering peaceful Montserrat, where he was able to create his “ideal working place”. “Despite the fact that constructing a state-of-the-art studio in such a remote area was an almost impossible task,” said Emerick, “we pulled it off.”

Sadly, the Montserrat studio was abandoned in 1989 after a hurricane ravaged the island. While the building escaped fairly lightly, Martin later commented that changes in the music business combined with the hurricane’s impact meant it was time to close the facility. What remains of it now sits on the edge of an exclusion zone for a nearby volcano, which erupted in 1995.

This creates another point of comparison with Martin’s earlier postcard, whose image includes the volcanic island of Stromboli. What’s more, the Lichadonisia islands – the place in Greece that the Beatles most likely wanted – are also said to have been created by a volcano. These similarities are surely all coincidental. The common thread is the romantic appeal of an island getaway for creating music undisturbed. This vision clearly appealed to Martin. It also appealed to the Beatles in 1967 – and the fact that Martin referenced the idea on his postcard suggests that the group and their producer might have previously discussed this concept.

There are now a number of recording studios on islands, but when Martin created AIR Montserrat, it seems to have been the first such project. When the Beatles dreamed of having one in Greece, it was an even more outlandish notion. In their attempts to realise this ambition, then, the musicians and their producer were once again ahead of their time.

Note: George Martin’s postcard is included as supplementary material in ‘Recording the Beatles’ by Kevin Ryan and Brian Kehew (2006), which is an excellent detailed guide to the technical aspects of the Beatles’ recording sessions as well as the surrounding context. It draws on interviews with many people that worked with the group. Thanks to Professor Jan Hemming at the University of Kassell for highlighting the postcard to me.

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Update (February 2026):

I recently got back from Greece, where I spoke to several people that knew Alexis Mardas - the friend of the Beatles who helped facilitate their trip to the country in 1967 and plans to buy an island there. My trip included visiting Hydra - the Greek island where in his post-Beatles years Mardas owned a home and spent much of his time.

‘Magic Alex’ was an enigmatic person, but these conversations helped me learn a lot more about his fascinating story, and I’ll be writing more soon about what I discovered.

In the meantime, I’m re-sharing a post I previously wrote discussing some of my earlier research about Mardas: including his roots in what is now Bulgaria, his illustrious family history and his influential connections. Read on to learn more about the mysterious Magic Alex - or click the three links below for other articles I’ve written about him.

More about Magic Alex:

Actor, architect, soldier…spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas

Alexis Mardas was integral to the Beatles’ plans to buy a Greek island – though not much is known about him. According to various accounts, Mardas spoke of having high-level connections in Greece that could help him find a suitable spot for the group. Specific claims he is said to have made include that his father was a high-up member of Greece’s secret police1, and that his family’s social circles included Prince Philip2. Mardas had a well-attested tendency for exaggeration, meaning that it can be hard to discern fact from possible fantasy in such reports. However, his apparent claims appear to have at least some basis in reality.

I’ve tried to find out more about Mardas’ background from various sources – and what I’ve learned points to a fascinating picture. Like many Greeks, both Alexis’ immediate family and the wider Mardas family have roots in the part of the world that is now Bulgaria, Turkey and the Black Sea coast – and moved to Greece itself in the early twentieth century. I was told that some parts of this wider family – which also happens to include a pioneer of Greek cinema – historically had significant wealth. Whether or not this was true of Alexis’ immediate family, by the late 1960s he was developing influential connections within Greek society, including a globally prominent architect and planner. Such relationships in turn seem to have helped him later build growing links within international royal circles. It also appears plausible that Alexis’ father did indeed have some connection to the colonels’ military government – possibly including work for a state intelligence service. But how or whether such relationships might have supported Magic Alex’s quest to find a Greek island for the Beatles remains unclear.

Alexis’ father: soldier or ‘shady businessman’?

Various media reports offer a glimpse of who Alexis Mardas was. Certainly by the late 1970s – long after he had parted ways with the Beatles – he does appear to have had extensive international royal connections. A Sunday Times article in 19783 reported that the Sultan of Oman had returned three bullet-proof Mercedes cars to Night Vision Systems, a security company run by Mardas, due to their unsatisfactory performance. According to this article, Mardas counted the kings of Jordan, Spain, and Morocco, as well as the Shah of Iran, among his other customers and described himself as a close friend of the ex-King Constantine of Greece. And the 1979 New Statesman article (by the same author, Duncan Campbell)4 says that Constantine, then living in London, had “spent not a little of his time fixing up contacts and contracts for Mardas”, including among various other royal families around the world.

Reports of his earlier activities contain less detail – though Mardas did sometimes speak to the media about his life. In 1968 he met a reporter from the Daily Mail5 who profiled Mardas and his inventions, saying:

“Inventor John Alexis Mardas came to Britain on a tour two years ago while studying chemistry and electronics. He thought of staying for a few days because it sounded a nice country after he once talked to Prince Philip and Lord Snowdon6 in Greece. But he stayed on, married a Greek girl here this year, and intends to become a British citizen.”

In 1995, he was interviewed by Stavroula Panagiotaki from the Greek magazine Gynaika, who later recalled a “peaceful man, incredibly kind with a terribly soft voice”. Her article briefly mentions Mardas’ background, saying that he was born in Athens, “the son of a soldier from Eastern Rumelia”. The military reference aligns with other mentions of Mardas’ father – the Daily Mail article, for example, described Alexis as the “son of a Greek ex-general”. The New Statesman article mentioned above refers to a different kind of work for the state, saying Alexis’ father was “a major in the Greek secret police”.

Within Alexis’ extended family, there is a somewhat different impression again. Last year I spoke to Argyris Mardas, an entrepreneur and author who describes himself as a distant cousin of Alexis, “two or three generations” away from a common ancestor. He never met Alexis, but has spoken to people that did. Argyris told me that as far as he knew, Alexis’ father was not a general, though he believed it was possible he had military experience of some kind. More significant, in his view, was Mardas senior’s work as a businessman. Indeed, he described Alexis’ father as a “shady businessman” who was “very close to the [colonels’] government” and involved in “a lot of work that [would now be seen as] questionable”.

“A lot of his business was with the government,” he said. “But I don't think that he worked inside the government…He didn’t have a good name.” Argyris had also heard that Alexis’ father had a connection to Constantine, the King of Greece7 - but he didn’t know any details about this.

Argyris didn’t claim to have direct knowledge of these matters and was only passing on what he had heard. Family stories can of course become distorted over distance and time - and in this case, the apparent contradictions with other accounts seem to deepen the mystery further. But from the references above and others, some consistent themes do emerge with regard to Alexis Mardas’ father: some kind of association with the military, and a sense of secretive activity. I suggest one possible explanation for this further below.

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Roots in Bulgaria and Istanbul

There is more certainty about the geographical origins of the wider Mardas family – which the Gynaika article hints at through its reference to “Eastern Rumelia”. This was once a province in the Ottoman Empire with a substantial Greek population. By the 20th century it had effectively become part of Bulgaria. According to Argyris, the wider Mardas family has its origins in and around this part of the world. His own grandfather, he says, was born in Eastern Rumelia around 1910. Some time later – about 20 years, he thinks – the family moved to Constantinople (as Istanbul was then known), and later still to Greece itself.

This journey is in keeping with wider historical trends. In the early twentieth century, there was widespread migration among ethnic Greeks during territorial upheavals that included the first world war and its aftermath. In Bulgaria, growing nationalist tensions led to a violent anti-Greek movement breaking out in 1906. Many Greeks left the country in the ensuing years, with some going directly to Greece itself and others joining Greek communities in other places. This formed part of tensions in the wider region that led to an influx of refugees into Greece from what is now Turkey, as well as Thrace (including Eastern Rumelia) and the Black Sea coast. Overall, by the early 1920s, these refugees comprised about 25% of Greece’s population. This was the turbulent context in which many members of the Mardas family eventually settled in Greece.

In Constantinople, where Argyris’ grandfather lived for a while, there was historically a large Greek community. One notable member of the wider Mardas family, Argyris told me, was born in the city in 1875: the actor and director Achilleas Madras, whose original surname was Mardas. Madras is now seen as a pioneer of Greek cinema for cult films such as the Wizard of Athens (1931). According to reports, he studied in Paris, where he worked with the legendary French actress Sarah Bernhardt. He travelled widely for his work, including spending some time in Athens. And he was married to his co-star in the Wizard of Athens, Frida Pupelina.

Achilleas “was [from] a very wealthy family”, said Argyris. “He fell in love with an actress. And he wanted to marry her. But the family said no.” According to Argyris, it was in retaliation for this disapproval that Madras changed his surname.

The journey followed by Argyris’ grandfather – from Eastern Rumelia, via Istanbul, to Greece itself – was also taken by others in the extended family, said Argyris – even if this meant a drop in prosperity for some. Some parts of this wider family were wealthy and “had properties in Istanbul”, said Argyris. “But when they came to Greece, they left a lot of things behind.”

Connections to wealth, power and royalty

Argyris didn’t know the specific route that Alexis’ immediate family took to Greece. But whatever his family’s social status, by some means Alexis Mardas – who was born in 1942 – attended the prestigious Moraitis private school in Athens. And by the late 1960s at least, his family had some influential relationships within Greek society. One particularly significant connection was the Doxiadis family. The “Greek girl” whom the Daily Mail tells us Alexis married in 1968 was Euphrosyne Doxiadis, daughter of the renowned architect and planner Constantinos.

It would be difficult to overstate how influential Constantinos Doxiadis was at the time – not only in Greece, but globally. A New Yorker article in 1963 said that he was probably, "in terms of the number of human dwellings involved, the greatest city planner now at work in the world", impacting the lives of an estimated 10 million people. In the 1950s and 1960s, his firm Doxiadis Associates grew from its base in Athens to have offices on five continents. The company’s work “involved the planning of whole new cities and the rearrangement of whole regions,” said the article. Major projects included designing a new capital city – Islamabad – for Pakistan, overseeing Iraq's national housing programme, and a large urban renewal plan in Philadelphia.

Doxiadis was also a significant figure in global politics following the second world war. During Greece’s wartime occupation, while working in a government job he also led an underground unit that gathered military information to support resistance efforts. (After the war, this work was recognised through an honorary OBE from Britain.) And Doxiadis was central to post-war reconstruction efforts. From 1948 until 1951 he co-ordinated US investment in Greece under the Marshall Plan, as the minister overseeing Greece's post-war recovery. This made him an important point of contact in foreign policy circles, and of interest to international journalists and politicians.

After setting up his firm in the 1950s, Doxiadis deepened his influence through the Delos Symposium, an annual cruise through the Greek islands he hosted annually from 1963, which brought together intellectual and political luminaries from across the world. Prominent guests included the architect Buckminster Fuller, the philosopher Marshall McLuhan, and the anthropologist Margaret Mead.

Other members of the Doxiadis family were well-connected in their own right: Constantinos’ father Apostolos, a doctor, was a minister in the Greek government, while his brother Thomas was a doctor to the Greek royal family.

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Alexis’ father: another Argyris Mardas

But how well did Alexis Mardas know this illustrious family? We know that after marrying Euphrosyne he had professional contact with Doxiadis’ firm. In 1968-69, when Mardas was a director at the Beatles' company Apple, he and others corresponded with staff at Doxiadis Associates to discuss possible record publishing and distribution. And a photograph of a group of people including Alexis Mardas and Constantinos Doxiadis was taken in Athens in October that year.

Records of these interactions are held in Doxiadis’ personal archive in Athens. Interestingly, the archive also holds a file of correspondence between Constantinos Doxiadis and someone called Argyris Mardas when Doxiadis was living in Australia in the early 1950s: the letters discuss possible employment and travel arrangements for construction workers migrating from Greece to Australia.

This Argyris Mardas was almost certainly Alexis’ father. He has the right first name – which we are told in a Greek newspaper’s report about the Beatles’ visit to Greece. Describing Ringo Starr’s departure for London, an article in To Vima on 26 July says: “Ringo and his office manager [Neil Aspinall] were accompanied to the airport by Mr Argyris Mardas, the father of the young man who is hosting the Beatles here.”

Backing this up, the Argyris Mardas that I spoke to – the distant cousin of Alexis – said: “Argyris is a frequent name that you find in our family. My grandfather was Argyris Mardas, his grandfather was Argyris Mardas – it’s like that.”

If the Argyris Mardas named in the 1951-52 archive correspondence was indeed Alexis’ father, it suggests that the Mardas and Doxiadis families may have known each other long before Alexis married Euphrosyne. Indeed, my understanding is that the connection goes back many decades. The two families both have roots in the same town in Eastern Rumelia – Stenimachos (now called Asenovgrad), which once had a predominantly Greek population. Apostolos Doxiadis, Constantinos’ father, was a Greek activist there8. But amid the rising nationalist tensions, the Doxiadis family moved to Athens in 1915 when Constantinos was one year old. According to the 1963 New Yorker article, Apostolos was sentenced to death in Bulgaria for his activities that year, but he escaped and later joined his family who had already fled to Greece’s capital. In 1922 he became the Greek cabinet minister for refugees.

I was told that Alexis’ father, Argyris Mardas, was also born in Stenimachos. The two families knew each other both in Stenimachos and as part of the migrant community of its former residents in Athens (I’ve seen a photograph that includes both Argyris and Constantinos when they were both children). This long-standing connection means Alexis Mardas would have known the Doxiadis family in some capacity before he came to London in the mid-sixties. This would have given him some justification to claim high-level connections, and it provides a possible route for Mardas’ reputed connection to Greek royalty. After all, Constantinos’ brother Thomas was doctor to the Greek royal family. And the 1979 New Statesman article mentioned above describes Euphrosyne Doxiadis (whom Mardas married in 1968) as a “confidante” to the Greek royals. In turn, it could be this royal connection that explains the rumours about Mardas knowing Prince Philip – who was related to the Greek royal family and born in Greece.

Greek intelligence agency

According to the 1979 New Statesman article, it was indeed Mardas’ 1968 marriage that gave him his “foothold into the royal circles”. But in summer 1967, when he was looking for an island for the Beatles, his connection to the Doxiadis family would have been significantly weaker. If Mardas’ father did indeed work for or with the Greek state at that point, that could have been a more effective source of contacts. Did he? My understanding is that Alexis’ father, Argyris, had a career in the Greek army, rising to a mid-senior rank, before later working in business – and was firmly on the right wing of politics. This military background means he may conceivably have had some connection to the colonels who took over Greece in 1967. And politically he was much closer to their views than the progressive-minded Constantinos Doxiadis was.

Though this is less certain, there could be a further connection to the Greek state. It’s been plausibly suggested to me that Alexis’ father at one point may have worked for the Kentriki Ypiresia Pliroforion (KYP) – Greece’s national intelligence agency that was founded in 1953. If true, this would make sense of the impression, that comes across in various references to Alexis Mardas’ father, of him being involved with something that was in some way military but also secret. KYP was just that: an intelligence agency with close links to the army. But whether this is actually the explanation remains unclear.

More about Magic Alex:

Read more:

Desertion, theft and a stay in hospital: Alf Lennon’s eventful war
George Harrison on Monolia?
Recap: what we’ve learned about the Beatles’ Greek island mystery

The announcement that The Beatles Anthology multimedia project is to be rebooted this autumn recently caused a considerable stir. Alongside an updated release of the TV documentary, there will be a reissue of the book (originally published in 2000) and a new audio compilation.

For me, this news recalled a puzzle that I’d come across when comparing two quotes from George Harrison about the group’s intention to buy a Greek island – one in Anthology, and another in a book published sixteen years earlier.

The Anthology book presents the Beatles “in their own words”, including extensive quotes from the group. It’s billed as being “in effect, the Beatles autobiography”, and as such, it’s an important source for anyone interested in their history.

But where do the quotes originate? Many come from the same interviews with Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr that were used for the TV documentary. According to the introduction to the 2000 edition, “further major interviews were conducted with Paul, George and Ringo specifically for this book”.

A close look at the section about the Greek island suggests that the Anthology book may also draw on material from other sources. This, at least, seems to be the case with a quote from Harrison on page 258 of the 2000 edition.

This quote begins very similarly to Harrison’s comments in the Anthology TV series, where he says:

“Somebody had said 'you should invest some money', and we thought, 'well let's buy an island'. We'll just go there and drop out.' We rented a boat and we drove this boat up and down the coast from Athens, looking at islands. And we came to this island that we'd arranged to go and see."

The first three sentences of Harrison’s quote in the book are very similar to those in bold above. Presumably they come from the interview for the docuseries – although the order, and some of the wording, has been changed (for example, in the book it says they “sailed” rather than “drove” the boat).

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Material from Derek Taylor’s memoir

However, the next part of the Anthology quote appears to derive from another source: Fifty Years Adrift, the memoir of the Beatles’ press officer Derek Taylor, published in 1984. Taylor’s book includes numerous direct quotes from George Harrison – including one on the Greek island plans. In the extract below, from Harrison’s quote in Anthology, the first few sentences are exactly the same as those in a George quote from Fifty Years Adrift:

“It was a great trip. John and I were on acid all the time, sitting on the front of the ship playing ukuleles. Greece was on the left; a big island on the right. The sun was shining and we sang ‘Hare Krishna’ for hours and hours. Eventually we landed on a little beach with a village, but as soon as we stepped off the boat it started pouring with rain. There were storms and lightning, and the only building on the island was a little fisherman’s cottage – so we all piled in: ‘Scuse us, squire. You don’t mind if we come and shelter in your cottage, do you?’”

Since these books were published more than fifteen years apart, the most obvious explanation for this identical content is that the Anthology quote draws on material from Taylor’s book.

The second part of the Anthology quote above is not identical to that in Fifty Years Adrift, but there is considerable overlap. The quote in Taylor’s memoir includes the phrase “eventually we landed on a little beach with a village”. It also says that after encountering thunder, lightning and pouring rain, the Beatles’ group “ran for cover into somebody’s hut and all the local fishermen were friendly and gave us glasses of wine”.

The final part of the Anthology quote also includes content that is very similar to that in Fifty Years Adrift (identical parts are in bold below):

“It was about the only time The Beatles ever made any money on a business venture. To make the purchase, we’d changed the money into international dollars or some currency. Then, when they changed the money back, the exchange rate had gone up and so we made about twenty shillings or so.”

However, in the Anthology quote, this content has been re-ordered and slightly re-worded (in the original quote, the parts about changing money and then changing it back are addressed separately – at the beginning and the end of Harrison’s quote).

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Why the details matter

In one sense, it doesn’t matter where the material for the quote in Anthology comes from. Harrison signed off on the book, so he agreed for those specific words to be attributed to him. However, if we’re trying to work out the actual history of the attempted Greek island purchase, it does help to know what the sources are.

Because while the broad outline of the quotes in Fifty Years Adrift and Anthology are similar, the differences are significant. It matters, for instance, that the quote in Taylor’s book says the group ran into “somebody’s hut” for shelter, while the Anthology quote states that the group went into a “little fisherman’s cottage”, said to be the “only building on the island”.

These distinctions might seem pedantic, but here it does make a difference whether it was a “hut” or a “cottage” that the Beatles took refuge in. On Monolia (the group’s likely target) at this time, there were ‘kiosks’ – shelters used by fishermen that that could reasonably be described as huts, but not cottages. And it’s plausible that the Beatles and their companions ran into one of these.

It also makes a difference whether there was a village on the island or just one building. In the 1960s, Monolia had several buildings, rather than only one – so it matches the former description, but not the latter. Here, the quote in Anthology not only contradicts the account in Fifty Years Adrift, but also itself – confusingly stating that the island had “a village” but also only one building.

So while the quote in Taylor’s book contains small details that help identify the likely location, the quote in Anthology includes aspects that arguably obscure it. This confusion may arise from the way the latter seems to be a composite of different sources.

The Anthology quote also includes some quotations within it: the one above beginning “Scuse us, squire” and another from Magic Alex, saying “we’ll have the military come” to carry away the big pebbles that covered the island. I don’t know what the source is for these comments – but while they add colour to the narrative, they don’t concern anything substantive about the events in question.

The quote from George Harrison in the Anthology book, then, seems to combine at least two different sources: the interview for the TV series and Derek Taylor’s memoir. And there are additional details that so far have no identified source: these must either come from parts of the filmed interview that weren’t screened, or another source (or sources). What’s more, some of the information from these seems to be contradictory.

I don’t know whether any other quotes in The Beatles Anthology blend material from several sources in this way. But it helps to realise that this may be the case – and where possible, to try and work out what these sources are.

Read more:

Desertion, theft and a stay in hospital: Alf Lennon’s eventful war
George Harrison on Monolia?
Recap: what we’ve learned about the Beatles’ Greek island mystery

In the winter of 1943, John Lennon’s father Alfred was working as a steward on the Moreton Bay – a passenger cruiser now converted for carrying troops during the war. Crossing the Atlantic back to Liverpool after a stop in New York, the ship encountered a terrifying three-day storm.

A log entry, dated 22 to 24 January, tersely notes: “Vessel in convoy in intense cyclonic disturbance, with mountainous seas.” Manoeuvring to ride out these conditions, the Moreton Bay sustained “upper structural damage”, with its lifeboats and rafts affected. The chaos may have hastened the end for one of Alf’s crewmates. At 1:30am on the third day, Albert Grant, a 28-year-old fireman with suspected meningitis, died; he was buried at sea that afternoon. His remaining personal effects included a three-piece suit, six chocolate bars and two tins of meat extract.

Grant’s fate was by no means unusual for merchant seamen, whose death rate during the second world war was higher than for those serving in the armed forces. Misfortunes experienced by others on the Moreton Bay included suffering a skin infection, having their appendix removed or losing a fingertip. But these crew members, and the rest of their colleagues on board, were all lucky: they returned home at a time when many were not. The threat from prowling German U-boats was then at its peak, with alarming numbers of merchant vessels being sunk.

The North Atlantic was particularly perilous, so Alf – now aged 30 – was probably grateful to reunite with his wife, Julia, in February. But when he got back, he found his domestic life was also undergoing upheavals. The four-year marriage had always been idiosyncratic, punctuated by Alf’s long absences at sea. Now real problems were emerging. After an argument about Julia’s new habit of visiting the pub “every evening”, Alf says she poured hot tea on him; he responded by slapping her1.

Clearly, there was a lot going on in Alf’s life. But as it turned out, all this was just the prelude to far greater disruption. He was about to embark on extraordinary series of global escapades – beginning in July 1943 and lasting well over a year, with each mishap compounding the last. Alf’s own telling of these events is barely believable. But I’ve found archive documents that reveal an even more remarkable story. Meticulously-kept logs, crew agreements and other records detail how John Lennon’s father deserted his ship in New York, was imprisoned in Algeria for stealing cargo and then – in an episode Alf didn’t mention – hospitalised in Italy with venereal disease, before returning to the UK as a ‘distressed British seaman’.

Along the way, Alf befriended Billy Hall, thereby paving the way for a later, much-discussed incident in Blackpool – where a five-year-old John Lennon was supposedly asked to choose between emigrating to the antipodes with his father, or staying in Liverpool with his mother. Below, I take a closer look at what happened – including a definite answer on whether we can believe Alf or Bill about how the latter got to New Zealand.

The details of ship movements, desertions and events on board are all confirmed in documents held in the UK National Archives. Some additional context and quotes, from Alf’s perspective, come from his quasi-autobiography Daddy, Come Home (1990)2.

Deserting ship in New York

It may have at least partially mitigated the hardships of his employment when, while serving on the Moreton Bay in May 1942, Alf Lennon had been promoted from assistant steward to saloon steward. It involved a pay rise of a pound a month: about 10%3. Alf continued in this role on the ship’s next trip, which – following the storm – returned to the UK in February 1943. Alongside its risks, that voyage epitomised the work’s adventurous glamour – having called at ports including Durban, Buenos Aires and Trinidad before reaching New York.

By July, the Allies had seen off the Atlantic U-boat menace. Alf now sailed this route in the other direction – this time as a passenger, travelling to the US in the apparent hope of a much bigger role. He claims that in a pub, a union official had told him that seamen with ratings such as his were sent to New York for jobs as chief stewards on ‘liberty ships’. (At the time, these mass-produced vessels were rapidly being built to replace the huge numbers lost.) While the new ships did urgently require staffing, chief steward was a senior post overseeing all catering crew: well above even Alf’s new level. So his supposed plan sounds rather optimistic – but it may nonetheless have been with a sense of new possibilities that he made the journey.

As it happened, Alf had to wait for weeks in New York to be assigned to a ship – long enough to find a temporary job at a department store, Macy’s. A keen singer, he also quickly found a way to express his creative side, spending his weekends entertaining other seamen in bars. He fondly recalled one particular occasion, when he performed his “Adolf Hitler act”, followed by some Broadway musical numbers and an “impromptu dance” around the room – “leaping across tables into the hairy arms of the sailors… The finale was greeted with stupendous applause and shouts of ‘Broadway for the boy’.”

Alf said this tour de force – which allegedly led to him being held aloft through the New York streets, followed by a crowd of forty to fifty revellers – “was one of the greatest thrills of his life”. But joining the crew of the Samothrace in Baltimore that September, cold reality struck. Given his recent promotion and hopes for more, it must have been a bitter blow to be employed at his former level of assistant steward. There was then more bad luck on board when Alf broke his right collar bone wrestling with a crewmate. The injury kept him off duty for more than three weeks. With his frustrations mounting, a spirit of restlessness perhaps proved overwhelming, and while at port in New York on 13 January 1944, Alf Lennon deserted the Samothrace, “taking all his gear with him”4.

Prison, then hospital

Perhaps, as Alf claimed, the ship’s captain had told him this would be the only way to register a complaint about his rating. Perhaps Alf, who as a boy had dreamed of a career on stage, even had visions of extending his run as an entertainer. According to Daddy, Come Home, Alf reported to the British consul the day after jumping ship. (His naval service file shows he was listed as “man wanted”.) In Alf’s telling, his innocent request for help led to him being detained on Ellis Island for two weeks by the immigration authorities. Whatever happened, we know for sure that on 9 February 1944, Alf joined another liberty ship, the Sammex, headed for North Africa.

Alf remained at the level of assistant steward – though that turned out to be the least of his troubles. The Sammex’s log records that about a month later, he and another crew member were found “drinking together” at 11:30am while “neglecting their duties”. A search of their cabins “revealed large quantities of beer and cigarettes which it is presumed had been extracted from the cargo”. According to the entry, Alf claimed that “similar pilfered goods” would be found in the cabins of all the vessel’s officers and of other crew members – but a search found this accusation was “unfounded”.

This contrasts markedly with Alf’s own account, in which he resisted being drawn into an on-board conspiracy to broach the ship’s cargo – but was then unfortunately caught drinking stolen beer, just after his friend had left the room. His story must have failed to convince the naval court at the next port – Bône in Algeria5, an important hub for the North Africa campaign. Here Alf Lennon, together with two others, was sentenced to imprisonment. Months after his star turn in the bars of New York, he now found himself in Bône’s military prison in conditions he would later say were “so disgusting as to be indescribable”. Despite his sentence being for two months, Alf’s service file says that he only spent a month there, for “embezzling beer and cigs”. This, though, was by no means the end of his travails.

Following his release, Alf was sent to Algiers, where he boarded the Chiswick on 27 May. After traversing the Mediterranean between Italy, North Africa and Greece, this ship would return to Birkenhead, opposite Liverpool, early the next year. But if Alf was hoping for an uneventful voyage home, this was not to be. A few days later, the vessel experienced “very severe vibrations” at sea after “seemingly [being] hit” during an enemy air attack6. Upon inspection, no serious damage was found – but the incident nonetheless highlighted the danger of the work. While the Chiswick survived this scrape, later that year Alf suffered further misfortune. On 20 September he was discharged from the ship to a hospital in Taranto, Italy with “V.D.” – venereal disease, or what would now be called an STI.

The condition was not unusual among sailors (the Chiswick’s log records three other crew members hospitalised with VD on the same trip). But in Alf’s case, this information calls into question statements he made about his marriage. With the infection emerging 14 months after he was last in Liverpool, it appears to contradict the claim of Alf’s “unerring faithfulness”, which is made in Daddy, Come Home to contrast with the actions of Julia (by the time Alf returned, she was pregnant by another man)7. Ultimately, it’s impossible to know in what circumstances Alf acquired VD. But if he hadn’t, any conversation about whether he or his son might move to New Zealand would, perhaps, never have happened.

Within a few weeks, Alf was out of hospital and in Naples. It was here, on the 11 October, that he was one of more than 50 “distressed British seamen” collected by the Monarch of Bermuda for repatriation to the UK. Working as a bedroom steward on the same vessel was 21-year-old William Hall of 37 Ivy Avenue, Blackpool. Despite Alf’s claims that they met in Algeria, it was presumably on this voyage, then – in the 12 days between Alf boarding and the ship getting back to Liverpool – that Alf and Billy became friends.

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High jinks in Australia and New Zealand

Returning home after the trip – the Monarch of Bermuda docked in October 1944 – any relief Alf might have felt was quickly tempered with the surprise of Julia’s pregnancy (the father was a Welsh soldier named Taffy Williams8). This shock news came just as hope was resurgent in wartime Britain. Following the success of D-Day, the Allies were advancing in Europe on two fronts, and thoughts were turning to what would happen after a victory that seemed increasingly likely. It was amid growing national optimism, as well as personal uncertainty, then, that Alf would reunite with Bill Hall for their next voyage – on the Dominion Monarch, flagship of the Shaw Savill Line. The trip included locations with a special appeal to each of them: for the former, New York and for the latter, New Zealand.

In November, Billy boarded the ship in Liverpool as assistant steward, travelling to New York and back before Alf joined the crew on 28 December (in the same role as Bill). It must have been after this date that Hall’s photograph of “five good friends” – himself, Alf, Billy’s brother John and two others – was taken9. The records confirm that all five were on board – and in further evidence of this gang’s closeness, they were often found together in the groups of crew disciplined for going absent without leave (Awol).

On 2 March 1945, for instance, while the Dominion Monarch was docked at Sydney, Bill, Alf and John Hardacre (another of the five friends) were all among a group of eight crew fined and forfeited wages for being Awol. The following week, in Wellington, Alf and Bill were penalised once more for the same reason. And at the end of that month, at Balboa in Panama, Alf – together with John Hall and Frank Leedale, the fifth friend – was again disciplined. These records chime with the recollections of Bill Hall, who said in reference to Alf: “He was a pisshead. We all were.”10

The evidence we have, then, suggests a compelling picture. The end of the war was increasingly in sight – and after many tough years at sea, discipline was flagging. Finding themselves in exotic locations among agreeable company, it seems that the temptation to indulge in high jinks was irresistible. For Alf in particular, the trip was probably a welcome relief after his various ordeals. Bill had already been to New Zealand twice, and loved it. It may well have been on this third visit that he began to seriously consider moving to the country – and possibly suggested that his friend do the same. After a brief stop in New York, the Dominion Monarch returned to Liverpool. Alf and Bill disembarked on 20 April 1945, less than three weeks before VE Day.

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The Blackpool conversation

After the voyage, the five friends went on leave to Blackpool: photographs show members of the group – sometimes alongside Hall’s parents and others – relaxing, drinking and larking around (in one, taken “after a session” at a local pub, Bill leans jokingly over Alf wielding a hammer). After this, though, Alf and Bill appear to have gone their separate ways until the former returned with his son the following year. Alf worked three more trips on the Dominion Monarch, before joining the Queen Mary for a short engagement – employed as a night steward from to 13 April to 1 May 1946. Meanwhile, Bill served on the Île de France, followed by two voyages on another impressive ocean liner, the Queen Elizabeth. His strong record of service is reflected in the award of a campaign medal, the 1939-1943 Star. But after the war, Hall’s service file shows that his engagements abruptly ended. In October 1945, he “failed to report from leave”, and worked on no more ships until being released from the Merchant Navy almost a year later “on termination of war service”.

Meanwhile, the young John Lennon’s domestic situation was becoming increasingly fraught. His mother, Julia, had given birth the previous June, with the baby adopted. Soon afterwards, she found a new partner, Bobby Dykins. During these events, John’s aunt Mimi had spent plenty of time looking after him at her house. But in spring 1946, Julia and Dykins moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat, taking John with them. Soon afterwards, apparently with the support of Liverpool City Council, Mimi had removed John – citing concerns about him sharing a bed with his mother and Dykins – to go and live with her11.

Upon his return to Liverpool in May, Alf apparently felt the need to intervene in this situation. The next month, he visited Mimi’s house and departed the following day with John. Alf says he told Mimi he was taking his son “shopping or to see his Granny”. In fact, the two went to stay with Billy Hall in Blackpool.

This was where the conversations about John’s future took place. While we may never know for sure what was said, the evidence above suggests that Bill Hall is a far more reliable source than Alf Lennon – whose account differs widely from what the documents reveal. This becomes even clearer when we compare the archive records to Alf and Bill’s differing stories of how Hall left the UK.

According to the testimonies of Hall and his family, he jumped ship in 1947 from the Arawa, with his parents following years later. Alf, however, told a very different story. In his version, the Hall parents emigrated first – then Bill deserted the Dominion Monarch some time after summer 1948, while Alf was also on board. Alf claimed he planned to follow suit – only changing his mind at the last minute in Wellington in 1949.

Here, the archives are unambiguous on who we can trust. Bill’s service record shows that he rejoined the merchant navy on 7 March 1947. He boarded the Arawa as an assistant steward the next week, then went Awol on 11 June while the ship was docked in Wellington. When Hall failed to materialise for the return voyage two days later, the ship’s log confirms that he was written off as a deserter. Highlighting the popularity of such a move at this time, the records show that ten other men jumped ship during the Arawa’s three and a half week stay in the New Zealand capital.

Clarifying the story

So Bill’s recollections largely match the documents – but what about Alf’s? Ships’ records do confirm his account that following the events in Blackpool, he departed for long spells on the Almanzora and then the Andes. These were followed by three successive voyages on the Dominion Monarch in 1948 and 1949 – all of which called at New Zealand12. Similarly, Alf recalled trips on this ship in these years. Indeed it was during one such voyage – sitting in a pub in Auckland on a “beautiful spring-like Sunday in October 1949” – that he says he was intending to jump ship the next day – until a crewmate asked him: “You’ve a son in Liverpool, don’t you Freddie? Won’t you miss him?”.

The log for Alf’s last trip leaves open the possibility that he may indeed have been on the cusp of moving to New Zealand. The Dominion Monarch, with Alf Lennon on board, called at Wellington on 14 October 1949, staying for almost a month. On the day of its departure – 12 November – Alf was one of ten crew members fined for having gone Awol. The same day, the log noted that nine other seamen had deserted. But if Alf had considered joining the latter group, it was his last chance. The next month he returned to London, and would never work on a ship again.

The records, then, are largely compatible with Alf’s description of his last-minute change of heart. But deciding how much trust to place in his tales is a complex matter. For someone evidently comfortable with stretching the truth, many of the details he provides are surprisingly accurate. Then again, some of his most significant claims are way off the mark. These include his story that Billy Hall deserted the Dominion Monarch, which must simply be an invention. Bill didn’t work on that ship after 1945 – and records clearly show he fled the Arawa in 1947, before the Dominion Monarch had even resumed service after the war.

Ultimately, though, the documentation of Alf and Bill’s time at sea doesn’t just help clarify the facts. It also supports a deeper understanding of the situation that came to a head in Blackpool. Clearly, the idea of moving to New Zealand wasn’t just a passing thought. As the chart below indicates, huge numbers of merchant seamen deserted their ships to live in the country after the war. Bill Hall was one of them, and Alf Lennon may have seriously considered joining him there. He had visited the country numerous times, and his marriage had broken down. The problem with Alf’s account is not the impracticality of him emigrating, but of taking his son with him.

Post-war deserters at New Zealand ports

I’ve come to realise that this subject is also far more relevant than it first seemed to my research about the Beatles in Greece. Alf’s story gives us a valuable new perspective on the personality of John Lennon, the chief proponent of the group’s plans to buy a Greek island. Curiosity about his father’s wartime escapades may help explain why John developed a growing interest in sailing and the sea, for instance. It could also have contributed to the Beatle becoming (in Paul McCartney’s words) “a world war two buff” with a “complete set” of Winston Churchill’s works13.

What’s more, there are some fascinating parallels between Alf’s and John’s lives. Almost two decades after Alf wowed the New York crowds with his Hitler impression, his son’s band came of age in another foreign port, Hamburg – once again, entertaining off-duty sailors with off-the-wall antics. Alf, who visited New York many times, suggested that in different circumstances he would have liked to live permanently in the city – something John did of course do (as well as following in Alf’s footsteps to Wellington and Auckland, on tour with the Beatles in 1964).

Getting a better grasp of Alf’s character may also help us appreciate why John was drawn to certain people. The evidence reveals his father as roguish, talented, and unpredictable; an engaging companion, though an ultimately unreliable one; an entertaining storyteller who blended elements of the truth with wild distortions. And controversy seemed to follow him wherever he went. Does that remind you of anyone else? Substitute the Scouse accent for a Greek one, and it seems to me those words could just as easily be describing Magic Alex.

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Update - read my research on Alfred Lennon’s wartime experiences:

At lunchtime on 23 February, 1941, the Tongariro cargo ship pulled into Auckland harbour amid summer breezes. For Billy Hall, a seventeen-year-old steward’s boy on board, the trip was only his second time at sea. The first, the previous year, had been a brutal introduction to the perils of the ocean – getting shipwrecked off the coast of Scotland. Alongside such natural dangers, as a merchant seaman in the second world war, Billy faced the constant risk of enemy attacks. Against this backdrop of hardships, the allure of the antipodes made a huge impression on him – a striking change from his home town of Blackpool. Billy visited New Zealand three times during the war. While his ships were docked, he might spend all day with crewmates in the bars of Auckland, or attend a vibrant party in a Wellington suburb. “I thought it was Godzone,” he later recalled.

As strong as Billy’s growing love for the country was his hatred of Britain’s class system. He’d seen his father queue for the dole for almost a decade: he was fired from his job in a bleach mill after injuring his arm. So after the war ended, the decision to move to New Zealand was easy. Like hundreds of others at that time, he simply got off his ship in Wellington and never got back on. Billy found real success in his new home: first as a fashion entrepreneur, then as a pioneering game fisherman. By the time he died in 2013, aged 90, he could look back on a remarkable path through life. What made it even more remarkable was that for a brief few weeks, it overlapped with that of a Beatle.

During his travels, Billy befriended another merchant navy steward: Alfred Lennon, father of the future Beatle, John. And after the war, Billy was present for a significant event in John’s childhood: one that has often been seen as “foundational”1. In Blackpool in June 1946, the five-year-old John was supposedly asked to choose between moving to New Zealand with his father or staying in Liverpool with his mother.

Beatles biographers such as Hunter Davies and Philip Norman have recounted this story, based on accounts from Alfred. For many, the heartbreaking choice has seemed to crystallise the future Beatle’s childhood trauma. (Norman wrote: “If you want to tear a small child in two, there is no better way.”2) Personally, I’ve speculated that an association in John’s mind between that parting with his father and the idea of moving to an island nation may have influenced his later psychology and fascinations.

However, in Tune In, the first part of his planned three-volume Beatles biography, Mark Lewisohn reported an account from Billy Hall, who told him that there was “no truth … at all” in key elements of the conventional story.

The revelation was seen as one of the book’s major myth-busting moments. And much of the Blackpool myth did indeed need busting. But since I began to explore this story, I’ve found there’s still more to say about it. I hadn’t realised, for instance, that Billy Hall did actually move to New Zealand. After speaking to members of Hall’s family, and researching his friendship with Alf through archive records, I’ve been able to gain a much clearer picture of other aspects of the events, too. What I’ve discovered not only allows us to better understand what happened in Blackpool, but also helps separate fact from fiction regarding Alf Lennon’s extraordinary wartime experiences – including significant new information. But first, let’s take another look at the traditional tellings of the Blackpool story.

The Blackpool story

In June 1946, John’s father Alfred (better known as Freddie or Alf) – an infrequent presence throughout John’s early years due to his work as a merchant seaman – reappeared in his life. John, then aged five, had recently gone to live with his aunt, Mimi, after his mother Julia (now separated from Alf, though still married to him) had moved in with her new partner, Bobby Dykins. Apparently concerned about John’s situation, Alf visited Mimi and took his son to visit Blackpool - a traditional seaside resort. John and Alfred stayed in the town for a few weeks with Billy Hall and his parents.

With the war now over, Billy was planning to emigrate to New Zealand – and according to the Beatles’ authorised biographer Hunter Davies3, Alf decided to join him. As these plans were supposedly being made, Julia turned up, saying that (in Alf’s words, quoted by Davies) she “wanted John back”. But, in Alf’s recollection, “I said I was now so used to John I was going to take him with me”. He even suggested that Julia come with them and “start again”. After she refused, Alf suggested they “let John decide”.

This is when the notorious incident supposedly occurred. In Alf’s words, reported by Davies:

“I shouted to John. He runs out and jumps on my knee. He clings to me, asking if she’s coming back. That’s obviously what he really wanted. I said no, he had to decide whether to stay with me or go with her. He said me. Julia asked again, but John still said me. Julia went out of the door and was about to go up the street when John ran after her. That was the last I saw of him or heard of him till I was told he’d become a Beatle.”

There are more details in Daddy, Come Home – the 1990 book by Alf’s second wife Pauline, which is “largely based on the text of Freddie Lennon’s unpublished autobiography”. Here, we’re told that the plan was first for John to move to New Zealand with Billy Hall’s parents:

“Mum and Dad are emigrating to New Zealand now that I have enough money to open a business there,” [Billy Hall] told Freddie. “They’re knocked out by your John and think it would be a good idea if they took him with them and we could join them over there as soon as they are settled.”

By this, the book explains that Alf and Billy would “take stewards’ jobs on a ship sailing to New Zealand and leave it on arrival” – a practice known as ‘jumping ship’ that was “very much in vogue at the time”.

And yet in Lewisohn’s Tune In, we are told that the story, as it had become widely told, was “fantasy”. Commenting on the supposed plan that “Billy’s parents would emigrate and take John with them, to be joined later by Alf who’d work a passage there”, Hall told Lewisohn:

“There’s no truth at all in that. I said I would go to New Zealand, and Lennie [Alf] said he might too, and also another mate of ours, and at some point it was mentioned that it would be a great place to raise Johnny [John] – but no plans were ever made. Not only were my parents not planning to go, they didn’t even know Iwas.”

That comment seems to refute Alf’s version decisively. But it’s worth looking closely at what has been disproved here and what hasn’t. Because turns out that there is more to this story than I realised.

Billy Hall’s move to New Zealand

Based on the reported quote from Billy Hall – “no plans were ever made” – I had previously assumed that no one involved in this incident had ever actually emigrated to New Zealand. In fact, Billy Hall did move there. Indeed Bill Hall, as he was later known, became a successful businessman in the country, not only founding a high-profile fashion company, but also becoming a noted figure in game fishing.

An obituary published in 2013 tells us that Bill moved to New Zealand in 1947 – where his early jobs included working in a coal mine and selling millinery. In 1961, Hall co-founded the clothing brand Society Fashions, which was influential in backing new trends and stayed in business until 2020. Following his death, Hall has been hailed as “the man who gave NZ the miniskirt”, who “had a great eye for fashion and could pick a best-seller”.

While he was discreet about his Lennon connections for much of his life, in March 2009 Hall spoke publicly about them, in a three-page interview in New Zealand’s Sunday Star-Times newspaper. As the journalist who met him, Steve Braunias, later recalled, Bill said he was struck by how “well-mannered and well-spoken” the young John Lennon was, looking as though “he’d just come out of a public school”. John “seemed much older” than his young years, said Hall, who recollected that “you could talk with him almost like an adult. He impressed me no end.”

Last year I spoke to Bill Hall’s daughter Josie, who confirmed that her father made several trips to New Zealand with the merchant navy during the war. He took a liking to the country, and decided to relocate there after the conflict ended, with “good parties” being an important motivation. Josie believes her Wigan-born father found it a refreshing change from class-bound Britain. She thinks his impression at the time was: “I've come somewhere, and I'm right round the world, and I'm enjoying this, and things are different, and it looks like fun.”

A passion for the good things in life apparently stayed with Bill. “He liked to laugh. He always drove Jaguars, and [was] always immaculately dressed,” Josie recalled. “And [he] liked to party – always heaps of parties.” Evidently, he also felt strongly about challenging the more dramatic accounts of the events in Blackpool. Even before the emphatic denial reported by Lewisohn, Hall had told Braunias that the version told by Lennon biographer Philip Norman was “bullshit”. So, what did happen?

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Bill Hall and Alf Lennon

It’s certainly true that Bill Hall and Alf Lennon were friends in the merchant navy during the war. Hall told Braunias that Alf was a “fantastic fellah” who was “fun all the way through. Life and soul. A great entertainer. He was always singing. He sang quite well, actually. A powerful voice…”.4 To Lewisohn, he added that Alf was “a rascal. An absolute character” who was “always part of the fun – and if there wasn’t any, he’d make some”. Bill’s photograph collection included one of him at sea together with Alf, Bill’s brother John, and two other friends, captioned “five good friends” (see above).

Bill’s note says the photo was taken in 1944 on a ship called the Dominion Monarch – an ocean liner that often plied the route between the UK and New Zealand, via Australia. Originally designed for carrying cargo and first-class passengers, it was (like many similar vessels) requisitioned and repurposed for transporting troops during the war. Before making the return voyage, the ship would harbour for days or weeks in Kiwi ports such as Auckland and Wellington, meaning crew members had time to see the destination – whether on permitted downtime or going absent without leave (Awol). Bill and Alf certainly seem to have taken the opportunity to unwind. Based on his interview with Hall, Lewisohn tells us of a time “in 1944 or ’45” when the two were “making whoopee around the streets of Wellington” and were reprimanded by a policeman after stealing a bicycle.

Josie says Bill had a strong personality and “really took people with him”. So it also seems possible that he and Alf discussed moving to New Zealand while their ship was docked there – and that this idea persisted in their minds until 1946 in Blackpool. Of course, during a war, no plans can be made particularly firmly. “I get the picture that it was pretty much ‘live for the moment and try and grab something’,” says Josie. “I don't think they were too organised.”

How plausible was Alf’s plan?

As we know, Bill Hall did go ahead with his dream of emigrating. And if he was able to do this by working a passage and jumping ship, then presumably it would have been possible for Alf Lennon to do the same. However, taking a five-year-old boy along would have been a completely different matter: the idea that Alf could have done this with John accompanying him is implausible. The account in Daddy, Come Home claims that the plan was for John to move to New Zealand with Bill Hall’s parents, and then for Alf and Bill to join them there later. While this seems on the face of it more believable, it also presents problems. To get to New Zealand, Bill’s parents would have needed an actual passenger ticket. That not only would have cost money – it also wouldn’t have been possible until significantly later than 1946.

The ocean liners that were stripped out to carry troops during the war didn’t immediately revert to passenger service. The Dominion Monarch, for example, didn’t resume passenger voyages from the UK to New Zealand until December 1948, following a 15-month refit. In fact, Bill Hall’s son, Peter, told me that while Bill’s parents did eventually also move to New Zealand (as did his brother John), this wasn’t until several years after Bill himself had emigrated. The existence of these practical difficulties supports Bill’s dismissals of Alf’s supposed plan to move John to New Zealand. In Josie’s view: “The part that is true is that they had discussed coming out here. The part that isn't true is that they didn't actually get together to try and abduct John and take him away.”

Bill and Alf’s accounts don’t match at all

In 2002, Bill Hall published a book, Marlin Fishing, which contains some autobiographical anecdotes. He tells us that he came to New Zealand in 1947, working as a saloon waiter on the Arawa, the “first peace-time passenger ship” to make this trip after the war. After jumping ship in Wellington, Bill then worked in the mines on the country’s west coast for six months, he writes, before later moving to Auckland. Hall also tells us he had visited the country during the war three times. That all sounds believable, and it matches with what Bill’s family and media reports say. However, there’s a real problem aligning it with the account given by Alf Lennon, which tells a very different story.

Daddy, Come Home says that following the Blackpool incident, Alf felt a “gaping emptiness”, and embarked the same month on an 18-month voyage on a ship called the Almanzora. Returning to a “bitterly cold” Christmas, Alf remained downhearted, and at the turn of the year was still hoping his old family life might one day be “restored”. He embarked on two trips on the Andes in 1948, and upon his return, learned that “Mr and Mrs Hall had already left for Auckland”. The book adds that while Bill and his brother John remained in England, “it was understood” that the two Hall sons and Alf “would join [the parents] later, once they had obtained jobs on an ‘Aussie run’”. After hearing that there had been no change in Julia’s situation, we’re told that Alf decided to “leave England for good” – joining Bill and John on the Dominion Monarch to New Zealand. According to Alf, it was not until this point that Billy jumped ship in Wellington, and “paid the penalty of six weeks’ breaking sandstone”.

The book says Bill intended to try to arrange for his brother and Alf not to have to do this, which is why they planned to wait one more trip before jumping ship. But on the next visit to New Zealand – in October 1949 – we’re told that Alf had second thoughts, and decided to try again to convince Julia to allow John to emigrate there with him. On his return to England, however, Alf ended up in London’s Wormwood Scrubs prison after a drunken pub crawl that culminated with him breaking a shop window and stealing a mannequin. As a result, it became impossible for him to be employed on a ship again. With his family and career gone, Alf by now felt there was “nothing left worth living for”. He briefly became an itinerant “gentleman of the road” before finding work as a hotel kitchen porter.

The unreliable Alf?

Taken on its own, much of the account in Daddy, Come Home sounds plausible (if perhaps somewhat embellished), and several of John Lennon’s biographers have clearly made use of it. But it certainly doesn’t match Bill Hall’s version – describing a voyage to New Zealand with Bill at a time when, according to Hall himself, he’d already living there for about a year. Alf’s quasi-autobiography wasn’t published until 1990, leaving plenty of time for aspects to become embellished. The book, however, does discuss the relevant events in some detail – claiming Alf persisted with the hope of moving with John to New Zealand as late as 1949. If his story is all an invention, it’s quite an elaborate one. And how much of its other information could we then trust?

Alf’s accounts of his travels at sea are fascinating in other ways – not least in what they suggest about his character. In claims I’ll write about in more detail in my next post, he tells us how after deserting his ship in New York, he was detained by authorities on two other occasions during an extraordinary 16-month series of mishaps – including a stay in a military prison in Algeria. In fact it was shortly after this incarceration, according to Alf, that while preparing to return to the UK he met “a friendly young steward by the name of Billy Hall … and so a long friendship began”.

The story prompts some scepticism – not least because each time he found himself behind lock and key, Alf portrays himself as an unfortunate victim rather than taking responsibility. Supporting his credibility, though, he names specific ships he travelled on, sometimes giving very specific dates – and some of these details appear to closely match those in online shipping records. And while Bill Hall’s story seems to stack up, we should remember that by the time he spoke to Braunias and Lewisohn, he was in his mid-eighties. He slipped up with the timing of the Blackpool events, telling Braunias they took place in 1945 rather than 1946. Given this, how sure can we be about the 1947 date that he recalls for his emigration?

With these complexities, a lot still remains uncertain about Alf’s wartime escapades, his friendship with Bill Hall, and the events surrounding the Blackpool conversation. Whatever happened, it seems there was little realistic possibility of the five-year-old John Lennon moving to New Zealand. On the other hand, it’s very plausible that the idea of John’s father – and possibly John himself – emigrating there was discussed. So as I’ve suggested before, the rupture with Alfred that took place then could conceivably have been associated in John’s young mind with the idea of moving to an island.

That possible connection was my initial reason for my interest in the Blackpool story. But having learned more about these events, I now wanted to resolve their puzzles. Why do Bill Hall and Alf Lennon’s accounts vary so dramatically? And if Alf was aiming to deceive, why would he provide so many bizarre details – some of which seem to be accurate?

Lewisohn notes that “Alf did spin yarns” and admits that it can be “difficult… to establish the veracity of [his] stories”5. However, after venturing deep into shipping archives, I’ve found some fascinating documentary evidence that not only removes a lot of the doubt – but also reveals significant new details. There are indeed a lot of tall stories in what Alf Lennon says – though in some ways, the truth is even stranger. I’ll write about what I discovered in my next post: subscribe below to make sure you don’t miss it.

Update - read my research on Alfred Lennon’s wartime experiences:

This Substack has its origins in my attempts to locate a Greek island that the Beatles had apparently visited and wanted to buy in 1967. When I first heard about these events in 2010, they seemed like an intriguing footnote to Beatles history, that might make an interesting article. But the apparently simple question of where this island was has evolved into something much bigger – leading me through government archives, Greek newspapers, island visits and interviews with people who worked with the group.

Since I started, I’ve found an island (in fact, a group of islands) that seems increasingly likely to be the place the Beatles wanted. But in itself, this is far from the most interesting aspect of this story. Because what initially sounded like a whimsical dream, typifying the idealism of the ‘summer of love’, turned out to have very surprising dimensions.

For one thing, it brought the Beatles – then at the height of their psychedelic phase – into the orbit of a military dictatorship that hated hippies. Exploring the political backdrop to this extraordinary juxtaposition helps shed light on the cold war tensions of the time, the impact of the Beatles on these, and attempts by politicians to harness the group’s allure. My investigations have also led me to research secret services and military societies, propaganda schemes and diplomatic dispatches. The story illuminates other lesser-known aspects of the Beatles’ story, too – such as their advisers’ strategies for taming chaotic finances, the bizarre mythologies that have developed around the group, and John Lennon’s lifelong fascination with islands and the sea.

The characters I’ve encountered include a British Member of Parliament offering PR advice to the Greek junta, and an influential lawyer – described as the “fixer for the British establishment” – who worked both with the Beatles and the UK prime minister. But above all, the events centre around Alexis Mardas – a self-styled Greek inventor who had rapidly found his way into the Beatles’ inner circle, offering his assistance through eye-catching ideas and impressive-sounding connections. This story turns on the mystery surrounding the identity of ‘Magic Alex’ as much as the island itself.

Read on to learn more – and click the links to the posts for deeper dives.

The island names that weren’t on maps

In 2010, I was researching a travel guide on the Greek island of Skiathos when I heard a local rumour that the Beatles had once wanted to buy a nearby islet. Where is 'Leslo', the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy? sets out what I learned when I decided to look into the story more deeply. The Beatles had indeed visited Greece and wanted to buy an island there – but not much else about the events was clear.

Accounts by Beatles insiders describe the group making plans to buy a main island of around 80 acres with several smaller islands next to it, costing about £90,000. But this description was never connected to an actual location. And while the place is sometimes referred to as “Leslo”, there is no known Greek island with this name.

The mystery deepened when I found files in the UK National Archives relating to the story, including an application on behalf of the Beatles to buy the ‘property currency’ required for the planned island purchase. The description of the island in these papers is a close match for those in the books. But as I discuss in The confusing island names that aren't on any maps, the documents name the Beatles' target as “Aegos in Konstadinos” – another name that appears nowhere on maps.

With not one, but two names given for islands that apparently didn’t exist – one in an authorised biography, the other in official documents – the story was already far stranger than I had imagined.

‘Used as propaganda’

I was also realising that the political context of the island adventure made it something more complicated than the simple hippie fantasy it had initially appeared – since Greece had recently been taken over by a junta of army officers. From London's summer of love to Greece's military dictatorship explores the contrast between the Beatles' peace-and-love ideals and that repressive regime, which had banned long hair, miniskirts, and even the Beatles' own song She Loves You.

Despite this, it appears that there were at least some elements within the Greek government who supported the Beatles’ visit. Were the Beatles 'used as propaganda'? examines evidence that officials promoted the group's trip in an attempt to boost the country's flagging tourist industry.

‘Likely to attract publicity’

Equally fascinating was the way the Beatles’ plans created dilemmas for the British government. 'Likely to attract publicity': The cold war context of the Beatles' Greek island plans considers how Harold Wilson's Labour government was having to balance public outrage at the Greek junta against the political imperative to maintain relations with them. Whether the group realised it or not, this meant that the Beatles’ moves towards setting up a base in Greece constituted a notable intervention in a delicate geopolitical landscape. That in turn contributed to the complexity of the issues facing British mandarins and ministers – who in effect had the power to veto the plans.

The political relevance of high-profile visits to Greece is underlined by discussions that were happening at the time. Visits by 'British personalities': An MP's PR advice to the colonels reveals how as the Beatles’ plans were taking shape, the Labour MP Francis Noel-Baker was keen to make suggestions to the Greek junta about public relations and visits to the country by “British personalities”. As it happens, the MP shared some connections with Alexis Mardas, and owned an estate near islands the group are thought to have visited. But we can only speculate on whether his actions had any bearing on the Beatles’ Greek adventure.

One influential figure with a definite link to the events was the lawyer Arnold Goodman – “fixer for the British establishment” and a confidant to prime minister Harold Wilson. Lord Goodman: Lawyer to the Beatles - and the prime minister looks at how Goodman’s solicitors’ firm acted for the Beatles to help clear the administrative hurdles required to buy the island. This meant that as Lord Goodman was meeting fortnightly with the prime minister to discuss sensitive political issues, he or his colleagues were in effect making the case to the government to allow the Beatles to go ahead with the island plans. And all at a time when Britain’s relationship with Greece was regularly making the headlines.

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The enigmatic Alexis Mardas

But while there’s a surprising amount of politics involved, it’s still not clear exactly how it all fits together. Learning more about Alexis Mardas, the Greek electronics enthusiast who organized the Beatles' trip, should help get us closer to some answers – but everything to do with him seems shrouded in uncertainty. This is partly due to Mardas’ own unreliability: his reputation for exaggeration is well-deserved. But researching The mystery of the Beatles’ ‘personal boffin’ Magic Alex, I found his character to be more complex than it is often portrayed, with the Beatles’ accountant Stephen Maltz speaking highly of Alexis’ charm and talents.

I also found evidence that Mardas’ claims of high-level connections had some basis in reality – discussed in Actor, architect, soldier...spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas. Stretching back to their shared roots in what is now Bulgaria, the Mardas family had connections to that of Constantinos Doxiadis, a globally influential architect. Alexis’ marriage to Doxiadis’ daughter Euphrosyne in 1968 gave him access to Greek high society.

And what about Mardas’ claim that his father worked for Greece’s secret police? A secret service connection? Argyris Mardas, IDEA and KYP explores the possibility that the agency in question was the country’s Central Intelligence Service (KYP) – which was closely associated with the military junta. While researching the service’s history, I discovered that an officer with the same name as Alexis’ father had been an important member of IDEA, a secret right-wing military organization with close links to KYP.

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Fleshing out the story

I also unearthed some contemporary accounts that flesh out our knowledge of what the Beatles did in Greece. Day trippers: a rooftop gig in a Greek mountain village looks at Greek newspaper coverage of a day trip that was arranged for the Beatles before their island cruise departed. The group danced on a rooftop to traditional music, paddled in the sea, received an array of gifts and then had a visit to an ancient amphitheatre curtailed by unexpected crowds. Meanwhile, Where the Beatles went on their Greek cruise uses reports from the newspaper To Vima to trace the detailed movements of the group’s party around the islands.

Further evidence comes from a later account by Labis Tsirigotakis, the journalist who wrote those articles. How a reporter tracked down the Beatles in Greece follows the media veteran’s story of how he located the Beatles' Athens hideout and later nabbed an impromptu interview with John Lennon – who unleashed an impassioned tirade against the British and US governments.

Back to the island

According to Tsirigotakis, the island the group wanted was Tsougria near Skiathos – the place where I first heard this story. But personally, I’m not so sure. It doesn’t match the descriptions well – and certainly not nearly as well as another location nearby.

I realised this after looking more carefully at some topographical details in a memoir by Beatles insider Alistair Taylor. Revealed: the island the Beatles 'wanted to buy', explains how Taylor’s clues about sailing through a "natural canal" spanned by a lifting bridge pointed toward the Evian Gulf. As it happens, the two islands most frequently associated with the Beatles – Agia Triada and Tsougria – are located in or near this part of Greece. But as I conclude in Where was the Greek island the Beatles wanted? The evidence, neither of these is likely to have been the group’s main target.

In my view, the most compelling candidate is another nearby location. It’s never named in the insider accounts. But in A closer look at the Lichadonisia, I examine how this cluster of islands matches these descriptions almost perfectly. The main island, Monolia, is 85 acres big with a gently curving bay, stone houses, and olive groves. When I visited, it was easy to imagine the Beatles seeing this accessible yet remote-feeling location as the perfect escape.

New evidence has since emerged that reinforces this view. As I discuss in George Harrison on Monolia?, recent live performances by Sir Paul McCartney have included apparent footage of Harrison in the Lichadonisia islands – strengthening the case that these were indeed the focus of the group’s interest.

Facts, finances and fantasies

The question of where the island was, though, is ultimately less consequential than understanding how and why these events happened. And the more I investigated, the more I appreciated the wide range of factors that may have influenced them. 'Alex said they could pay less tax in Greece': the financial context of the Beatles' island plans reveals the serious financial issues at play. The Beatles’ advisers had come to the view that with UK income tax rates reaching 90%, the group would benefit from careful financial planning. According to their accountant Stephen Maltz, Alexis Mardas claimed he could help them “pay a lot less tax in Greece”.

But while that may have been music to a tax professional’s ears, I doubt it was much motivation for the Beatles themselves – who were surely more interested in the recreational and artistic possibilities. In my view, the group’s state of mind at this time is likely to have been a far bigger influence. Many accounts suggest that their desire for privacy and respite from the pressures of fame, after years of global touring and Beatlemania, was strong.

In particular, John Lennon had an ongoing fascination with island escapes. My post on John Lennon's island fantasies (the most-read so far – originally a presentation to a conference at Liverpool Hope University) discusses Lennon's enduring interest in islands, from his childhood separation from his seafaring father to his purchase of Dorinish island in Ireland, and his creative renewal in Bermuda months before his death.

Trying to establish the details of these events has also led me to consider broader questions about truth and accuracy in writing about the Beatles. Where does the island name 'Leslo' come from? describes how I tracked down the likely source of this name through archival research, highlighting how inaccuracies can become embedded in accepted narratives.

It may be that the name ‘Leslo’ has its ultimate roots in the bizarre urban legends that I look at in ‘Be at Leso’: the strange world of Beatles mythology. Meanwhile, Mistake or misdirection? The ‘Aegos in Konstadinos’ mystery asks whether the other island name I encountered could be one of the cases where mild subterfuge was used to help maintain privacy for the Beatles. There may one day be an answer to these questions. But as I discuss in Who was the ‘Swedish actress’ with the Beatles in Greece?, getting closer to solving one puzzle often only leads to others.

These posts touch on the broader question of how much we really know about the Beatles – and how we know what we think we know. While the details of the group’s story are discussed extensively, the facts are often still hard to pin down – and that’s before we even think about how to interpret them. Every writer has their own biases and blind spots. So who do we trust, and why?

An ongoing story

In the end, the Beatles never did buy a Greek island. The purchase negotiations ran into complexities – and in any case, the death of their manager Brian Epstein soon after the trip changed everything. But that doesn’t mean the episode isn’t significant. It captures the group at an important point in time – and a small lens can bring focus to much larger issues.

The wider relevance of these events is reflected in the interest and coverage they have generated beyond this Substack. In 2023 the peer-reviewed Journal of Beatles Studies published my article ‘Used as propaganda’: the Beatles’ Greek island plans and international politics. This was featured in a report by Helena Smith in the Observer newspaper, emphasising the events’ political dimensions. For Declassified, I looked at archive evidence that underlines how the British establishment prioritised political stability and commercial interests in Greece over democracy. And for Erin Torkelson Weber’s website, I discussed the historiographical aspects of the story.

I’ve also discussed my research on the podcasts Beatles Books and Gimme Some Truth.

My investigations continue, with new developments coming soon. If you’re enjoying my work, please share this post to spread the word, and subscribe to find out where it leads next.

One persistently puzzling aspect of the Beatles’ dream of buying a Greek island is the name ‘Leslo’.

This is the label often attributed to the island the group wanted to buy in 1967 – and its appearance in books by respected Beatles authors lends weight to this supposed fact. However, there appears to be no actual Greek island that the name belongs to.

One of the most influential books that refers to ‘Leslo’ is Many Years from Now (1997), Barry Miles’ authorised biography of Paul McCartney. When I was in Liverpool last summer for a Beatles symposium, I had the chance to visit the archive at Liverpool John Moores University (LJMU) which holds the material Miles used to write this book – including his interview transcripts and early drafts.

You never know how useful an archive will be until you go, and many files that seem potentially promising yield nothing. But pleasingly, this visit did actually shed some light on the origins of ‘Leslo’: it appears that Miles added the name into his text at a late stage.

The archive holds a number of draft manuscripts of Miles’ book. All of these include the Greek island episode, but not all of them call the island ‘Leslo’. In two early versions, the island is simply described as "a large island of about 80 acres". But this changed by the time Miles submitted the manuscript to his editor. In this draft, the text uses the same description that appears in the published book: "the island of Leslo, of about 80 acres".

Here's the passage from Many Years From Now, where Miles describes the visit made by Alexis Mardas and Alistair Taylor to Greece to “look at real estate”.

After several false starts, they found the perfect place: the island of Leslo, of about 80 acres, with four idyllic beaches and four smaller habitable islands surrounding it – one for each Beatle. The entire property was for sale for £90,000, including a small fishing village of traditional white-painted houses grouped around a harbour filled with brightly coloured fishing boats and 16 acres of olive groves.

The LJMU archive also holds Miles’ interview transcripts, which record that Paul discussed the plans to buy a Greek island with the author in November 1992. But this conversation doesn’t include any of the specific details about the island that Miles gives in the quote above. So, where do these come from?

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It seems likely that Miles’ source for most of these is Alistair Taylor's memoir Yesterday (1988), which matches almost all of the details – from the £90,000 price tag to the 16 acres of olive groves. But crucially, Taylor doesn’t name the island.

I think it’s very possible that the name 'Leslo' comes from another book: Bill Harry's Ultimate Beatles Encyclopedia, published in 1992. (Like Yesterday, this is cited in the Many Years From Now bibliography.) Under the heading ‘Leslo’, Harry’s encyclopaedia says: “Name of the island which the Beatles purchased in 1967, intending it to be an idyllic retreat where they would create their own community.”

So, while ‘Leslo’ does appear in Paul McCartney’s authorised biography, it’s unlikely that this information came from the Beatle himself. It’s unlikely, too, that it was actually the name of the place the Beatles wanted in Greece (which in my view, was most likely the Lichadonisia islands). But if Miles did get the name from Bill Harry’s book, the mystery of ‘Leslo’ still isn’t solved completely: we still don’t know where Harry got it from. The other information in the encyclopaedia entry suggests that Peter Brown’s The Love You Make (1983) was a major source – but this book doesn’t give a name for the island. Perhaps ultimately the name derives from the bizarre ‘Be at Leso’ mythology which arose from the Sgt. Pepper album cover.

In any case, this issue does not detract from the strengths of Barry Miles’ book overall. The wealth of material in his archive made clear to me how in-depth and well-sourced Miles’ research was. The name of the island is a minor aspect of his book. However, the puzzle that it presents reminds us of how even in work by the most diligent authors, inaccuracies can creep in. That’s just the nature of researching and writing history.

We’re also reminded that writers often use information from other books. Again, this is a normal and expected part of the process. But it does have the potential to distort historical accounts. And one wonders what other inaccuracies it may have led to elsewhere within Beatles histories – especially where (as sometimes happens) material is recycled uncritically and without attribution.

For me, the ‘Leslo’ confusion also underlines the futility of believing that there will ever be a ‘definitive’ version of all the facts about the group – let alone how we interpret these. There’s always more to say about their story.

Read more:

Where is ‘Leslo’, the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy?
John Lennon’s island fantasies
Actor, architect, soldier… spy? The intriguing inner circle of Alexis Mardas

A report in a Greek newspaper1 of the Beatles’ day trip from Athens, before they embarked on their island cruise, refers to a surprising member of their entourage.

After Paul McCartney and Julian Lennon had got in the sea at the beach of Itea, we are told, they were joined by others: Jane Asher, Cynthia Lennon, Pattie Harrison, and fourthly, “a Swedish actress in the party who kept her name secret”2.

This reference to a Swedish actress has always confused me. I wondered whether it could have been a kind of in-joke referring to Pattie’s sister, Paula Boyd, who was on the trip. After all, Paul McCartney has confessed that the Beatles at times tried to “plant lies to the press” and “award each other points for the best story printed”3.

The previously unknown footage that apparently shows George Harrison on the island of Monolia, though, suggests another possibility. Could the unidentified blonde woman walking behind Harrison be this same “Swedish actress”?

It’s an intriguing possibility, made all the more intriguing by the fact that this person does have a resemblance to a popular Swedish actress of the time.

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Ann-Margret Olsson

In my view, the woman bears a surprising similarity to Ann-Margret Olsson. Ann-Margret (who was known by her first name) was a Swedish-American actress and singer who rose to fame through her roles in films such as 1963’s Bye Bye Birdie and Viva Las Vegas the following year.

Ann-Margret’s on-screen chemistry with Elvis Presley in the latter led to reports of a romance between the pair. (In her autobiography4, Ann-Margret says that the two were “seeing each other”, commenting that Elvis “touched something deep within my psyche”.)

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Ann-Margret also had some connections to the Beatles. The group covered her song ‘I just don’t understand’ in 1963 for a BBC radio show. And in fact during the group’s 1964 US tour, Ringo Starr had to deny rumours that he and Ann-Margret were romantically involved (there’s no evidence to suggest that they were).

Interestingly, Ann-Margret did spend considerable time in Europe in 1967, acting in several Italian films. But there is one important fact that makes it very unlikely she was with the Beatles in Greece (at least, not in July 1967). At exactly the same time as their trip, she was appearing in her own live show at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.

From 11 July, the performance ran every day until mid-August5. The Los Angeles Times wrote the day ahead of the opening night that it was “one of the most expensive acts ever brought to Vegas” reportedly costing about $100,000 ($1m in today’s money). On 13 July, the same newspaper praised the first night of Ann-Margret’s “highly polished, skilfully devised show”, noting that she would put on “fourteen – or is it fifteen? – shows a week for five weeks”.

With that schedule from 11 July to 15 August, it clearly would have been impossible for Ann-Margret to join the Beatles in Greece (members of the group were there from 20 July to 31 July). That leaves two possible explanations. Either the woman in the clip isn’t Ann-Margret, or the footage was taken on a different visit to Greece.

Another trip?

It’s worth noting that according to one newspaper, George Harrison and Paul McCartney did make another trip to Greece. The Daily Express reported on 22 August that the two had “returned to Athens to sort out details” of the planned island purchase with Jeffrey Maunsell, who was a solicitor at Goodman Derrick. But if this second trip did happen, by the time the newspaper article appeared the two Beatles were back in London6. And even if for some reason Ann-Margret did join them in Greece in August, that wouldn’t explain the reference to the “Swedish actress” at Itea in July.

Given that we only have about a second of footage to go on, there remain many unknowns. And the apparent resemblance of the woman walking behind Harrison to Ann-Margret could well just be a coincidence. But whatever the case, the appearance of the woman in this film, and her unknown identity - as well as the newspaper’s mention of a supposed Swedish actress - add further puzzling dimensions to the Beatles’ Greek trip.

The clip appears at 1:43

Like the island the Beatles are said to have wanted, the largest island in this group – called Monolia – is about 80 acres in size, and is near several smaller islands. Alongside various other parallels with the evidence, Monolia also seems to make a notable appearance in The Beatles Anthology TV documentary.

However, considerable mystery remains about the trip, not least because there were no known photos or videos showing the Beatles setting foot on any identifiable Greek island. That, though, may now have changed: a video played on Paul McCartney’s current tour seems to include a brief shot of George Harrison on Monolia.

The eagle-eyed Beatles researcher Obadiah Jones (who I spoke to for this podcast episode on the Beatles Greece trip) first alerted me to the clip – which was shown during the first live performance of ‘Now and Then’ by Paul McCartney in Montevideo on 1 October (and since in later shows).

Intriguingly, the style of the stone houses, the black rocks and the shape of the trees in this image are indeed reminiscent of Monolia. I initially wondered if the footage could be from the Beatles’ famous trip to India. However, Harrison’s look here is definitely much closer to the Greece photos than those from Rishikesh in 1968.

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You can see the clip itself play for about a second at 1:43 in the video below.

Seeking further clarity, I consulted Giorgos Lyberis – whose family historically lived on Monolia and still owns land there. While he couldn’t say for sure, he thought it was possible the clip showed the island. He also sent me a photograph taken in 1974 of the village on Monolia – presumably looking fairly similar to how it did in 1967.

Obadiah has now carried out further detective work on this photo. And in my view, the markings he has added to the two images below make a convincing case for them showing the same location. The coloured crosses denote the same structure in each photo, seen from different angles (the arrow shows where George Harrison would be standing).

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Incidentally, the 1970s photograph is also a close match to Alistair Taylor’s recollection of “white-painted old Greek houses scattered along the waterfront” on the island the Beatles had wanted1. We may also be able to connect this scene to one that appears in ‘Fifty Years Adrift’, the autobiography by the Beatles’ publicist Derek Taylor, which includes a series of quotes from George Harrison. In that book, Harrison recalls the Greek island visit:

“The island was covered in rocks but very pleasant. Eventually we landed on a little beach with a village. As soon as we did, there was a clap of thunder and lighting and it poured with rain. We all ran for cover into somebody’s hut and all the local fishermen were friendly and gave us glasses of wine. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ they were saying. ‘This hasn’t happened for the last 5,000 years.’ It was like a big omen. Amen.”

As Obadiah pointed out to me, Harrison’s hair, that of the woman just behind him, and the shiny rocks, all look in the clip like they could have been recently rained on. The hut that George mentions to may refer to the ‘kiosk’ that can be seen on the right of both photos (marked with the red cross) - the roofed structure on the shore that fishermen used for shelter and storage. Here’s a picture of one in use :

If the analysis above is right, then the building that can be just seen in the top left of the clip shown during Sir Paul’s performance is the small church of Agios Georgios on Monolia. This is what it looks like today:

Of course, the fact that Harrison apparently went to Monolia doesn’t prove that the Beatles wanted to buy it. But this was the island I thought was most likely anyway – and seeing apparent evidence of a Beatle there makes the possibility seem all the more real.

An additional puzzle about the photograph concerns the woman walking just behind Harrison. My first thought was that this was Paula Boyd – the sister of George’s wife Pattie, who was on the Greece trip. But in photos from Greece, Paula’s hair is much shorter than this. And it doesn’t look like Pattie Harrison either.

So this person’s identity at present remains unclear. I do have some thoughts on this, which I’ll write about soon.

You can listen to the discussion about the Beatles’ trip to Greece in this episode of Obadiah Jones’s podcast, Gimme Some Truth.

Read more:

John Lennon’s island fantasies
Where is ‘Leslo’, the Greek island the Beatles wanted to buy?
How a reporter tracked down the Beatles in Greece