Food has replaced sex in my life – now I can’t even get into my own pants.
No not my new mantra having arrived in a new state and decided to turn over a new leaf (although it does contain a grain of truth as I slip into my first ever pair of size 38” shorts), but rather the slogan on the back of a Byron Bay campervan which sums up the fun, youthful atmosphere of the place.
On the very first I’m out on the razzle again (once the kids are in bed of course) checking out the excellent Beach Hotel that I vaguely remember from my previous trip. There’s no football but there’s a great blues band playing and the place is humming. The average age of the crowd must be about 22 and the fact that I’m there along with a couple of grannies and grandpas must make most of the rest of them around 18. I love the lack of ageism here and I feel quite comfortable. In fact a granny is dancing a cross between a jig and a rave and nobody gives two hoots. Eight beers and a kebab later (I always was a cheap date) I stagger back around 1am and Karen doesn’t give a monkey’s either bless her.
It’s Sunday and we drive to the beachfront where a car park has replaced the campsite of 18 years ago. Karen seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time checking the water temperature and why did she take the camera? I later wonder if it is mere coincidence that there are 63 pictures of buff young paddle boarders on the camera…
Byron Bay has a bad reputation for drugs but it’s lightweight compared to Nimbin. They allegedly used this town in the NSW hinterland as a secret dumping ground for drug addicts before the 2000 Sydney Olympics in an attempt to clean up the city centre before the eyes of the world fell upon it. They were provided with a one-way ticket, a small bungalow on arrival and a ‘stash’ large enough for them to forget where they came from. I thought this may have been a bit of a tall story, but the woman in the local café seemed to add weight to it. She took 45 minutes to grill us a couple of toasties and popped to the greengrocers for 4 oranges every single time someone ordered freshly squeezed juice. I reckon she must have been taking something pretty mind-bending for quite a few years. Not much else happened in Nimbin, apart from the car boot closing unexpectedly onto Karen’s head - ouch, but I suppose that’s Nimbin for you. To make the trip worthwhile we did stock up at an excellent butcher’s and a good fruiterer’s (although he was a little low on oranges).
We enjoyed a couple of quiet days at the beach where the kids played together really well allowing the parents time for some good reading and bodysurfing. As a treat we went to Rae’s restaurant on Watego beach that was recently rated as one of the top 10 in Australia. It didn’t disappoint with top-notch service (including entertaining the kids with the local fauna - the green tree frog) and excellent food. I chose a weird and wonderful scallop/pork belly combo, followed by a delicious whole snapper, with a beautifully crisp skin and plum sauce, all washed down with some decent bubbles. Despite the late hour the kids were still buzzing, so we took them down to the beach for some moonlit sand racing. Harley still had the energy to carve over 100 metres of ‘sand railway’ with his two index fingers.
The next day we visit the lighthouse from where it is a mere stone’s throw to the most easterly point on mainland Australia (exciting eh). Sadly Humpback whales are not migrating at this time of year and we are about to trudge disappointedly back to the car when Ruby has an unusual burst of enthusiasm for more walking. I point out that the cliff path in question is fairly vertiginous and that what goes down has to come back up but she is not to be deterred (maybe she just doubts my understanding of the laws of gravity). We leave a protesting Harley and impressed Karen to wait in the car and return knackered but strangely elated an hour and half a vertical kilometre later.
Having already sampled the delights of the railway tavern (monster steaks, a multi-tasking musician - guitar and didgeridoo simultaneously - and a 65 year old grandpa ‘trance jogging’), we get a babysitter and head for one last visit to the Beach Hotel. We’ve just time for rabbit pie/fish and chips before a sinister looking band come on for and endless warm-up/testing session. They look like a heavy metal band but actually take us on a ‘poptastic’ highlights tour of the last 40 year’s chart toppers. It turns out to be great fun and I even make a rare foray to the dance floor. All ‘good’ tings come to an end and several minutes later I’m pushing a slightly worse-for-wear Karen back home in a shopping trolley. (Just as well the chiropractor had fixed her back that morning). Slightly later that Saturday morning I’m hung over and watching Karen pack up by herself for about the sixtieth time so far this trip and counting – what a bloody star.
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