Upon my return from the outback, Peter and I ventured northwards in search of thrills. Byron Bay was our target because, apparently, thrills are easy to come by in that part of the world. Peter didn’t seem so keen on Tuesday morning but I persuaded him that it was a clever idea and that he had taken leave so we might as well do something rather than loiter in Sydney for a week.
Although not as empty as some states, NSW is for the most part a place of small towns and emptiness. Empty of humans, that is. The magnificent gum forests that line the roads are probably filled with possums, kangaroos, koalas, emus and all sorts of other Australian fauna. Very considerately, I thought, someone has installed little bridges which hang high above the roads to help the aforementioned fauna to cross the motorways.
The towns are not dainty and picturesque as towns sometimes are in Europe, but rather practical and designed with the motorist in mind. Australia’s beauty comes from nature most of the time, but there is plenty of it to make up for its lack of architectural grandiosity. Peter and I decided, for what it’s worth, that people in these places spend their time fishing, taking their kids to BMX, riding horses, water skiing, playing golf and all the things that people in Gweru used to do. Small town life.
We stopped overnight in Port Macquarie, which used to be a prison within a prison; a place where transported convicts who reoffended were sent. Peter and I had played poker the night before at a pub on Lachlan Street and now we stayed in Port Macquarie – both places named for the early 19th century governor who ended up lending his name to so many places in Australia. Apparently it’s a really nice place in the daytime, but on a Tuesday night it hasn’t got much to offer two young people in search of a few beers. The “hotels”, like many in NSW, are soulless gambling houses with garish decor and walls of television screens showing racing information. A special mention must go to the town’s Irish themed pub whose only Hibernian attribute was a tacky toy leprechaun behind the bar.
We ended up spending most of the evening drinking a few beers back at the hostel where we met a Cornish girl called Churchill who claimed to be related, albeit in a convoluted way, to Winston.
We started the second half of our trip early the next day and punctuated the journey with a stop off in Coffs harbour where we played ten pin bowling. Peter got five strikes in a row in the second game and scored 195. We also stopped, but did not get out of the car, to photograph the big banana.
(I’d also like to mention that I’ve seen the big pineapple in Qld, too. That was when I was with Nigel around Mt Coolum. That’s four “big things” that I saw in my time in Australia. I still haven’t worked out why exactly the Aussies need or want these things, but there you go: four big things off my list.)
Around this time we decided we were going to spend the night in Nimbin, which is about 50km inland from Byron (although 70km by road). It’s where the coppers turn a blind eye to pot, which was good enough reason for us to want to stay a night there. The GPS took us off the motorways and onto small roads which wound their way through a very civilised looking, hilly countryside where small neat fences and big cows were drawn on the landscape.
Nimbin, which emerged eventually from this anesthetised country, is a good example of why human beings shouldn’t smoke too much dope. Its residents look about 20 years older than they probably are and a lot of them couldn’t really give a shit about giving you that beer or coffee that you just paid for. But dealers line the main thoroughfare and we got what we wanted soon enough.
Some people who go to Nimbin for a day stay for a month (if you believe internet forum comments), but Peter and I were content with a day. It’s a bit over-represented here in photos but that’s only because I only took one photo of Byron, and that was with my mobile.
The YHA, 15min walk from the village, where we stayed.
So Thursday came and it was time for the short drive to Byron. Photographic evidence is thin, as mentioned above, and quite frankly I can’t think of much to say about Byron apart from say that it’s a decadent place, full of backpackers getting drunk and acting foolishly. Nothing wrong with that of course, and I gladly joined in, but not worthy of mention in this esteemed organ. No seriously, Peter and I met up with three English lads in our hostel and got drunk and stoned with them every night and frequented a naughty bar called Cheeky Monkey. We played poker with ticket stubs for chips and Peter even suggested that we all drive to Nimbin again since they had not seen it. It seemed like an odd invitation to me because Peter didn’t really seem to think much of Nimbin the first time round. Sure enough we got there, had a schooner of Coopers, a joint and fucked off back to Byron.
So here it is, my one and only photo of Byron Bay:
On Friday or Saturday Peter and I were cajoled by the hostel staff and the three Englishmen into staying Saturday night for a barbeque (the promise of thirty girls arriving in time for the barbeque by the conniving hostel staff mesmerised Peter, in my opinion). This meant that our drive back on Sunday was a monster.
Back again over the hundreds of NSW creeks and narrow bridges and small towns and the huge rivers and the Dutch village in Coffs Harbour and through the town with the famous pie shop and past the place where the GPS goes crazy and thinks you’re driving in the bush and over the bridge in Brooklyn and home to Marsfield. And the end of a great trip with a good friend.
