From A Land Down Under #4: Byron Bay

In which we sample a genuine Australian delicacy and some dolphins are fashionably late...

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Monday 9th June

* A week on from the lost luggage debacle, the Gods of Travel decree we must once more be tested. Having been advised not to book a cab in advance as this would carry an additional charge, we try phoning at 1am in time for our 1.25am coach to Brisbane only to discover that one payphone isn't operational at all and the other swallows Jenni's remaining change while allowing her to hear but not speak to the person in the cab office. The hostel reception long closed and everyone in bed, our only option is a mad dash down the middle of the deserted Esplanade. Our distressed flailings catch the attention of a passing police car, which pulls over to the kerb. We walk hurriedly and sheepishly by and jump into the cab which has also stopped, arriving at the coach station in the nick of time.

* Half an hour into our southwards journey the Greyhound breaks down. I drift in and out of sleep as coolant from a burst pipe splashes out onto the tarmac beneath the bus. Two and a half hours later and we're on our way again.

* Expert corner-cutting by our driver means we somehow still make our onward connection to Byron Bay. Surely he deserves better than to have to wear the uniform, a combination of shirt, shorts and knee-length socks which makes him look like an overgrown schoolboy?

* Little do the authorities know, but we've crossed the border into New South Wales with illicit contraband: two oranges and an apple. I hum Judas Priest's 'Breaking The Law' to myself, quietly so as to avoid arousing suspicion.

* Speaking of suspicion, there's something fishy about the fact that a nation that largely wants to be seen as independent celebrates the Queen's birthday, even if it does so with a day's holiday rather than Union Jack bunting and street parties. Any excuse for a day off, I suppose.

* The Arts Factory, so garishly painted as to make the Travellers Oasis look monochrome, is not so much a hostel as a complex, boasting a table tennis table, a recording studio, a cinema and even its own reiki and didgeridoo workshops as well as the backpacker staples of pool, volleyball pitch and pool tables. True enough, the euphemistic description of our room as a "cube" suggests stylishness when in reality, with its austere furnishings and painted breezeblock walls, "cell" would be more appropriate, but let's not hold that against it, not when the washing machines and dryers do a sterling job of quickly and efficiently replenishing our supply of clean clothes.

* At last the weather relents for long enough to tempt us outdoors - only to resume its awfulness when we're several hundred metres from shelter down the beach. Heavy showers, overcast skies, cold clinging sand and a shopping trolley upturned on the rocks - we'd be feeling at home if it wasn't for the hardy surfers out in the water and the huge flock of shrieking parrots in the trees.



* Drying out at the Beach Hotel proves to be a wise move, leading as it does to the long-awaited discovery of an Australian beer I can drink without grimacing: Coopers Original Pale Ale. That said, at $5.70 a schooner it doesn't come cheap, and we also pay the considerable price of having to endure a band playing bad covers too fast. What they do to 'Don't Look Back In Anger' is a marvel to behold, though not one I fancy beholding again in a hurry.

* 'The Lonely Planet Guide' comes up trumps again. Next to the very underemployed train station, the Railway Friendly Bar - or the Rails, as it's more affectionately known - looked distinctly unpromising if not downright dodgy in the daylight, but nightfall transforms it into a real gem of a pub. Somewhere serving cheap wine and simple but delicious bar meals (my herb-crumbed fish and chips with lime aioli and side salad is quite possibly the best thing I eat all holiday) was always likely to find favour with me. Just a shame that the live music on offer, though better than that at the Beach Hotel, isn't The Black Keys, whose tourbus rolls into town for a gig at the Backroom at the Great Northern Hotel next Monday, not tonight as I'd misread...



Tuesday 10th June

* Hurrah! The bad weather has cleared up completely, and so our gamble in booking an outdoor activity looks to have paid off handsomely.

* Having been picked up from the hostel, squeezed into wetsuits and shown the basics, by 9.30am we're out on the water, vaulting over the waves with two other crews and a Go Sea Kayak instructor. Gradually sorting out our paddling rhythm, we skirt round the famously long wave known as the Pass, popular with experienced surfers and "shark biscuits" alike, and look up at the $3m houses perched on the hillside. And then it's time to drift and wait. The swell and pitch of the water, more lively than normal, disagrees with Jenni and her breakfast banana is jettisoned on the starboard side.

* We drift and wait. Move, drift and wait. Move, drift and wait. But it's no good -the dolphins are being either stubborn or shy. So back to the shore it is for morning tea, coffee and a Tim Tam or two. What's so Australian or special about a nude Penguin I'm not entirely sure, though perhaps their merits can't be fully appreciated by those who haven't tried out a Tim Tam Slam. All the same, they and the fistful of gummy sweets give us the energy for a spot of surfing which is exhilarating enough to convince me that doing it on a board might not be such a bad idea.

* I've had chicken kebabs before - in fact many, many times before - but never have I had a chicken kebab as good as the one from Bay Kebab, crammed full with fresh salad and perfectly piquant salsa. It's fair to say that the eating experience is enhanced by the fact that we're sitting looking out over the bay in the sunshine. Can't say the same about the ageing hippy battering listlessly away at the bongos, though.





* We spend the afternoon walking up and round the headland, looking out to the thousands of miles of uninterrupted sea from the helpfully signposted most easterly point of the Australian mainland, and climbing on up to Cape Byron Lighthouse. Built when it was decided that, by virtue of being regularly shrouded in cloud and mist, Cook's Mount Warning wasn't exactly fit for purpose, the lighthouse was plonked on a conveniently circular spot on the clifftop - which apparently actually turned out to be a sacred place for Aboriginal initiation ceremonies. As ever, real proper wildlife is everywhere: a wallaby stops rummaging in the bushes on the grassy hillside to stare down at us; a humpback whale breaks the surface of the sea out in the distance; and even those elusive dolphins make a belated appearance, leisurely skirting their way round the cliffs in packs. By the time we're back down on the beach the sun has almost sunk, and yet surfers on the Pass continue to squeeze the last out of the day, their silhouettes bobbing out in the gloom.









* At last - a REALLY good Australian beer! It goes by the name Pepperjack and is handcrafted in a winery and given its distinctive flavour and russet colour by being made with shiraz grape juice. Sounds unusual, I know, but it works a treat, as you might guess from the speed with which my bottle at the Balcony Bar is drained.



* This holiday may be a voyage of discovery (for me, at least), but, in need of a proper meal, we can't help but go back to what we know. The food at the Rails - a lamb curry in my case, seafood chowder in Jen's - is once again both extremely tasty and very good value. Tonight's live act on the semi-outdoor stage, Two Lost Souls, do heinous things to 'Riders On The Storm' and 'About A Girl' (don't really care what they do to 'Lucky Man' or 'Champagne Supernova', but Messrs Ashcroft and Gallagher probably would), but given that the evening's entertainment back at the Arts Factory consists of a talent-free talent night, we opt to stick with it until it's time to once more resume our Littlest Hobo act and hop aboard the Greyhound.

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Next time: gorillas behaving badly, the globalisation of Scottish cuisine and a mad old woman.