I recall with fondness, but also with some cynicism, the Byron Bay I found waiting for me the morning in September 1997. It was still pretty much the old Byron. Although the genuine locals will give you an argument about that.
In the Nineties, however, it was still Byron; a hokey little village where you could walk down the street and bump into a friend. Still a town centre where you could find a parking spot out front of your bank. The Byron before parking meters. The Byron of old timber houses. The Byron of rainforests and green hills. Byron of the Blues and Roots festivals that still felt small and user-friendly. Byron before over-crowded and expensive writers’ festivals. Byron before traffic jams. Byron of the genuine eccentric.
Byron when an impecunious writer could still afford to live there. In other words, it was Byron prior to rampant commercialism.
Byron Bay prior to the invasion.
Back in 1997 Ringo’s big friendly cafe in Jonson Street was still the beating heart of the small seaside village of surfers and New Age hippies, serving up its generous helpings of love, peace and harmony to all who felt at home within the faded glory of its walls. But sadly, Melbourne and Sydney money rode in to town one sunny day and tore down the iconic old cafe, leaving Byron Bay the poorer for it.
Ringo’s would be replaced by what would become just one more loud sportswear store among a plethora of other clothing stores and over-priced touristy food outlets.
Thanks to rapacious development that even green councilors failed to reign in, today’s Byron Bay has lost its unique sense of place, the feeling it once had of a laid-back rural coastal community. The comfortably familiar and quirky now has to fight for its place amid prosaic commercial starkness.
I told you I was a sentimental fool. But, my God, I see Byron today and I weep. Old timber houses that once sat on large blocks hidden behind rampant rainforests have been bulldozed to make way for Five Star holiday resorts owned by vulgar capitalists, the palms growing there now complying with landscaping architecture lining white gravel driveways leading to Reception.
In the centre of the village, on high street and down sequestered lanes, offbeat little timber shops that sold equally offbeat merchandise––hand-made clothing, candles, incense and Balinese Buddhas––were replaced by ubiquitous franchise stores stacked with cheap Chinese sportswear with slogans in windows that try too hard to catch the ‘cool vibe’ of Byron Bay. There is an obviously desperate attempt to ride the reputation of the rainbow district.
The casual, friendly attitude that was once unique to Byron has given way to a commercial mindset intent on capitalizing on the hordes of holiday visitors who swarm into town, including not only the Gold Coast crowds availing themselves of a freeway that in fifty short minutes of straight highway these days can rockets them into yet another theme park, albeit a quaint one without wet rides, but also the masses of young backpackers, domestic and international, who flock to what is touted on the web, and by word-of-mouth, as the coolest party town in the universe.
It is ironic that these starry-eyed young backpackers, the Gold Coast tourists, and the cashed-up middle class that migrated to Byron Bay in search of its sea change dream have all managed to squeeze the marrow from a once magical little New Age place. Ironic, in so much as what these questers sought is the very thing their numbers and their money were bound to destroy.
But enough of the lamentations.
On the morning in the mid-nineties when I found myself cruising into Byron village with not a clue why I was heading there other than the fact that a coffee and a walk along a beach seemed like a good idea, the iconic Ringo’s was still alive and well in all its shabby wonder and I believe it was the friendly embrace of Ringo’s Café that sold me on Byron Bay that morning.
I can recall the warmth of its rough old timber floors, a knocked about platform for the mishmash of old tables and chairs. And at Ringo’s there were rows and rows of bookshelves lining the walls. From memory, I think the bookshop might have operated on a swap, buy or help-yourself basis but for sure, it seemed an Aladdin’s cave of long-forgotten literary treasures.
I took a seat.
It might have been a booth. Not sure. Can’t remember. But I know as I looked around and took in the full ambience––the cork board on the far wall where colourful flyers spruiked yoga classes and rebirthing sessions at cut rates, where the art deco counter and hand-written menu stood beckoning, where the gallimaufry of old 1950’s crockery and cutlery beamed a message of welcome even to the discombobulated mental case I was that morning––it all felt enticingly homely and today, as you can see, I’m still grieving its passing.
As I sat there, waiting to be served, I noticed a faded floral curtain at the back of the shop and once I’d seen one or two Byronians going through the curtain, I followed and found a hallway lined with even more pre-loved books.
With nothing to do and nowhere to be, I took my time flicking through dozens of yellowing pages of paperbacks, text books and once-fashionable coffee table books.
Dusty. Mouldy.
Tiny red mites scattering as I turned pages. Books smelling of other people’s houses, as if they’d had been locked up in an old suitcase in Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Alf’s back shed for decades. Romantic melancholy smells reminiscent of the many sweet wet Saturday afternoons I’d spent poking around in fusty second-hand bookshops in places like Paddington, Glebe, Brisbane and Balmain.
Many of the books had underlining and margin notes made by readers long ago who must have seen significance in a word, in a line. I love such books and chose several before I walked back to my seat across timber floors that smelled of beeswax and sandy thongs.
I was checking the menu when a freckle-faced girl with thick auburn braids and eyes the colour of expensive jade appeared at my side, notepad in hand and smiling down on me.
‘What’ll it be, then?’ said the young woman.
I studied the menu for a moment and decided to pass on Ringo’s special––a big country breakfast fry-up––delicious as it looked.
This was Byron Bay.
A brand-new day.
‘You know what? I’m going to have a stab at that.’ I laid down the menu and indicated the blackboard menu. ‘Your organic muesli with berries ... and … ah … I like the look of your apple, carrot and ginger juice.’ So much for the evil fry-up.
Welcome to Mung Bean World. I felt pleased with my choices. Virtuous.
‘Coffee?’ said the girl, flashing perfect white teeth and smiling green eyes that made even expensive jade seem ordinary by comparison.
‘Sure thing. Make it a long latte, could you?’
‘Soy?’
‘Why not?’ It was that kind of morning and I was in that kind of mood. I’d never tasted soy lattes but as I said to this pleasant young local who waited for my answer; why not?
‘Decaf?’
‘Okay.’ I was up for the new. And given my revving brain, it was possibly a wise choice.
There was no sugar pot on the table I had chosen. This, after all, was Byron Bay. Pure honey from the local bees left to graze on lotus blossom was possibly the sweetener of choice around these parts.
‘You need the sugar?’ The green-eyed one said as she reached for a funny old-fashioned glass and silver sugar dispenser on a nearby table.
‘Uh-uh. No sugar. Pure white and deadly!’ I had reared my five kids on that mantra.
The young Byronian––or maybe she was a backpacker from Tassie picking up a few holiday dollars––smiled her approval and with a wink, was on her way across the room to place my order and continue spreading the love.
A few minutes later I looked up from a dog-eared and much rubricated copy of Catcher in the Rye to see another young likely backpacker setting my decaffeinated soy latte