Byron Bay

On arrival in Byron, we were to stay at the very famous Arts Factory hostel.  This is the kind of place where a person can be as alternative as is possible without actually joining another species.  It was founded in the early 70's by young Americans trying to avoid Vietnam while at the same time surfing, getting in touch with nature, contemplating life's mysteries and taking an AWFUL lot of drugs.  So we'd heard a lot about it, and the reputation of the place seemed to be confirmed by the appearance of the Arts Factory pick-up van, driven by a young Cockney bloke with 1970's hair.  He reminded me of something out of a really bad sex comedy.  (These films almost always featured either Robin Asquith or Hywel Bennet and had titles like "Adventures of a Window Cleaner", "Confessions of a Taxi Driver" or the particularly memorable film "Percy" in which Hywel is the first recipient of a penis-transplant.  I kid you not.)
 
So anyhow, Robin Asquith is driving us through Byron, giving us the usual quick guide to the place, and sitting next to him is a rather hairy, frizzy French guy, who spends the entire trip shoving Wheaty-Chips in his face and occasionally interrupting.
 
ROBIN ASQUITH: Over there is the shop - it takes about 10 minutes to get there from the hostel.
FRIZZY FROG:          ....nuh... about seven...
ROBIN ASQUITH:    Ok, SEVEN minutes.  And on Thursday mornings you can pay ten dollars for 
  the sunrise walk up to the lighthouse.
FRIZZY FROG:        Ten dollairs...?
ROBIN ASQUITH:    Yeah well, they throw in free hot chocolate and cookies.
FRIZZY FROG:        Cookies???
ROBIN ASQUITH:    NORMAL cookies.
FRIZZY FROG:        (Disappointed)  Euh.
 
The staff at the hostel were very friendly and helpful, checked us in promptly and showed us where to go.  They really were lovely, in that spacey, hippy way that comes from getting in touch with nature, contemplating life's mysteries and taking an AWFUL lot of drugs.  Our actual accomodation was a "cube", which was a big square tent sitting on a wooden veranda overlooking a lake.  When I say "lake" I actually MEAN fetid mozzie-swamp, but you get the idea.  The tent contained a light, which was difficult for us to read by at the same time, and we had to get into all sorts of bizarre positionss in order be able to share the meagre glow.  (Have YOU ever tried to read with your legs in the air?  Don't answer that.)  There was also a locker under the bed to store all your stuff, a couple of iron chairs and toilets handily located about a mile away over a wooden bridge.  Apart from that it was quite cosy - I soon fell asleep in my little bed, waking early next morning having this weird New Age type dream about Elves.  I had these sort of dreams every morning, and I put this down to the fact that our tent was right next to the Didge Pit where young backpacking types could spend their mornings spitting down a long piece of wood, recreating The Dreamtime and wrecking mine at the same time.