It happens every time I visit Byron Bay. My body loses all sense of time, in the blink of an eye four weeks have passed. It's the unmistakable scent of endless summers. Lovingly cooked meals straight from farmers markets in the pan. Fresh laid eggs by happy chickens. They carry colourful feathers and names which suit their personalities.
Warm rain showers make plants turn almost glow in the dark green, like the phosphorescent during night time ocean swims. We dance until our heads spin, take off all clothes and wash away the sweat under starlit waves. Covered in happiness we drive our salty bodies home. Blossoming flowers, mosquito repellent, pulled pork in any possible way. The aroma of home.
Sweet Byron, where wedding dresses cost three coffees. Waves are big enough to lose both parts of your bikini in a split second. Monday is just a second Sunday. A picnic is never just a sandwich. Music is played all day long. Barefoot is the way to go. Sunflowers make women smile. Moods are high even when the sun is low. Men wear sarongs and roll cigarettes. Sundown is mosquito happy hour. Big wall spiders are a part of the house. Byron is a part of me.