And it happily accommodates all of them. About the only thing not tolerated in Byron Shire is intolerance itself, which is perhaps the best way to get a real handle on this town. Like the sarongs sold in the street opposite the famous pub, one size fits all. Byron Bay is the result of seven volcanic eruptions, a caldera spewed from the bile of Mt Warning, its crag looming in the distance as a none too subtle reminder of how arbitrary mother nature can be. Its indigenous history ripples with lore suggesting the land has always been special, sacred and fascinatingly problematic.
Popular myth identifies it as a meeting place, a place of sexual healing, a spiritual trig point.
True or not, it is less than a century since the cedar getters cleared the surrounding land of Old Scrub, since the dairy industry nestled into the lush hills and plateau, since abattoirs made Byron something of a killing zone for cattle, pigs and whales, since the hippie invasion at the time of the Aquarius festival, since the surfers found their mother lode, since professional refugees escaped their cardboard careers for a life that makes wellness a priority, not a luxury. Byron Shire is often called a community. In truth, it is a rabbit warren of communities and you can ascribe to as many and as few as you wish. But if Byron Shire is a community, it's a community full of black sheep. Researching a coffee table book for local resident and author Di Morrissey, it has become evident that the shining collection of men, women and children who make this place swing like a hepped up metronome.