Beatrix pottering: "Slow down, cheer up, chill out"

For the first time today, I felt my new age. I have long wanted to go to Byron Bay, famous hippie heartland of the Australian east coast. And today, we got there, and I realised I was about two decades too late...

We'd left Brisbane uneventfully, until I realised I'd left the iPad in the campsite internet shack. A frantic phone call later, and the rudest woman in Australia (from the campsite check-in yesterday) had promised to bubble wrap it and post it to our address in Sydney - I felt bad about being horrible about her (must remember, everyone has a bad day now and then...) Then an easy couple of hours later, we had said goodbye to wonderful Queensland (losing an hour in the process - another internal Australian time change); we were in New South Wales, Sydney's state; and we were being welcomed into Byron Bay with a wooden sign painted with: "Byron Bay - slow down, cheer up, chill out", plus (of course) the peace sign. Things were going to be different here.

I was excited. Our campsite was on a hilltop overlooking a beautiful beach: an unspoiled, tree lined bank edging down across some boulders to a sweep of golden sand, cut into two sections by another curve of boulders (we didn't have a view sadly, as our pitch was in the middle of the site, but there were easy steps right down onto the beach). Plus surfers dotting the blue sea, and beautiful weather. Great. We had a little afternoon relax out of the heat, then set out to explore.

And that's when I realised I'd missed my time. 95% of the people we saw were young backpackery types (or slightly older traveller-looking types); and the whole of the town felt like a young, exciting party town with a slight hippie edge. Now, I may still feel young and exciting, but sadly the reality is I have turned into a cliche: I don't like my music too loud, and I do like a sit down. And we're usually back in the motorhome by 9pm latest, to put Jemima to bed). So while Byron Bay may have been waiting for me, fairly unchanged over the years, I unfortunately have changed. Ah well. It was still a great beach.

And we ended up having a very jolly dinner. There was a Mexican on the main drag that advertised kids' meals, and we lucked out with a table right at the front, but under cover. A Corona or two for Kevin, wine for me, some great food (Jemima loved re-constructing her unspicy deconstructed chicken fajita), and actually a rather good soundtrack (50s blues), and the pang of feeling old had faded. And we even had the entertainment of watching a huge tropical downpour from our dry spot: water coming down in sheets, and then flooding down the road (it also flooded the ladies in the restaurant, which Jemima thought was most exciting). As we went back to our motorhome to bed, the young'uns were setting off to party. But actually, I realised I was rather pleased to be going home, rather than going out. Maybe I am my age, after all...