Blackbird Byron

As someone who often exerts crushing amounts of effort to fake an inherent sense of ‘chill’, I feared Byron Bay’s alarms would sound as soon as I crossed the famous ‘Cheer up. Slow down. Chill out’ welcome sign en route to Blackbird Byron. An army of surfers with tousled blonde hair would burst onto the scene, forming a daisy-chain across the town’s perimeter, escorting me out like a bull from an ethically saged crystal shop.  

Mr Smith chances a quick 'should we do mushrooms?' as we pass our first of many organic health-food stores, unaware that I’m still running through the possible side effects of an adaptogenic hot chocolate. On the streets, pairs of bare feet ferry taut bodies from açaí bars to hemp-y boutiques, and I see why Byron is called ‘The Shire’; it is like being in The Lord of the Rings, if all the hobbits modelled for Hollister on the side. 

We made two incredibly wise decisions on this trip: the first was coming here in the height of Australia’s winter, which is just British springtime with an accent. It meant all of Byron’s gorgeous clichés could be enjoyed under crisp, blue skies, with fewer tourists hogging the views from Cape Byron Lighthouse or swiping tables at the trendiest spots. The second was booking a stay at Blackbird. Without it, I might still be back at the beach, soft-launching an unprofitable career as a breath-work practitioner. Without it, we may never have found the true magic of Byron: the Byron Hinterland. 

A 30-minute drive from the centre of town (and 40 minutes down the highway, for those coming direct from Gold Coast airport), this is a world of thunderous waterfalls and rainforest trails, old-timey general stores and quiet coffee farms. It’s where we’d squeal into moss-slippy rock pools like drunk fairies and sip sweet macadamia liqueur beneath the treetops like really drunk fairies.  

Here among the mountains, Blackbird hums to the Hinterland’s very specific tune: chirping birdsong (founder James named the property after the area’s rare black cockatoos), the soft hiss of a boiling kettle, the twangy strings of a guitar plucking a Beatles classic (James also named the property after the band’s 1968 hit of the same name). It’s the original motion picture soundtrack for Slow Living — indeed the only thing that’s quick is the time it takes for lovely Lucas, our host for the weekend, to get two flutes of champagne into our hands upon arrival. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a ‘well done for surviving the drive’ intonation to the gesture. In the same vein, Lucas makes sure to tell us about the in-room massages he’d be happy to arrange as I gratefully guzzle the fizz, my cortisol slipping away, as the sun would, soon, slip beyond the mountains behind us, leaving a night of Galileo-worthy stargazing in its wake. 

And here’s where things go from an enthusiastic 'look at that pool!' (no, really, look at that pool), to a mildly hysteric 'Only Australian immigration can drag me out of here now.' I’m not talking about the sunset, which is dusky and calm and does have us reaching for Blackbird’s free-to-borrow binoculars and stargazing manual. I’m talking about the sunrise, which is life-changing, thoroughly justifies its 5am call time, and is not something my Samsung Galaxy could ever hope to capture, no matter how many megapixels it proclaims to wield.  

Since all three of Blackbird’s guest pavilions face east, the best thing you can do — possibly in this lifetime — is leave those curtains wide open as you sleep. That way, come dawn, Byron’s golden light pours through the floor-to-ceiling glass, sailing past that distant lighthouse, turning this spectacular horizon into a blazing canvas of fiery orange and cobalt blue. The low-slung mountains stretching awake before you suddenly emerge, outlined in silhouette, and the Pacific Ocean beyond it shimmers with an ethereal, lavender haze.  

Wrapped in one Blackbird’s textured robes, I walk the few steps it takes to reach the communal lounge and kitchen — a designer shed of corrugated iron and timber, a loving recomposition of the former banana farm that once stood in its place. In a few hours’ time, Mr Smith and I would eat our breakfast, a delicious mushroom omelette courtesy of Lucas, at the long wooden table inside. But in these early hours, I simply stand beside it, my bare feet touching the pool’s seamless edge. The light had fashioned it into a sheer plate of glass, like the observation floors tourists dare to walk across at world-famous skyscrapers. And while I’m sure swimming in it would have been glorious, it was unheated, and it was wintertime. The neighbouring sauna, meanwhile, quickly became an old friend who I made sure to catch up with as often as possible. 

The lounge, pavilions and pool at Blackbird all speak a bilingual blend of desert modernism and Moorish affectation, where mosaic floors tiles and Moroccan rugs run alongside stumpy saguaros and exposed concrete. Eames’ famous model blackbird perches on tables and shelves and headboards, lest you forget the property’s designer chops. In the lounge, a tall fridge doubles up as a communal (but not complimentary) minibar, wedged between a rattan cabinet and studio-grade floor lamp. And while you could pay for a bottle of wine from its buzzy depths, only the very clever guests know to stock their pavilion fridges with local treats from the Mullumbimby Farmers' Market, held every Friday on the town’s saloon-style streets, just 15 minutes of winding road away.  

I’d argue — though the pool puts up an extremely good fight — that Blackbird’s roomy central table is the heart of the operation. It’s where we’d hide from Byron’s feral winds, play chess until the small hours of the morning, chat with fellow guests over freshly poured coffee and play guitar by the wood-burning fire. It’s where I’d watch a spider climb out of the aforementioned guitar and consider throwing myself in the pool as a dramatic means of escape. It’s where we’d enjoy an evening with one of Blackbird’s private chefs (bookable in advance), and savour four delicious courses made all the sweeter by the fact we were roughly 50 metres away from bed.

My favourite spot, though, is the patio just outside our room: two chairs and a side table from which to nibble our complimentary cheese board. No surprises there, though; it’s the front row to my new favourite view.