After my extended stay in VicBay, I make my way to Nature's Valley about 120km away. It really is the kind of place that a breakfast bar would be named after; vast rolling foothills, lush vegetation, the Tsitsikamma mountain range as a backdrop, rays of early morning sunshine burning away fog, shimmering as it reflects off the morning dew.

I end up making my stay at Wild Spirit, a place that is more hippy commune (with an adjoining farm) than hostel, employing volunteers on three month stints in exchange for room and board. It's a beautiful place with fantastic vistas over large swaths of land and it's the first hostel I come across that actually has a vegetable offering that isn't baked potato. A proud carnivore, even I need my greens every now and then, and so far, every meal has consisted of a large hunk of well done meat with the texture of a boot sole and a taste to match, accompanied by a pathetic smattering of wilted iceberg lettuce (a garnish really).

This picture doesn't do it justice (it never does) but the view from this veranda was spectacular

As I tuck into dinner and play the "where are you from/where are you going" game with fellow travelers, I strike up a conversation with a guy sitting on his own and mostly keeping to himself. He is aloof and collected, eyes always weighing and judging. He carries himself with a certain air of superiority and pretension and sports an ostentatious beard equaled only by his outfit, the kind that screams "look at me!" like that one guy from Mumford and Sons. Introducing myself, he reluctantly reveals his name as "Enoch" dispelling all doubt in my mind as to what this guy is about. Hipsters really are everywhere, even in Nature's Valley volunteering for three months.

Buddy, you're from Fulham, not Tennessee. Get a grip.

He laughs in the face of your carefully curated vinyl collection, artisanal coffee sourced from responsible sources and your trendy, exposed brickwork, one bedroom apartment in that just gentrifying, but still bohemian part of town. Why? Because that stuff's for amateurs.

When not listening to bands that don't even exist yet, he's recording his own folk alt-rock on a 4-track. Artisanal flat-white with free-range organic milk? Please, this guy milks the cow himself every morning. Unpasteurized bitches. Living in an ungentrified part of town? Aren't you avantgarde. Street cred comes so easily to this guy that, in search of a challenge, he's forsaken city life for wild life. You San Fran tech nerds with your spray-on skinny jeans and coke bottle glasses and you East London, Shoreditch patronizing, quiff over one eye ponces have nothing on this guy. Go home and be a family man. Enoch, the hipster's hipster and patron saint of Hipsterdom demands tribute; this blog post is mine.