Folks like Goodliffe, who has lived at Poole's on and off for decades, resent the characterization of their secret slice of paradise as a "drug commune," though there's no doubt drugs are a part of the culture. Almost everyone is rolling a joint or hitting the bong. While I'm there, I take a tour through a small ganja garden and witness people do mushrooms and trip on LSD and MDMA. One French woman tells me she's about to try fire tossing—which seems risky at the best of times—and then casually mentions that she's just dropped acid. The vibes are reminiscent of a party hostel that just so happens to be situated in the woods. But there's more to it than that; it feels like people are here to free themselves of the monotony of living to work, settling down, having a full-time job, and buying property. As one of the residents, a 24-year-old former sous chef named Cheyanne, puts it: "It's not crazy hippies on drugs; it's a bunch of fucked-up people helping each other." They want to indulge, she adds, "not in drugs, but in life."