In the village of Yarrow, where the summer lingers and the Vedder River whispers its secrets to the salmonberries, there resides a cunicular gentleman of the most respectable and subterranean sort — one P. H. Burrows.
One might easily mistake his home, the Under Hill, for a mere swelling of the earth, were it not for a pair of stout doors that beckon with the promise of tea and tranquility.
An Inheritance of Hearth & Hill
The Burrows family has lived beneath this gentle slope for time out of mind. While it may have begun as a simple hole in the ground, each successive generation added its own architectural flourishes, transforming the burrow into a very fine home indeed — a place so cozy and magical it feels like a world unto itself.
To ensure the comforts of the hearth were accessible to all, Mr. Burrows’ umpteenth-great-grandparents decreed that the Under Hill be a residence of the ground-floor variety, entirely level and without a single tiresome stair.
Dreams Under Watchful Eyes
This commitment to comfort is woven into the very fabric of the bedroom nook, where Mr. Burrows sleeps on no mere straw pallet, but a sumptuous king-size bed draped in linens as soft as the underside of a willow leaf.
Above the headboard, his twice-great-grandfather carved two owls with feathers so fine one expects them to rustle in the night; the old man maintained that they’d swoop down to catch bad dreams before they could ever alight on a sleeper’s brow.
A Symphony of Spice & Steam
The kitchen reflects a similar ancestral care, thanks to Mr. Burrows’ thrice-great-grandmother. A woman whispered to be capable of brewing a change in the wind, she added a little scullery and filled it with all manner of treats and fizzy drinks. Upon the shelves, she placed jars of spices—their glass bellies full of spices of amber and deep green — so that the air remains perpetually seasoned with the faint, comforting scent of cardamom and thyme.
As a final touch of luxury, Mr. Burrows’ own grandfather installed a tub of magnificent proportions, declaring that a long soak was the only civilized way to wash away the dust of a day’s labour.
The Call of the Blue Horizon
Mr. Burrows was quite pleased with his settled life until one golden morning, when a strange, restless twitching seized his nose. “My home is a fine thing,” he murmured to himself, “but a gentleman must occasionally see where the horizon dips into the blue.”
An Open Door for the Weary Traveller
And so, he dusted his tweed waistcoat and stepped beyond his familiar threshold. With a stout walking stick and a heart full of trepidation, Mr. Burrows trotted forth, leaving the safety of his ancestral refuge for the magnificent, perilous unknown.
He won’t stay away forever, but while he is gone, he has left his storybook cottage in the care of those who appreciate the finer things — namely, a king-size bed tucked beneath twining roots and a soaker tub deep enough to drown all the worries of a dusty traveller. We hope you will come for a visit soon.
