In the emerald hollow of the Fraser Valley, some homes are not built upon the earth but breathed into it. If you crave the scent of sun-warmed yarrow and the deep quiet of the earth, your path will inevitably lead to the Under Hill.

There, where ancient roots entwine like sleeping giants, old Mr. Burrows makes his home. His is a lineage so attuned to the subterranean pulse of the land that he shares a heartbeat with the twitching whiskers and quick feet of the rabbit-folk. And, to see his soul, one has only to look at the lintel above the Under Hill’s weathered fir door. There, washed by a thousand rainy seasons, is an inscription — which could be translated: A Sanctuary Of Heart’s Ease.

To cross his threshold is to surrender to a dream of amber light. Inside, a labyrinth of lace doilies and patchwork quilts offers the embrace of a mother’s lullaby. Even the floorboards seem to radiate a warmth that slows time to the pace of a germinating seed.

The venerable Mr. Burrows — following a sudden, clairvoyant whim — has departed for the far horizon. While he seeks whatever the stars have promised him, he has left us the keys to the Under Hill and you are invited to surrender your weariness to these subterranean chambers. We know the old man’s spirit, ever hospitable, would find joy in sharing his hearth with a kindred soul.

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.

I was a mere youth — my knees still knocking at the sight of a breaking swell — when I first heard tell of the woman they call Captain Temperance Longbottom. It’s a name that tastes of salt and iron — a name for a mariner who feared neither the gale nor the gallows.

She commanded a tall ship of no small renown, the Avallana, a vessel that seemed to take wing upon the whitecaps. Legend has it that while plying the foam in uncharted waters, she stumbled upon a pirate's lair — a secret cavernous hole at the world’s edge, stuffed to the gunwales with the spoils of myth and fairytale. There were statues of forgotten kings, arcane paraphernalia that would make a scholar’s head spin, and gold enough to sink a galleon.

Now, a common rogue would have kept the lot and died rich and miserable. But Longbottom was of a different cast. She set her course to return these ill-gotten gains to their rightful homes across the map. She was a soul possessed by a singular, restless purpose, and she sailed until the Avallana became a ghost upon the sea.

She never returned from those final voyages. All that remains of her wanderings is her ramshackle property, known now as the North Star Suite at the Hazelnut Inn. If you step within, you’ll find yourself in the very Captain’s quarters where she once charted her course by the stars. The room is filled with reminders of her travels — strange curiosities that she, in her haste or her wisdom, left behind.

It is a place for those who hear the calling of the tide, where you may sleep under a glowing ceiling that mirrors the heavens and imagine the Captain still out there, chasing the horizon.

The North Star — and your own great adventure — are waiting for you.