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.

At the Hazelnut Inn, suites aren't just rooms—they are immersive love letters written in architecture. Every twisted root in the Under Hill and every seashell lantern aboard the North Star was crafted as a physical tribute to the notion of shared fantasy. We’ve  carved out a sanctuary for those who still believe in magic.

When the outside world grows too loud, your quiet moments of connection can be the first to fade. We designed these suites to bring them back. You’ll feel the intention in the heavy pull of a custom-carved door, the radiant warmth of tile floors beneath your feet, and the private garden under the stars.

Whether you’re retreating into a cozy subterranean burrow or ascending into a fairytale castle, you are stepping into an architectural romance. 

Put down the to-do list. Leave the world behind. Rediscover your love story within ours…

Who is Philbert?

Well dear… If you ever visit us at the Hazelnut Inn — which is less of a hotel and more of a daydream that someone accidentally built out of bricks — you’ll find Philbert’s the name on the door — or at least the official email address. He’s our caretaker; our groundskeeper; our warden of passwords; and, despite all his muttering about “infernal technology,” it’s Philbert’s Netflix account you’ll be borrowing during your stay.

Now Philbert, bless his slightly threadbare cardigan, isn't one for the limelight. Like the Under Hill's elusive Mr. Burrows, he sometimes seems more myth than man — and he certainly isn’t your typical groundskeeper. His quiet presence is a steady anchor against the tides of the world. He’s the one who makes sure your fairytale isn’t interrupted by anything as gauche as a leaky tap or a wilting fern.

And the Hazelnut Inn thrives under his care; the beds are absurdly comfortable; the gardens impossibly vibrant; the Wi-Fi inexplicably speedy.

The legend around here (which is a grand word for what is essentially hotel gossip) is that he isn’t just the Hazelnut Inn’s caretaker; he’s part of the inn — a fairy creature woven into its very foundations. And not the “Tinkerbell” variety either — he’s far too tall and much too interested in drainage — he’s the ancient kind. The kind that remembers when the Avallana’s captain was just a girl with a wooden sword.

It’s why he’s so good at maintaining the Copper Crown — he’s not fixing a castle; he’s tapping into ancient ley lines. Mind you, Philbert doesn’t do anything flashy. You won't find him flying through the northern sky in a streak of pure light. He prefers the quiet satisfaction of a well-swept path and a guest who hasn’t noticed that the indoor temperature is exactly 20 degrees, regardless of the weather outside.

In short, he’s the reason the Hazelnut Inn is such a magical little hotel. And that, my dear, is the simple, slightly spurious, utterly charming truth about Philbert.