At the Hazelnut Inn, we poured years of love and craft into building an escape from the ordinary world. But when we opened our doors, we didn't realize the true magic would be the footprints our guests would leave on our hearts.

Opening our guestbooks feels like uncovering buried treasure. Every week, we find heartfelt stories, poetry, and hand-drawn sketches. Our visitors aren't just signing their names; they are leaving pieces of their hearts with us.

A Beautiful Surprise Under the Hill

Recently, a couple celebrating a massive milestone — 34 years of marriage — left behind a delicate watercolour painting of two rabbits holding hands with a poem that perfectly captures why we do what we do.

With their permission, we are honoured to share their beautiful words:

We came back to Chilliwack
hand in hand still,
and found the most magical
burrow, Under Hill.

With whimsy and wonder
tucked under each beam,
it felt as though we'd stepped
right into a dream.

34 years married & still
full of cheer,
how lovely to celebrate
such memories here.

For places made with kindness,
imagination and skill,
leave footprints on the heart —
and so will Under Hill.

The Ultimate Reward

We tucked whimsy into every corner of our suites, but seeing it become a page in 34 years of beautiful, real-world love story is simply magical.

To all our past and future guests: thank you for sharing your stories, your art, and your poems. You are just as much a part of the Hazelnut Inn as the walls themselves.

For generations out of mind, the Burrows clan has held the Under Hill, a residence so thoroughly established in the hillside that the very roots of the ancient tree above have grown into the ceiling to keep them company.

Its current occupant, one P. H. Burrows, is a leporine gentleman of good sense and better taste.

A Splendid Subterranean Scullery

While his family home might once have been a trifle rustic — not that the old tunnels were ever inadequate, you understand, for a Burrows has never been known to tolerate a draft — his forebears each had a hand in its refinement. Under their care, the Under Hill ceased to be a mere residence and became a masterpiece of subterranean engineering.

His many-greats-grandmother, for instance, believed one should never be more than six paces from a biscuit or a cool drink, and so designed a scullery that could hold enough nibbles to last through a fortnight of heavy rains. From its root-ribbed ceiling, she hung bundles of dried flowers, ensuring the air was perpetually seasoned with the faint, comforting scent of lavender and thistle.

The Silent Sentinels

The bed-nook, too, received a personal touch from Mr. Burrows’ great-great-grandfather. Being a fellow of deep sentiment and perhaps a touch of superstition, he felt his room required “watchers” — silent sentinels to preside over his peaceful slumber. He set his chisel to work upon his stout bedposts, and now, there dwell a pair of hand-carved owls. These are not the screeching, flighty sorts that pester one in the dark woods, but owls of a most dignified and sedentary character.

The Liquid Depths

Throughout all these improvements, the family remained steadfast in their disdain for verticality. “Steps,” they were often heard to mutter, “are for the flighty and the feather-brained.” Consequently, the renovations ensured the entire burrow remained perfectly level, allowing visitors with wheeled-conveyances to navigate with ease.

Perhaps the most “progressive” addition, however, was the ultra-deep soaking tub set between massive stones. Mr. Burrows’ own grandfather spent many an afternoon ensuring it was the exact depth required for a gentleman to submerge himself entirely, leaving only his nose above the water.

A Sudden Departure

Mr. Burrows thoroughly enjoyed the peace and quiet the Under Hill provided, but one morning at breakfast, he had a peculiar notion. “It’s a day,” he murmured to his reflection in a polished spoon, “to see a bit of the world.” Donning his finest waistcoat, he stepped outside and into the golden wash of sunlight. He did not really mean to go on an adventure, but one thing led to another, and off he’s gone.

While he’s away, he has left his Under Hill refuge for those weary travellers who seek to live, for a time, with a bit of comfort — we hope you will come for a visit soon.

Some foundations are laid in myth rather than mortar. If your heart beats to the rhythm of a distant tide, you will eventually find your way to the North Star.

There, the weathered hull of the Avellana pierces the stone tower like an salt-bitten thorn. The ship still vibrates with the pulse of Temperance Longbottom, a woman so resolute that sea parted to let her pass.

As a child, Temperance possessed a green thumb so potent that yarrow bloomed at the sound of her laughter. But the valley grew too small for a heart that beat in time with the tides. She traded her garden for the salt-sprayed deck of the Avellana, a vessel navigated by the scent of destiny rather than the stars. As Captain, she became a legend in the indigo mists — a woman who once routed a pirate fleet not with a cannonade, but with a gaze so steady it calmed the sea.

From those villains, she reclaimed wonders that defied reason: coins that sang in ancient tongues and limestone giants who wept the brine of forgotten oceans. Temperance could feel the thrumming magic within these relics, yet she could never wield it. Haunted by the beauty she could not wake, she spent her twilight years on a feverish odyssey to return every artifact to its rightful shore, chasing the mirage of Atlantis until the horizon finally claimed her.

Temperance vanished into the deep, but her ship refused to sink. Carried by a final, impossible wind, the Avellana took to the sky, sailing over mountains to embed itself forever into the walls of her childhood home.

If you feel your heart beating in time with a tide you cannot see, come to the North Star. The stone giants still sleep in the garden, dreaming of the deep, and the Avellana sits waiting for a new soul to take the wheel.