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.
