Old Mr. Burrows occasionally tells the story of the heavy night-mists that rolled off the Vedder River in the days of his thrice-great-grandmother: Baba Zayka. This was no ordinary fog; it was a grey, weight that settled in the bones, leaving the local rabbits twitchy and the village folk unable to find the quiet side of sleep.

Baba Zayka watched the fog creep toward the timber doors of the Under Hill and knew the burrow was in peril — but she didn’t bolt her doors. Instead, she climbed to the ancient, moon-silvered tree atop the hill and harvested a single, sturdy limb.

Then, in the amber glow of her hearth, she worked with purpose. She rubbed the wood with hazelnut oil until it hummed with warmth and bound bundles of dried yarrow to its base with twine. She wasn’t building a weapon, but a hearth-broom.

As the mists tried to pour over her threshold, Baba Zayka stepped out to meet them. She began to sweep, humming a low, rhythmic tune that echoed the steady pulse of the earth. With every stroke, the yarrow stalks caught at the fog. 

Like wool snagging on a briar, the heavy shadows were pulled from the air and trapped within the bristles. She swept until the air felt light and the valley was clear.

At the first light of dawn, Baba Zayka tapped the broom thrice against the cobblestones. A soft cloud of golden pollen puffed out, filling the garden with the scent of sun-dried yarrow and the weightless promise of a deep sleep.

Mr. Burrows claims — always with a wink — that when the moon is full, you can see that same broom standing guard at his door. He says that when you cross the Under Hill’s threshold, the weight of the world is swept away, leaving you finally ready for a good night’s rest.

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 a 34 year long, 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.

In 2010, Jennifer Allen — an explorer of the quietest corners of human sensation — gave a name to a shimmering “itch” in the brain that many felt but few could describe. She called it the Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response or ASMR: a sequence of euphoric tingles triggered by the rhythmic whisper of a voice or the soft rustle of a page. It is, quite literally, a brain massage.

If you have ever wondered what the architectural equivalent of that sensation looks like, you need look no further than the Hazelnut Inn.

We have been taught that modern luxury is defined by smoothness — the sterile glass of a skyscraper, the brushed steel of a kitchen faucet, or the frictionless surface of a smartphone. But there is a glitch in our evolutionary wiring. Our brains weren’t built for flat, mass-produced surfaces. In a world of clinical minimalism, our eyes are actually starving for stimulation.

Our magical little hotel is a masterclass in what we jokingly call “Eyeball ASMR.” We’ve designed every surface to scratch that deep, ancestral itch for a world you can feel with your eyes.

When you step into one of our suites, your brain is suddenly rescued from sensory deprivation. You aren’t just looking at a room; you are absorbing a thousand tactile inputs at once: the deep grain of hand-carved wood; the living patina on aged steel; the rugged, uneven soul of sculpted stone. Because every surface has been shaped by a human hand, every square inch carries a heartbeat.

Your eyes don’t just scan these spaces; they read them like an epic poem. This is more than just a place to sleep — it is a three-dimensional narrative written in wood, stone, and light.

The Hazelnut Inn is not just a getaway. It’s a sensory epiphany.