Our magical little hotel was originally dreamed up as a one-of-a-kind romantic getaway. For years, we’ve watched couples step through our gates to celebrate milestones like anniversaries, marriage proposals, and romantic birthdays. But this month, we celebrated a major milestone of our own: hosting our very first wedding.

Intimate, Intentional, and Entirely Magical

We have always prioritized a quiet, private experience for our guests, which is why parties and other events are generally not permitted on our property. However, by special permission, couples can reserve the entire hotel to host a storybook micro-wedding.

For our inaugural ceremony, the couple did exactly that. Accompanied by just a handful of their closest friends, they transformed our grounds into their own private fairytale kingdom for the day.

Under Hill, In Love

They chose the secluded garden courtyard of our Under Hill Suite for their ceremony. To mark the occasion, the iconic garden gate was draped in flowing red fabric and woven with delicate bunches of baby’s breath — a striking contrast against our handcrafted ironwork.

It was a day defined not by the size of the crowd, but by the depth of the love filling the space. We are deeply honoured to have played a small part in their love story.

Three years ago, we welcomed our very first guests. Six years before that, the Hazelnut Inn was just a crazy dream. Hailey and I sold our home, leveraged everything we owned, and poured almost a decade of our lives into building our magical little hotel.

There were endless exhausting days and plenty of sleepless nights — wondering if we were completely foolish for risking so much. (Though Hailey, the heart of my heart, never doubted.)

A Year In Advance

These days, those fears have grown quiet. And this week, the Hazelnut Inn reached an incredible new milestone: we took our very first booking exactly one year in advance.

Seeing that “year-out” reservation pop up on the screen felt like a profound release. While we expect this will eventually become our regular rhythm, this very first one is a beautiful validation of every sacrifice we made.

More Than Just A Booking

What truly overwhelms me, though, isn’t the calendar filling up; it’s our guests’ stories.

I read every single note left in our guestbooks. Guests continually comment on the level of detail and how “real” the experience feels. Hearing that they felt like they were “stepping into another world,” or that they teared up as they crossed the threshold, is profoundly humbling.

Our magic is a team effort and a massive part belongs to my sister Becke, who pours meticulous thought and care into every single stay as our innkeeper.

A Heartfelt Thank You

To every guest who has stayed with us, to everyone who has shed a tear in our suites, and to the folks who just booked their getaway for next July: thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Our journey is just beginning, and we cannot wait to welcome you — whether you’re visiting next week, or a year from now.

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.