In the emerald hollow of the Fraser Valley, some homes are not built upon the earth but breathed into it. If you crave the scent of sun-warmed yarrow and the deep quiet of the earth, your path will inevitably lead to the Under Hill.
There, where ancient roots entwine like sleeping giants, old Mr. Burrows makes his home. His is a lineage so attuned to the subterranean pulse of the land that he shares a heartbeat with the twitching whiskers and quick feet of the rabbit-folk. And, to see his soul, one has only to look at the lintel above the Under Hill’s weathered fir door. There, washed by a thousand rainy seasons, is an inscription — which could be translated: A Sanctuary Of Heart’s Ease.
To cross his threshold is to surrender to a dream of amber light. Inside, a labyrinth of lace doilies and patchwork quilts offers the embrace of a mother’s lullaby. Even the floorboards seem to radiate a warmth that slows time to the pace of a germinating seed.
The venerable Mr. Burrows — following a sudden, clairvoyant whim — has departed for the far horizon. While he seeks whatever the stars have promised him, he has left us the keys to the Under Hill and you are invited to surrender your weariness to these subterranean chambers. We know the old man’s spirit, ever hospitable, would find joy in sharing his hearth with a kindred soul.
