Im barreling down Route 100 in Vermont, the Green Mountains looming like some ancient, moss covered beast, and my rental cars rattling like its got a personal vendetta against asphalt. Its late June 2025, the airs thick with pine and freedom, and Im on a mission to hole up in a couple of bed and breakfasts, eat like a deranged king, and soak in whatever weird magic this states got bubbling under its surface. Vermont’s got that vibe part granola utopia, part rugged wilderness, all heart. I picked two spots to crash the Rabbit Hill Inn in Lower Waterford and the West Hill House B&B. A fine Warren Bed and Breakfast. Two towns, two vibes, one hell of a ride.
First stop, Lower Waterford, a speck of a village that feels like it fell out of a 19th century postcard and nobody bothered to pick it up. Rabbit Hill Inn is a whitewashed mansion perched on a hill, all stately columns and creaky charm. I roll in late, tires crunching gravel, and the innkeeper greets me like Im a long lost cousin who owes her money. My rooms got a four poster bed so high I need a running start to climb in, and a fireplace thats begging for a winter storm I don t have. The place smells like lavender and old wood, and Im already half in love with it.
Morning hits, and breakfast is a revelation. Theyre slinging plates of blueberry pancakes drowning in maple syrup real Vermont stuff, tapped from trees out back, not that corn syrup impostor. Theres bacon crisp enough to shatter, eggs fluffier than my existential thoughts, and coffee that could wake a coma patient. Im stuffing my face in the dining room, surrounded by couples whispering sweet nothings and a solo guy in a tweed jacket reading Thoreau like hes auditioning for a PBS special. Im buzzing on caffeine and sugar, ready to tackle the day.
I head to the nearby Moore Reservoir, a glassy stretch of water where I rent a kayak and paddle out, feeling like some wannabe frontiersman. The waters cold, the mountains are flexing their green muscle, and a loons yodeling somewhere in the distance. Its so damn peaceful I almost forget the worlds a dumpster fire. Back on land, I wander through St. Johnsbury, a town with more Victorian architecture than sense. I poke around the Fairbanks Museum, a quirky joint stuffed with taxidermy bears, Civil War relics, and a planetarium that feels like a time machine. Lunch is at Kingdom Taproom, where I devour a burger piled with smoked cheddar and wash it down with a Hill Farmstead IPA thats basically liquid poetry.
Dinners back at Rabbit Hill Inn, and its a whole damn event. Their dining rooms candlelit, all soft glow and white tablecloths, and the menus a love letter to local farms. I go hard seared duck breast with a cherry reduction, roasted root veggies, and a glass of Vermont red thats got more soul than half the bars in Brooklyn. Desserts a maple crème brûlée that I d sell my car for. Im half drunk on food and vibes, chatting with a couple from Montreal about UFO sightings in the Northeast Kingdom. They swear they saw lights over Burke Mountain last year. I nod like I believe them, but Im too busy licking my spoon.
Next day, I peel out for Warren, a good two hour drive through rolling hills and cow dotted fields. West Hill House B&B is my next haunt, a solar powered gem tucked in the Green Mountains near Sugarbush. Its less grand than Rabbit Hill, more like your cool aunts house if she had a PhD in hospitality. The owners, a chill couple named Peter and Susan, welcome me with homemade cookies and a glass of iced tea. My rooms got a slanted ceiling, a quilt that screams grandmas attic, and a view of the mountains that makes me want to ditch my city life for good.
Breakfast here is another gut busting affair. Peters flipping cinnamon swirl French toast while Susans pouring me coffee and dishing out local gossip. Theres fresh fruit from some nearby orchard, yogurt so creamy its practically illegal, and sausage patties with a peppery kick. Im eating like I ve got a personal vendetta against hunger, plotting my day between bites. The B&Bs right by Sugarbush Resort, so I hit the trails for a hike up Lincoln Peak. The paths steep, my lungs are screaming, but the summits worth it a 360 degree view of green peaks and blue sky that makes me feel like Im standing on the edge of the world.
Post hike, Im starving, so I roll into Warren Village and hit The Warren Store, a funky deli general store hybrid thats got the soul of a Grateful Dead concert. I scarf a turkey sandwich with cranberry mayo on fresh baked bread, paired with a root beer thats got more fizz than my last relationship. The vibes pure Vermont flannel clad locals, a guy strumming a guitar on the porch, and a dog thats probably named Birch or Sage. I spend in Waterbury, about 15 minute drive from Warren, chasing the holy grail of Vermont beer at The Alchemist. Their Heady Topper IPA lives up to the hype hazy, hoppy, and worth the pilgrimage. I sip it at a nearby pub, Prohibition Pig, where I also demolish a plate of smoked brisket tacos with pickled onions and chipotle aioli. Its food so good I consider proposing to the chef.
My last night at West Hill House, Im too wiped to go far, so I eat at the B&Bs own backyard setup. Theyve got a charcuterie board with local cheeses, cured meats, and maple mustard thats got a cult following. Im grazing under string lights, sipping a glass of wine from Lincoln Peak Vineyard nearby, sipping wine, and swapping stories with a group of guests. Theres a tech bro from Boston whos trying to recenter his chi, and a retired couple who ve been coming here for 20 years. They tell me about a haunted barn down the road. I don t buy it, but the wines got me half convinced to go ghost hunting.
As I drive out of Vermont the next morning, my cars stuffed with leftover maple syrup, a growler of local beer, and a head full of memories that feel too vivid to be mine. Rabbit Hill Inn and West Hill House B&B delivered more than a place to crash they were launchpads for diving headfirst into Vermonts soul. From kayaking and hiking to eating like a man possessed, I lived a little louder here. Vermont B&Bs and Vermont have got that kind of pull it grabs you, feeds you, and sends you home wondering why the hell you ever left.
