The studio

Four rooms, built around one hour.

A restored brick storefront on Bellamy Lane: four treatment rooms, a small tea corner, and the deliberate absence of retail shelving. Everything here exists to protect the hour you booked.

Sunlit treatment room with a white-linened massage table, a rolled towel at its head, and warm wood shelving behind — The daylight rooms — morning appointments get the sun.

Smooth heated basalt stones resting along a client's back in low, warm candlelight — The dim room — hot stone and evening treatments live here.

House rules

The four things we refuse to compromise.

Quiet is enforced, gently

Phones silenced at the door, no music with lyrics, no speaker calls at the desk. The loudest thing in the studio should be the kettle.

Scent-reduced by default

Unscented oils and laundry unless you ask for aromatherapy. Guests with sensitivities shouldn't have to negotiate for breathable air.

Warm everything

Heated tables, flannel in winter, towels out of the warmer. Cold sheets undo ten minutes of good work.

Hygiene you can audit

Fresh linens every guest, hospital-grade laundering, stones sanitized and logged between treatments. Ask for the log — Dominic will beam.

Access

Rest shouldn't require an obstacle course.

Step-free entrance and treatment rooms; one oversized room takes mobility devices with space to spare.
Tables lower to chair-transfer height; getting on and off is assisted whenever you want it, never assumed.
Intake notes travel to your therapist verbatim — communication preferences included and honoured.
A washroom on the treatment floor, wide doorways throughout, and staff who've been asked before.

Client lying face-up with eyes closed while a therapist cradles and massages her scalp in soft window light

Fern & Fascia

Come hear the quiet for yourself.

The rooms photograph well, but the point of them is an hour you can't photograph. Book one and see.

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