Exploring Port Hardy on Vancouver Island, British Columbia
Immersed in the lush landscapes of British Columbia, Port Hardy on Vancouver Island offers a captivating blend of natural beauty and cultural diversity. As an avid traveler, my adventures have taken me to various corners of the world, but nothing could have prepared me for the unique charm of this coastal town.
My journey began with a chance encounter with a remarkable woman - a petite Hong Kong immigrant in her mid-50s, who happened to be my mother. Armed with her bright yellow hard hat, she navigated through the intricacies of the forestry industry as the senior purchaser for a British Columbia-based company. Despite turbulent times, she remained an unwavering pillar of dedication, shouldering the responsibilities of her entire department singlehandedly.
Port Hardy, nestled within the awe-inspiring landscapes of Vancouver Island, served as the backdrop for my mother's tireless work. She tirelessly crisscrossed this pristine region, negotiating contracts for hotels, log loaders, harvesters, and a myriad of other essentials for the province's pulp and paper mills. Her commitment and unwavering determination were evident in every aspect of her job, striving to ensure the smooth functioning of the industry she dedicated herself to.
Steeped in resilience and armed with a relentless work ethic, my mother embodied the spirit of Port Hardy. This quaint town, surrounded by lush forests and picturesque seascapes, resonates with a sense of adventure and untapped potential. With each passing day, my admiration for my mother grew as I witnessed her navigate the challenges of her profession, all while immersing herself in the natural wonders that surrounded her.
Recounting her vibrant stories of life in Port Hardy brings to mind the limitless possibilities that await, whether it be exploring the stunning coastal trails or marveling at the awe-inspiring wildlife. From the charming local community to the breathtaking landscapes, Port Hardy offers a truly immersive experience for any adventurous soul seeking to discover the wonders of Vancouver Island.
Indulge in the vibrant culture, sample mouthwatering coastal cuisine, and embark on thrilling outdoor excursions – Port Hardy leaves no stone unturned when it comes to providing an unforgettable journey. So, pack your bags, don your own symbolic hard hat, and get ready to immerse yourself in the enchanting world of Port Hardy on Vancouver Island - a place where natural wonders and untold stories blend harmoniously.
When I was 25, I finally agreed to accompany my mother on a trip to Vancouver Island, where she introduced me to the people working in the mill towns. Throughout our journey of exploring the island's 285-mile length, from Port Hardy at the northern tip to the southern regions, she went by her English name, Matilda.
Our adventure together to Vancouver Island remains etched in my memory as the last trip we ever took. I can still recall the dampness of the October air, the sight of majestic eagles soaring through the corridors of evergreen trees, and the seemingly never-ending highway. As the sun began to set, the world transformed, mirroring the captivating depth and beauty of an Emily Carr painting. While enduring my mother's less-than-stellar driving skills and her unwavering love for Celine Dion's music, she, on the other hand, had to tolerate my unpredictable moods.
Furthermore, we were captivated by the stunning landscapes and rich cultural heritage of the island. One particular evening, we stumbled upon a charming coastal village where local artisans displayed their exquisite handcrafted items, showcasing the region's vibrant artistic community. Additionally, our journey brought us to secluded beaches with breathtaking vistas and hidden coves nestled along the island's rugged coastline, offering moments of tranquility and reflection.
These shared experiences allowed me to develop a deeper appreciation for the beauty of Canada and the unique bond between a mother and her child, solidifying the memories of our journey on Vancouver Island.
Determined to strengthen my character after a devastating breakup, I embarked on a three-day solitary camping trip in the serene woods. I arranged for my mother to drop me off at the campsite, while she headed to work in Port Hardy before returning to pick me up.
Located in Port Hardy, a town that epitomizes the essence of Canada, lies a place teeming with history - it is an intricate blend of human interactions and environmental impact. This area holds the archeological remains of the earliest human settlement on the island dating back to approximately 5850 B.C. The land, originally home to the Kwakiutl peoples, is where their rich heritage originates. The name "Kwakiutl" itself signifies the "smoke of the world." Unfortunately, the Kwakiutl lands were forcibly taken through the use of guns, disregard for treaties, and the implementation of discriminatory laws.
The quest for cultural artifacts and the illegal appropriation of Kwakiutl art, which has been commended by anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss for its exceptional craftsmanship, has resulted in much of the community's rich history being housed in museums located elsewhere. Despite enduring a tremendous loss in population after 1849, the resilient Kwakiutl community has managed to persist. In a disconcerting turn of events, the 2013 investigation revealed that British Columbia had once again violated the Kwakiutl's rights established by the 1851 Treaty.
The untold history of the Kwakiutl people was noticeably absent from my educational experience. It wasn't until I embarked on a solitary camping trip amongst the ancient woods that I truly grasped the weight of their heritage. As darkness abruptly enveloped my surroundings, I managed to tough out five hours before succumbing to fear and phoning my mother, requesting her presence for reassurance. That night, we found solace in a modest accommodation provided by her employer, having the faint scent of the short-lived fire I had ignited clinging to my clothing. Nestled beside my mother, I found comfort in this enigmatic and age-old setting.
A little over a year later, my mother died suddenly in a town where she was working, much like this one, on a November night when her heart gave out. It was her co-workers, two kind forestry men who, worried about my mother, entered her hotel room in the morning, to find her gone. So peaceful, they told us, as if she were only sleeping.
Fourteen years later, I understand better how the smoke of the world is never still. Many of the mills my mother visited have closed, jobs have been lost, and, as of a decade ago, a staggering 75 percent of Vancouver Island’s productive old-growth forest has been logged. It is a place that will tell us much about the balance between jobs and environmental stewardship, about our respect for First Nations treaty rights and our obligations to the land. This is the Canada still to come.
Grindstone Island, Ontario
Grindstone Island is a 12-acre dot of green leaves and Victorian gingerbread structures in the middle of Big Rideau Lake, halfway between Kingston and Ottawa. Clear-cut in the 19th century to make way for its eponymous grindstone quarry, the island later became the summer home of Charles Kingsmill, the first admiral of the Royal Canadian Navy, and served as a genteel hub for Ottawa society life.
Kingsmill’s daughter, Diana, who had a lifelong association with pacifist Quakers, took over Grindstone and turned it into a nonviolent resistance education center, staging legendary role-playing games that recreated the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment as a way to train the “prisoners” to fight oppression with noncooperation — a practice that ended after a disastrous fake “invasion” by a local biker gang retained for the purpose.
I came to Grindstone as a young teenager in the mid-1980s, attending the annual summer camps run by the nonprofit cooperative the Quakers put together to manage the island. The camps’ explicit mission was to train a new generation of activists, another step on the ladder that they had climbed, through trade unionism, farmers’ unions, suffragism and feminism, to antiwar activism. Grindstone was full of kids like me: red-diaper babies who attended alternative public schools in Toronto, Kingston and Ottawa, who could rhyme the classic protest chant “one-two-three-four” with the facility of lifelong practice.
Today it sounds hopelessly idealistic. But in the ’80s, Grindstone was a perfect incubator for young activists. With its quiet paths, crisp lake swimming and isolated spots with names like Moonwatcher’s Point, the Grindstone experience was one part lazing around and chatting, one part intense, practical instruction. The Victorian cottages we slept in had once housed the political elites of Ottawa society and their celebrity friends. Now they were ours.
I've always been an early riser, and it was on my trips to Grindstone that I fell in love with the breathtaking sunrises. I would often start my day by swimming around the island, reveling in the stillness of the lake and the haunting calls of the loons. Once I had my fill of the tranquil beauty, I would hurry back to my cabin, feeling the slight chill in the air, to change for breakfast and the morning meeting. These gatherings took place on the wide, shaded porch of the main lodge, providing the perfect backdrop to start our days.
As my involvement with Grindstone grew, I took on various roles in the island's maintenance and management. I volunteered in the kitchens, ensuring that everyone was well-fed and satisfied. I also had the privilege of serving on the co-op's board, where I had the opportunity to contribute my ideas and collaborate with other like-minded individuals.
However, during the late 1980s recession, the co-op faced financial hardships and had to make the difficult decision to sell the island. It was then purchased by a dentist from Kingston, who had plans of commuting to the island by a small pontoon plane. This news left me feeling devastated, as I could not bear the thought of parting with a place that held so many cherished memories.
Presently, Grindstone serves as a personal dwelling for David Bearman and Jennifer Trant, innovators in the realm of museum technology. They were instantly captivated by the charm of the island upon their first visit, hastily ceasing their thriving consultancy business to embrace island life. Their time is now invested in facilitating intimate conferences for individuals with an intrigue in the synergy of museums and the online world. Half a decade ago, my kin and I had the pleasure of being their invitees. The island radiated a spectral aura, seemingly inhabited by ethereal remnants of friends I had encountered there and the collective aspirations we had nurtured.
It has been 25 years since I left Grindstone on its final weekend as a social justice education center, and not a week goes by without my yearning for it with a kind of joy and sorrow that is sunk very deep in my heart. I visit it in my dreams, and in the photo feeds from its current owners; when I see them at museum conferences, I demand to know all the minutiae of the island’s upkeep, which trees survived the winter storms and what color they’re painting the porch this year.
I live in Burbank, Calif., now, and I take my 8-year-old daughter on hikes in the nearby mountains. Sometimes, when we sit on a trailside boulder and listen to the winds soughing in the trees, I can almost pretend that I’ve brought her back to Grindstone, the place I had always assumed I would raise my own family.
Dawson City, Yukon
As I soared over Dawson City in a Hawker Siddeley HS 748, I couldn't help but marvel at this remote subarctic town. With its distinct character and rich history dating back to the late 19th-century Gold Rush, Dawson City stands as a fascinating testament to the resilience of those who sought fortune in the Yukon.
The Hawker Siddeley HS 748, designed to land on gravel or ice, added to the allure of my journey as we traversed the rugged terrain. From the window, I witnessed a vast expanse of gray craters, marked by the intricate web of mining roads, appearing as though they led to nowhere. It was both surreal and captivating.
Dawson City, once known as the "Paris of the North," encapsulates the spirit of adventure and discovery that lured prospectors from far and wide. Today, visitors can still feel the echoes of the Gold Rush era through meticulously preserved heritage buildings and the famous Diamond Tooth Gerties Gambling Hall.
As I descended through a break in the cloud cover, Dawson City's charm became even more apparent. Nestled amidst the untouched beauty of the surrounding landscape, this unique town serves as a testament to the pioneer spirit of Canada's past.
I was there to spend three months living in the childhood home of the Canadian writer Pierre Berton, who had donated the house for this purpose. A volunteer picked me up at the one-room airport. On the drive through town, we passed a truck with an animal carcass in the bed, antlers poking out past a tarp. Fat-breasted black birds pecked at the exposed edges. “If you leave your moose out, the ravens will get at it,” the volunteer said.
The Yukon River divided the town into Dawson proper and West Dawson, a scattered community of off-grid cabins whose inhabitants hauled their own wood, water and propane. I walked down to the river almost every day. It was October, and the black, bottomless water flowed fast toward Alaska.
Over the next few weeks, the river changed. First the water took on the faint sheen of an oil slick. Then slivers of ice began to race along the current, catching the light like the heads and bellies of surfacing seals. Then bigger, snow-covered chunks of ice formed, audibly colliding and jostling for space until they clustered and stopped-up at a bottleneck bend. Finally, one morning in November, I woke to an eerie, noticeable silence.
I went down to the river’s beach; sheets of ice overlapped where they’d heaved onto the shore, their exposed cross-sections resembling massive blocks of turquoise glass. A government employee had drilled into the ice and laid out orange flags indicating where the ice was thick enough to walk safely.
Observing the passage of a dogsled was a captivating experience. The landscape, covered in a thick layer of snow, made it difficult to distinguish the boundary between the ground and the frozen river. As I cautiously stepped onto the icy surface, I could hear the continuous cracking of the ice and the gentle flow of water in small streams. It was fascinating to imagine that beneath my feet flowed a river deep enough to engulf a large vehicle.
Amidst this intriguing environment, a sense of danger lingered in my mind. The thought of meeting an untimely demise in such a peculiar manner crossed my thoughts.
However, my journey wasn't without moments of awe. At one point, I paused on the sled's path and gazed southward, admiring the convergence of the Yukon River and the Klondike River. During this time of year, the sun's limited presence painted the horizon with a continuous fiery orange, creating a breathtaking spectacle.
Part of the Canadian identity is that we’re a hardy people, thriving in the inhospitable north. It’s one of those myths so ingrained and pervasive that you believe it even if, like me — like most — you have lived your whole life in cities less than 60 miles north of the American border.
For just a moment, my breath clouding around me, icicles forming on my chin, I stood in that mythical Canada.
I crossed and hiked triumphantly around West Dawson, which had been inaccessible except by helicopter during the freeze-up. The temperature dropped below minus-30 degrees Celsius. When I returned to the house, hours later, I peeled off my jeans and saw that my thighs, like my cheeks and nose, were a raw, violent red.
Out on the river, I had seen two other people crossing. The first glided past on cross-country skis with a baby strapped to his chest. The second was an acquaintance pulling a sled. “Just picking up my mail!” he called.
Discovering Niagara, Ontario
Immersed in the picturesque landscape of Niagara, Ontario, the Johann family found solace and a new beginning after fleeing Prussia during World War II. Hans Johann, a prosperous pig farmer, and his wife Barbara, were both German Mennonites who settled on a tract of land nestled between the breathtaking lake and majestic waterfalls. As time passed, they lovingly became known as Mama and Papa, then Oma and Opa, preserving their heritage and embracing their new home.
Enveloped in the warmth of family roots, I, Sarah Nicole, was etched into the fabric of our generational story as the fourth child of Oma and Opa. Due to financial constraints, middle names were a luxury we couldn't afford, but my resourceful Mama compensated by affectionately calling me "Sarah Nicole." On the other hand, my father, a product of suburban upbringing, adhered to simplicity and solely addressed me as "Sarah." Whenever we ventured to the pig farm in Niagara, my name transformed on the lips of my German-speaking relatives into a melodious "ZAH-ra Nie-KOLL." This version of myself, intertwined with an older cultural identity, became the version I cherished most.
Home, in our residence in London, Ontario, I aligned with my father's perspective, appreciating the elegance of a single name. However, within the embrace of the Johann family and the sprawling pig farm, I reveled in the harmonious symphony of "ZAH-ra Nie-KOLL," an extrinsic embodiment encompassing a rich history and ancestral links.
Summers were a magical time for us at Niagara, where family trips to the farm were filled with joy and excitement. As we made our way there in a packed station wagon, the transition from asphalt to dirt signaled our arrival, and the gravel path lined with graceful birch trees led us to a scene straight out of a storybook. The farm boasted old Mercedes cars, a sturdy John Deere tractor, and even a curious cat seeking refuge under the tractor's exhaust pipe.
In the warmth of the kitchen, we savored delicious moments with Oma's homemade bread adorned with havarti cheese and plump summer grapes whose dusty sheen couldn't disguise their luscious golden sweetness. During these idyllic summers, money held little value to us. Perhaps we'd indulge in a cone of decadent ice cream from the famed Avondale Dairy, but our true treasures were the hours spent swimming with turtles in the unchlorinated pool, where the water carried a hint of natural green reminiscent of enchanting fairy tales.
Our grandmother would amuse us with unconventional gardening advice, declaring that her ferns would flourish if we dared to contribute by urinating in the soil—proclamations that made us roll our eyes, yet we obliged, each taking our turn. In the quiet moments, I'd sneak away to the gully, immersing myself in my aunt's ahistorical romance novels, while my mischievous brother tested his aim with a BB gun, his target an unsuspecting dove. Amidst it all, the barn echoed with the piercing cries of pigs, adding to the symphony of rural life.
During those summers, the power of the sun seemed both infinite and benign, as if it couldn't scorch my skin or fail to rouse me from slumber. Illness lingered for no more than three days, and allergies were an alien concept. My connection to nature was as distant as my bond with kin, and yet, there was a peculiar kinship between nature and myself—we both seemed indifferent to societal norms, unyielding in our wildness.
My grandfather, now a widower, remains alive and resides in the bungalow on our ancestral farm. While he may not engage in extensive agricultural pursuits or husbandry anymore, he taps into his craft of creating and selling jars of peach and grape jam. It may be easy to assume that we know the taste of such common jams, but I attest that Opa's jam has the ability to erase one's familiarity with fruits and redefine the essence of their flavors.
Exploring the Beauty of Eastern Townships, Quebec
During a recent adventure, I had the incredible opportunity to immerse myself in the charming village of Missisquoi Valley nestled in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. What drew me to this captivating destination was the fascinating meaning behind the bay's First Nations name - a reflection of the abundant presence of aquatic birds. Everywhere I turned, be it in my dreams, soaring above me, or glimpsed through the windows, these graceful creatures danced in harmony with the wind that brushed across the surrounding cornfields.
Moreover, my exploration of the region reawakened my adoration for New England. Fate guided me to select Mystic as my temporary abode, an alluring little village that instantly stole my heart with its quaint charm. Surprisingly, it transpired that this municipality shared its name with a sister city in the United States, boasting a museum that paid homage to the legendary author Herman Melville.
My Canada expedition was truly a remarkable experience, where nature's wonders and historical connections intertwined seamlessly, leaving an indelible imprint upon my soul. To witness the ethereal beauty of Eastern Townships and its magnificent avian inhabitants is an endeavor that will fill your heart with joy and inspiration.
In the course of my writing pursuits, my narrative is frequently shaped by serendipity. I soon found myself drawing parallels between Melville and a Québécois mystic, and envisioning myself akin to the pioneering figures of both factual and fictional realms who significantly influenced 19th century American literature. Folklore about the devil's antics in the town's 12-sided barn became a part of my narration, fostering a personal numerological framework.
Quaint covered bridges, historically significant barns erected by visionary Quakers, and classic Victorian homes would catch my attention along my journey. As I marveled at the architecture, I couldn't help but imagine the bustling streets of Victoria, where such designs are not only preserved but lived in and celebrated. One could find hotel deals in Victoria on britishcolumbiahotels.net to experience the embracing allure of Victorian-era lodging amidst modern amenities. I pondered about reluctantly relocating loyalists post the Revolutionary War, and about the displacement of Irish Catholics owing to famine; these collected narratives of immigrants enriched the trail's tale. My thoughts also turned towards the indigenous Abenakis people and their linguistic contributions to the naming of lakes and rivers, while reflecting on our collective obliviousness to their rich cultural heritage. Understanding that my travels would eventually lead me to the grand banks of Lake Memphremagog, I prepared to open chapters of Vietnam War deserters who found sanctuary in these areas.
My journey through Canada began in Pike River, a small town that proved to be just the beginning of my explorations. It didn't take long for me to realize that each stop along the way would lead me to discover even more intriguing destinations. Seeking information, I made my way to the tourism office in Stanbridge Station, where I eagerly sought the knowledge of a knowledgeable historian. With an inquisitive mind, I bombarded her with countless questions.
During our conversation, she pointed out Chemin St.-Armand on the map, proudly proclaiming it to be the second most beautiful road in all of Quebec. I couldn't help but wonder where the first one was, but the answer remained a mystery. Despite being captivated by Stanbridge Station, I resisted the urge to stay in Mystic. Something about the old cemetery in Hunter Mills caught my attention, drawing me to the border region between Quebec and the United States.
It was as if the border zone reflected my own state of mind - constantly wandering, searching for traces of the past, both within myself and in others. I was on a quest for my own words, my personal promised land, and a home that I had painstakingly built one experience at a time. This desire led me to embrace the opportunity to stay in a small village filled with unique hamlets strung along the border area, akin to gathering the scattered beads of a rosary.
Embarking on this journey has truly been a remarkable experience, full of unexpected discoveries and a deepening appreciation for the beauty that lies within Canada's hidden gems.
Canada, a country of vast beauty and diverse landscapes, never fails to captivate visitors with its breathtaking scenery. From picturesque villages nestled in the shadow of majestic mountains to tranquil lakes and rivers that stretch for miles, the natural grandeur of this country is simply awe-inspiring.
As you explore the countryside, you'll come across charming farms and cornfields, a testament to the country's rich agricultural heritage. Amidst the scattered remnants of a bygone era, you might stumble upon intriguing sights like a Mercedes perched on four blocks in front of an abandoned house, showcasing the juxtaposition of old and new.
As you navigate the Canadian terrain, you'll encounter remnants of the Anglo-Saxon past, with ancient cemeteries serving as silent witnesses to the history that unfolded in these lands. The landscape is adorned with a variety of leafy trees, including maple, walnut, beech, oak, and birch, creating a vibrant tapestry of colors throughout the seasons.
The journey also presents occasional glimpses of wayside crosses, adding a touch of mysticism to the surroundings. Historic churches and train stations stand as reminders of a bygone era, while checkpoints serve as markers of the changing times. And each morning, as you enjoy the comforts of an inn by the river, you may be greeted by the sight of a little black cat perched on a tree branch, serenely observing the melodious sounds of nearby waterfalls and the bubbling of a coffeepot.
Indulge your senses and embark on a journey within the heart of Canada. Revel in the enchanting landscapes and discover the hidden gems that make this country truly remarkable.
In English:
A few years ago, I was asked to stay in a small village of my choosing to write poems. I chose the Missisquoi Valley in the Eastern Townships of Quebec because I was drawn to the meaning of the name given by the First Nations to the bay: many water birds. Already, I could see birds everywhere, in my dreams, around my head, behind the windows. I could also see the wind moving through the cornfields.
This region also brought me back to my love for New England. To choose the village for my stay, I pointed my finger at a small village called Mystic. There was something captivating about that name. I also discovered a homonymous city in the United States where there was a museum with a dedicated room to Melville.
Did you know that the Missisquoi Valley in Quebec is not only known for its stunning natural beauty, but also for the rich culture and history of the First Nations? The name given by the Indigenous people to the bay reflects their deep connection with the land and its wildlife. Exploring this region, you can witness the harmonious coexistence between humans and nature.
While staying in the village of Mystic, you can immerse yourself in its quaint charm and discover the inspiration it holds for artists and writers. Whether it's the name itself or the presence of a museum dedicated to Melville, there is something enchanting about this place that fuels creativity and imagination.
I always let coincidences guide my writing. I was already inventing connections between Melville and the Quebec Mystic; between me taking notes in a rented Cavalier, and these pioneers of real and fictional territories that are the great American writers of the 19th century. I also imagined stories of a devil circling in the twelve-sided barn, and created my own intimate numerology.
I would search for covered bridges along the road, round barns built by utopian Quakers, Victorian façade houses; I thought about the escape of loyalists to the north, Catholic Irish fleeing famine, all those immigrants who left their traces along the way. I knew that by venturing further, towards the shores of the great Lake Memphremagog, I would also think about Vietnam War deserters. I thought about the Abenaki of the First Nations, who gave names to lakes and rivers, about our ignorance.
By exploring the connections between literature and real-life experiences, I found myself fascinated by the intersections of different cultures and histories in Canada's landscape. The coincidence of Melville's influence on the Quebec Mystic led me to imagine the stories of pioneers and writers who have shaped the territories, both real and fictional, across America.
During my journey, I sought out landmarks that reflected the rich history of Canada, such as covered bridges and round barns built by utopian Quakers. These structures served as reminders of the loyalists who sought refuge in the north, the Catholic Irish immigrants fleeing famine, and the countless others who left their mark on Canadian soil.
In Pike-River, where my journey began, I quickly realized that I was on a road where each stop led to another. Inside the tourism office, I eagerly questioned a knowledgeable historian from Stanbridge Station. She gracefully pointed out on the map the location of Chemin Saint-Armand, the second most beautiful road in Quebec. (The whereabouts of the first, however, remained a mystery).
But I did not linger in Mystic. As soon as I caught sight of the ancient cemetery of Hunter Mills, it was the border area between Quebec and the United States that captivated me. It vividly represented the state I found myself in, a wandering spirit in search of my own ghosts and the ghosts of others. I sought not only words, but also my promised land, a home built brick by brick throughout my life. And so, called to stay in a small village, I found myself collecting fragments of scattered hamlets along the border.
As I embarked on my journey in Pike-River, I quickly realized that every stop on this road held the promise of new discoveries. Intrigued, I stepped into the tourism office and eagerly engaged in conversation with a passionate historian from Stanbridge Station. With her guidance, she pinpointed the location of Chemin Saint-Armand on the map, renowned as the second most picturesque road in Quebec (though the identity of the first remained a mystery).
However, my adventure in Mystic was fleeting. The moment I laid eyes on the time-worn cemetery of Hunter Mills, my fascination shifted to the borderlands that separated Quebec and the United States. This mystical region perfectly mirrored the state of my wandering spirit - a restless soul in search of personal and collective phantoms; seeking not only the right words, but also my promised sanctuary, a lifelong home built stone by stone. Thus, I found myself drawn to stay in a small village, where I began gathering fragments of scattered hamlets along this enchanting border path.
I am always enchanted by the scenery that Canada has to offer: villages nestled in the shadow of towering mountains, which oversee the long lakes and rivers; farms and fields of corn; a Mercedes parked a few blocks away from an abandoned house; surprising Anglo-Saxon cemeteries at every turn; lush trees such as maples, walnuts, beeches, oaks, and birch; a few wayside crosses; old train stations and churches, and ancient border posts; and in the morning, at the inn, a black kitten perched on a tree branch, listening to the sound of the waterfalls and the purring coffee maker.
Canada's diverse landscapes never fail to captivate with their natural beauty. From remote villages nestled among majestic mountains to the serene tranquility of lakes and rivers, the country's breathtaking scenery is a feast for the eyes. Exploring the countryside reveals a myriad of treasures, including abandoned houses that whisper tales of the past and ancient cemeteries that bear witness to the country's rich history. The abundance of foliage, ranging from vibrant maples to towering oaks, adds to the picturesque charm. The presence of old train stations and churches evokes a sense of nostalgia, while the remnants of border posts offer a glimpse into Canada's past. Each morning, the symphony of waterfalls mixes with the purring coffee maker, creating a harmonious melody that lulls visitors into a state of serenity.