In the spring of 1639, three young nuns set sail from France, each carrying a hidden key in her habit. Upon landing in the new settlement of Quebec City, they would unseal three sturdy locks on a large wooden trunk that safeguarded all their worldly goods. It also contained something invaluable—a contract to found a monastery hospital, the first in North America outside Mexico.

Little did they realize that one of their future guests* would become Canada’s most notorious** hotel thief, taking three round canisters with them in their luggage after their visit.



*Me. This story is about me.





** The dozen or so people who know this story won’t stop teasing me about it.

Some of the very best holiday experiences are rooted in nostalgia. From decades-old family recipes to nights spent carolling the tunes of yesteryear, something about celebrating the many layers of Christmas past feels incredibly cozy and comforting. Those feelings are in full force at the Cumberland Heritage Village Museum.

Every December, the Museum opens its grounds for visitors to enjoy the Vintage Village of Lights. The Museum is covered in Christmas lights, 30,000 of them, in fact! They adorn the fences, the trees, and the beautifully preserved buildings in one incredible, delightful display of holiday cheer. If you're attending this year, here's what you should know before you go.

When I travel, I like to explore twists and turns: A windy road, a crooked bookstore, the cozy nooks in tiny coffee shops. What I don't like, and generally avoid at all costs, are ups and downs. I avoid mountains, caves, ledges, edges, ladders, crevices, tunnels, and trenches. I am not a gal designed for adventure and I'm rather proud of the fact that I've proved that you can travel around the world without the need to parachute, paraglide, or procure a pair of trekking poles. 

But every now and then, there's a chink in my armour. I ignore decades of ironclad evidence that I don't have daring bone in my body and I do something rash, something utterly beyond my bravery. And that, precisely, is what I found myself doing at the Mont-Orford Ski Resort in Quebec's Eastern Townships.

This is what happens when an anti-adventurist rides the world's tallest*, steepest*, most terrifying chair lift.

Where can you go to hang out with Vincent van Gogh, Freddie Mercury, a giant octopus, and a few dinosaurs? If you’re me and it’s October, you head to Upper Canada Village, a heritage park in Morrisburg, eastern Ontario. Each autumn, this genteel farmland setting is transformed into an incredible pumpkin-focused experience, the decorative gourds transforming the landscape into every possible tableau, from classic art, rock and roll bands, undersea adventures, and, well, dinos. If you’re looking for an autumn experience that combines creativity, community spirit, and a touch of whimsy, you need to head to Upper Canada Village’s Pumpkinferno. My October wouldn’t be complete without it.

Picture this: Saint Croix Island, the first French settlement in Canada, where in 1604, 79 brave souls faced a winter beyond description. Water, food, and shelter were all but nonexistent. 35 men perished from the cold, disease, and lack of provisions (including scurvy-preventing vitamin-rich foods). If the French wanted to establish a presence in North America, something had to change, and quickly. 

It did. Thanks to the generosity of the local Mi’kmaq people, the French learned about a more hospitable site nearby on the mainland, a site that was likely very close to the current Port-Royal National Historic Site. Conditions improved, but life for a French soldier in the early 1600s was anything but luxurious. Scurvy persisted, and morale was poor. But what to do?

Turns out, soldiers living about 400 years ago are just like you and me. They work best with full bellies and a little good cheer. As such, in 1606 Samuel de Champlain founded The Order of Good Cheer, the first dinner club in Canada (and probably all of North America). These dinners were spirited affairs, complete with gourmet food and visiting dignitaries. Here's what it's like to walk in their footsteps.

If you're a Canadian of a certain age, you are undoubtedly familiar with the following words:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Robert Service's haunting poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee, was required reading for me and just about every other Canadian school kid in the 1980s and 1990s. Little did I know that Service himself experienced a harrowing, haunting moment of his own - and that he may have been the source of someone else's ghostly encounter.

Oh, and of course, there's an ice cream shop involved. Welcome to ghost stories, Victoria-style.

​I can’t tell you when Labrador first hit my travel radar. 

This rugged, remote Canadian region, a part of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador but physically connected to north-east Quebec, is not a spot for a wimpy traveller like me. Distances are far, amenities can be sparse, and the mosquitoes will strip you bare in seconds. Yet the place they call The Big Land has been calling for me for years. Labrador has topped my travel wish list since the beginning of the pandemic. When I had the opportunity to visit as part of the annual Travel Media Association of Canada conference, I knew I had to go.

I dearly wanted to make Labrador’s acquaintance, but it’s doubtful that the region wanted the likes of me. I have no good reason to be enamoured with small Labrador fishing communities like Red Bay and Battle Harbour. My aversion to boats is both legendary and well-founded. Similarly, I can’t tell you why stories from events such as Cain’s Quest, Labrador’s legendary annual 3,100-kilometre snowmobile endurance race capture my heart. I dislike cold weather, sporty things, and noisy fanfare. Frankly, even the process of getting to Labrador is determinedly very non-Vanessa-ish. I like cold foam on coffee, not ferry decks, thank you very much. So, sure, the villages are cute, and the events are spirited, but this is clearly the kind of place I should appreciate through a documentary and not my own Gravol-addled brain. 

Thankfully, my heart is immune to common sense.