It borders on obsession, this “thing” I have for Canada. It’s no doubt rooted in childhood trips to my father’s home in western Maine, described to me then as “30 miles from the Canadian border.” For a kid who was passionately curious (still am), couldn’t get enough of maps and geography (still can’t), and yearned for faraway places (still do), being so close to another country held endless fascination.

My first Canadian experience was on-a-lark, a quick turnaround border crossing from Pittsburg, New Hampshire, to Coaticook, Québec, that would have had today’s border guards on high alert. A driver’s license was sufficient for entry in 1969. It was black fly season. Definitely not an Oz experience.

Decades later, in the dead of winter, Hubby and I made our first trip to Québec City with two of his dearest friends, Mike and Cynthia, for winter Carnaval. Mike knew Québec and Carnaval well, so in addition to enjoying the festivities, we traveled out of the city to Manoir Saint-Castain (reportedly now closed) and the shrine of Sainte-Anne de Beaupré. Carnaval invites you to be en amour avec l’hiver—in love with winter—and we were head over heels.

We made two more trips to Carnaval, and two during the summer months, when we also explored Île d’Orléans and Tadoussac, where the St. Lawrence meets the Saguenay Fjord.

Though there’s nothing like the magic of Québec City, later trips to Montréal and the Thousand Islands were each delightful in their own distinctive ways. Our last big adventure fulfilled a decades-long dream of mine to visit the Atlantic Provinces. I’ve written about this glorious trip previously with my “Northern Journey” posts: St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, St. John New Brunswick, Halifax, More Halifax Discoveries) and Prince Edward Island (Charlottetown plus Ann of Green Gables and the PEI dunes). This trip, for me, was as epic as those to Italy or France; we’d go back in a heartbeat should time and circumstance allow.

So thank you, on Canada Day, to all the lovely Canadians we’ve met along the way. To that woman in the shop in Quartier Petit-Champlain, with the wonderful smile, who sold me my signature Canadian boiled wool coat with the Inuit design. To the gentleman with the twinkle in his eye in Charlottetown, one of many who reached out, with a smile I can still see, to ask us if we needed help. To the rosy-cheeked babies swaddled in fur, pulled through the snowy streets of Carnaval not in strollers but on tiny sleds.

To the lavendar fields in the Eastern Townships. To the treasured Canadian cousins I met in person, for the first time, in Windsor, Ontario last year. To the tourtiere and the split pea soup and that unforgettable breakfast at Auberge Baker. To Sergio, who sang all of our Italian favorites at Au Parmesan. To the Thousand Islands, which hold a significant piece of my heart.

Wait, there’s more…

To Newfoundland Chef Barry Parson, whose Rock Recipes is one of my very favorite food blogs. To the best cheddar and maple syrup. To hockey and curling (which is fun to watch in its own odd way).

If you’re craving Canada, television series can help. To Son of a Critch, which in just a few seasons has become a classic filled with heart and good humor, and Republic of Doyle, which never gets old. To Johnny Harris, and Still Standing, for introducing us to all the tiny (and not so tiny) Canadian towns trying to stay above water in changing times—if we could, we’d visit every one. To Corner Gas, set far off to the west in Saskatchewan, which we watch, and laugh at, in a basically endless bedtime rotation. To Louise Penny and Inspector Gamache, and all of the other fabulous Canadian writers whose books have graced my shelves.

Well, I guess I’ve made my point. Enjoy your day, Canada. It’s well deserved.

Cover photo: Vieux Québec.