There is an Ominous Noise.

I am pushing the Toddler in her snazzy pink buggy, down Montreal High Street. The sounds of the street are all there – cars, chatter, roadworks, Ominous Noise. The Toddler gazes up at me from her carriage, with a fearful look in her eye.

“What’s that Ominous Noise, daddy?” she asks. (I paraphrase, as I cannot remember the exact words).

I am a bit stumped by this, and am a bit hesitant to bring up the monster that lives in the ice-cream store one more time. The fact is that I do not know, which is an odd feeling for me. I know the answer to every question she asks me, or can be quite convincing, but even I am starting to feel a little uneasy. This could be that poignant moment for her when she finally discovers that her father is not the infallible, reliable, unerring rock that she takes him for (if you do not count the time when I walked into the glass doors on the way out of the delivery room).

We turn the corner and are confronted by some people.

It is a demonstration!!! There are people demonstrating, and marching, and carrying placards, and waving, and shouting. Before we know, we are mixed up in it. I sort of try to pull over to the side of the pavement, but I keep getting in peoples’ way, so I get sucked in further to the morass. I look round in some alarm, for the 1000000th time wishing that I’d paid more attention in French lessons.

I know that they are not shouting ‘Open the Window’, or ‘Mr Marsaud is in the Garden with the Dog’ or reciting the lyrics to the second verse of ‘Sunday Girl’ by Blondie. I search my mind frantically to try to work out what ‘Death to America’ would be in French, as demonstrators who shout ‘Death to America’ tend to be ill-disposed towards English people as well, even though I am a bit Australian and my grandmother was possibly sourced via the Irish Catholics.

For all I know, they could be shouting ‘Death to Slightly Portly Blokes Pushing Buggies’, in which case I am stuffed. I do not want to die on the whim of demonstrating Canadians. I could be the only person in history to meet his end at the hands of a reasonable mob.

As they flow past me, I notice one thing – many of the demonstrators have re-used their placards from previous events, simply reversing them, badly painting out the old slogan or poster, and daubing a fresh one on the other side. This reassures me. They are clearly general demonstrators, with nothing particularly personal against me or my ilk. After a while, I quite get into all the drumming and stuff. We demonstrate with them for a while, to show our solidarity with whatever is going on.

I am pleased with our participation. If anything major changes in the next year or so (end of global warming, no more poverty, reprieve for baby seals etc) then I will be able to hold my head high and say ‘I was there’.

Until then, it is time to go. I have greatly enjoyed my holiday, and would like to go back one day, perhaps with a different airline. For all that you have given me, Canada – I thank you. Please come and visit the Village some time.

I meet a French-Canadian.

“I think the thing that gets me is,” I slur, “The French thing.”

He blinks at this, so I elaborate on my thoughts. “I mean, I didn’t sort of realise about the French thing. I mean, I knew that there was some French, and all that, but didn’t think it was quite so important. I mean (again), I thought it was a bit like Cornwall, where a few people speak Cornish an’ all that, but nobody really does. If you see what I mean.”

He blinks at me again.

“I do recognise that is a reflection of my own ignorance rather than a particularly accurate state of affairs,” I concede, in the sort of tailing off fashion that one does in the circumstances.

“Yes,” he nods evenly. But you will notice that he didn’t say “oui,” – so I was right after all.

It is true, however, and is a shameful reflection of my lack of geopolitical nous. I should have been warned when I went to withdraw some money to find that First Direct was blocking my card because their fraud people were alarmed that it was being used outside Norfolk. Sometimes, however, I can be too honest for my own good and say unnecessary things that could just have well been left unsaid, going into too much detail when all it does is ruin people’s illusions of me.

“What has been the best thing about our great country?” he asked – or probably would have, had he been gallantly trying to change the subject but didn’t – me artificially inserting that line in order to provide a bridge between parts one and two of what were essentially separate conversations within the course of one evening in order to shoe-horn them into a single blog post.

I ponder this for a minute.

“Probably the attitude of breakfast-providers,” I conclude, praising the system of giving you a plate, pointing you towards lots of food and essentially leaving you to it, not charging you much at the end.

Warming to my subject, I try to explain the English way. “You see – you get a plate, and a tray, and a long counter with things drying out, and there is a sign up saying ‘four items, seven quid; six items, ten quid’, and you have to go and say exactly what items you want as you move along, and toast counts as an item and so does a baked bean, and then you take it to a till and the woman there peers hard at your items and counts them twice and pokes them around to ensure that you haven’t hidden an extra small rasher of bacon under the toast, and then you pay extra for your coffee, and then there is a man who stops you at the end and counts again, and checks in your pockets and fists you, fists you, to check for any more contraband fried items,  before you’re allowed to go to a table and look miserably at your meagre, expensive plate and read a free Daily Mail.”

“Oh, and the mountains and stuff, and forests,” I add, catching his expression.

I enjoyed meeting a local person. That is my joy in going abroad – the little and interesting differences between places and how ordinary people live their lives. Later on, it transpires that us national representatives share an interest in British progressive rock music from 1973-1976, so the major language/breakfast differences etc. are forgotten.

There is more that unites us than divides us – English, Canadian, French-speaking, normal-speaking. We are all human beings, living together on this one globe, sharing the planet and our joys and frustrations, we are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving.

Apologies for the delay in ‘Canada 3′. I have had difficulty uploading a picture of my third pair of pants, which were a sort of bluey-grey.

In the meantime, the competition winner is revealed as Nadia!!! Nadia fought off lots and lots of competition and entered first, so she is the winner, even though she has a bit of a foreign name which implies that postage might be alarmingly expensive.

Nadia, please email me with your details. I have to go now as I have a partridge in the oven for my tea. I shall return next week.

Canada is a civilised country.

You know it is civilised, because the mens’ toilets are always utterly spotless and have baby-changing facilities, unlike in the UK where fathers with bladders are discriminated against on a daily basis. I ponder this as I stand at the urinal – everything is so fresh and clean and – well – nice. Even the toilets. Especially the toilets. You can tell everything about a country by the state of its mens’ toilets, and Canada has impressed so far. Some British people just moan at a country’s differences when they go overseas, whereas I am constantly filled with wonder and delight.

I return to my seat.

“It’s absolutely swimming with piss in there,” I tell the LTLP. “And the seat is missing.”

Her tired shoulders drop.

“Well I suppose I’d better take the Toddler,” she sighs. “Again.”

The LTLP disappears off to take the Toddler for her poo. “Perhaps they’ll be better in Montreal,” I call after her, before sitting back and taking a long relaxing swig of ‘Mikes’ coffee. (Note to UK readers – ‘Mikes’ is like Little Chef, but with food.)

I check the Lonely Planet for our next destination, but quickly chuck it back in the bag. You can tell when you are getting old because the Lonely Planet ceases to be a useful travelling tool and becomes a hilarious self-parody of student tightwadness.

‘Avoid the nice-looking restaurants with clean tablecloths and tasty food, and proceed to Mama Miggins’s on the corner of 17th and Bloor. Here, for all of two dollars, Mama will serve you a traditional and heartening meal of her own scabs, served in the old-fashioned local way, from a bag. Alternatively, rather than paying over the top in a touristy ‘cafe’ it is better value and nutritious to lick the sidewalk’.

The main problem with Lonely Planet Canada is that it is written by Canadians or people who want to be Canadians, and Canadians are too nice to write useful travel guides. This is borne out by the ‘thanks to’ section – everybody knows that any book’s interest to the general reader is in inverse proportion to the number of words the author allows himself to witter on about thanking people. The ‘thanks to’ section in Lonely Planet Canada goes on for 769 pages, and features every single resident of the country, namechecked individually. I may write to Lonely Planet to offer to write the next one; it will be shorter and contain more useful advice (‘go to the toilet! You’ll love it!’)

The LTLP returns with a beaming Toddler. The nice girl from Mikes’ gives us all a lollipop and does not charge us £9.99 for each breakfast. I am cheerful and ready to proceed with my holiday.

I gaze in amazement at the majesty of the Niagara Falls.

“They are really amazing and majestic,” I comment to the LTLP. The Toddler does not respond, as she is transfixed by a small fountain that is by the side of the street.

The Niagara Falls are like the Canadian version of the Norfolk Broads, but with more gravity and even more retired people. No matter how touristy the place gets, it retains an essential beauty that cannot be spoilt by expensive tat and hundreds of idiots taking photographs.

I take a photograph. I am pleased with my Norfolk Broads analogy. I love coming up with new analogies. Coming up with an analogy is like… I tail off, as I cannot think of anything suitable. As you stand leaning over the fence, you are able to look straight down to witness the thousands of tons of water sucked on and then crashing into the raging maelstrom far, far below. There is a sign. It reads ‘Danger – do not climb over this fence’.

Lots of people warned me ‘don’t go to Niagara Falls as it is tacky’. They are prejudiced. If you lived in Norfolk, YOU would realise quite how exciting it is to see a great big fuck-off fibreglass dinosaur atop a ‘Dinorama 4-D Dinosaur Experience’ attraction. We have nothing like that, if you do not count the small art gallery in the Village. In fact, the Falls are quite tasteful, once you get to them.

Standing in this very typical Canadian town, it is possible to realise how this sparsely-populated country produced more than its fair share of the great artists – Cohen and lang, Mitchell, Young and Shatner. There is an easy air that inspires one. But we are not in Quebec yet – we have been diverted. We head back to the PikeyLodge to continue our mission.

It is quite entertaining I decide, and nowhere near as expensive as people say.

Plus it is amazing how stupid and dangerous some drivers can be on the roads, especially when there are brave patrolmen around who will catch them and send them to jail, using video footage as evidence.

Desperately seeking a new way of keeping myself awake until at least the beginning of the evening, I take a stroll outside. “Chickens!!! Chickens!!! Hellloooooooo chickens!!!” I coo, wandering over towards their compound to tell them about my trip. We have lots to talk about, and I would like them to give me some advice on judging my competition, which was a roaring success with literally entries.

All is quiet. This is odd. Normally the lightest footfall on the gravel path results in a blur of chickendom, tumbling over each other to be first in the queue for elevenses. I reach the door and there is no sound.

“Chickens…?”

No blur, no frantic pecking, not even a friendly cluck. The chickens are mooching around on Short Tony’s side of the enclosure, utterly disinterested in my presence. One raises a blase chicken eyebrow at me before resuming nosing around in dirt.

My chickens have forgotten me. I stand helplessly in the doorway, at a stroke having become one of the great tragic figures of poultry-rearing. And tragedy is the word. In fact, a man who is getting on a bit being coldly betrayed by his five chickens – it is uncannily close to the plot of King Lear.

I turn wordlessly away and fetch a small bite to eat for them. They cluck happily and remember me again. Chickens are shallow. It is a shame that King Lear did not have access to some cornflakes, as things would have turned out much better.

“Let me tell you about my travels,” I begin…